Moro Trimmul watched the party as they descended the steps to the tamarind trees below. He saw them mount and ride off, the torches with them throwing a ruddy glare upon the crags and brushwood above the path,--and his heart bade him follow; but as one of the temple watchers was about to close and bar the door, he turned aside. All in the building was dark and deserted now. The image had been taken from the altar, and put into its silken bed for the night, and a faint lamp occupied its place. A few attendants flitted hastily here and there across the dark courts and still darker vestibule, anxious to get away, and the watchers only were all that would soon remain. "Maharaj!--Moro!" said a female voice in a low whisper, as he passed between the pillars of the temple, "stop!" Moro Trimmul knew the voice. "Why art thou so late here, Gunga?" he said hastily. "Begone!" "I feared you were angry with me," said the girl, putting her hand on his arm. "You would not look at me as I danced, only at her. I could not go till I had spoken with you. Ah, you are not angry with me? Lo! I will do your bidding, though my heart break and I die. Sit here, beloved, and speak to me; come," and she tried to draw him to her gently. "Thou art one of the devils that are pulling me into hell!" cried the Brahmun fiercely; and, pushing her violently from him, he rushed wildly across the court. Gunga fell back heavily against the pillar nearest to her, and as she recovered herself, the pain of the fall obliged her to sit down, involuntarily leaning against it. She drew her hand with a gesture of weariness across her face and brow, then looked to see if there were blood upon it. "Hath it come to this?" she said bitterly; "hath it come to this--and for her? Ah, me for her!" The girl had listened unobserved, in a dark niche near the shrine, to what had transpired at the meeting, and her first thought now was revenge, sure and deadly. A word from her, and the Mahomedan officer in charge of the town would seize Moro Trimmul, and imprison him in Nuldroog. As the thought occurred to her she rose, and, hastily traversing the court, began to mount the steps which led up the ravine; but her heart failed, and ere she had ascended a few of them she wavered, sat down, and wept bitterly. "They would kill him," she said, "and he must not die. No; I was wrong, and he will forgive me; and to-morrow I will go to him as he desired." Hers was a callous heart: but it had softened to her lover, and refused to do him harm. Time or country, what matter? How often is the history of woman's love and man's passion like this! how often does such erring love frame excuse for bitter wrong, endured from him who,--of all the world,--should least inflict it! CHAPTER XLIX.