"One thing more ere the night passes," he said, as he walked rapidly through the deserted streets to the house they had lived in, near the Shastree's: "if she is there, well; if not, I must seek her. What she wanted must have been brought ere this." "She is within, master," said a man sitting at the gate, with a black blanket round him, who spoke ere Moro Trimmul could ask; "she has been here an hour or more; and here are some things the sonar brought this evening when you were absent." "Good," said the Pundit, passing in; "see that no one enters." The man laughed. "It is too late, master, now. No one will come. Are we to leave early?" "Tell them to bring the horses at daylight," he replied; "we will get on to Darasew before noon. We must be at Thair before night. Is all prepared?" "Yes, the saddle-bags are packed, and Bheema and myself remain; all the rest went with the lady Sukya." "Then go and sleep, for we have a long journey to-morrow. I do not need thee. Give me the key of the court door. I can lock myself in, and I shall be awake long before you in the morning." He entered the court and locked the gate behind him. A lamp was burning in a recess of the verandah, and its light fell upon the figure of the girl Gunga, who had covered herself with a sheet, and, most likely weary with waiting for him, had fallen asleep. She did not hear him; and as he had left his shoes by the side of the outer door, there was no noise whatever from his bare feet. Moro Trimmul stood over her, and, as he did so, she moved uneasily in her sleep, turned and said something; he could not catch the words. Then some cruel thoughts passed suddenly through his mind. Gunga knew too much; a blow of his knife would silence for ever all chance of disclosure of what had been done for Radha; the gold he had to give her would be saved. There was a large well or cistern behind the house; the wall of the back-yard hung over it; it was a place where the women of the town washed their clothes, and was so held to be unclean. That would hide her. A Moorlee? What Moorlee had not jealousies and strifes? Who would care for her? And he drew the dagger and stood over her in an attitude to strike. Why he hesitated he could never tell; certainly it was not from fear. Perhaps some lingering feeling of compassion for one so young--perhaps the memory of some caress--stayed the blow for an instant, for he did not strike. The light fell full on her eyes and face as she turned, and she smiled and awoke suddenly. "I dreamed of thee, beloved," she said, stretching out her arms to him, "and thou art here----But why the knife?" she continued, quickly sitting up, as the light gleamed on the blade. "Moro!--I--I--I--fear thee; why dost thou look at me so? Ah!" and she covered her eyes with her hand, expecting death.