“Fear not, hermit. I am not now mad. Nay—all things are clear before me, for I am approached by Rama.” Oman knelt beside him, and gazed earnestly into the gaunt, white-bearded face, across which the fire cast a flickering light that brought out every smallest line and wrinkle. An ashen pallor pinched his features, giving them the unmistakable, waxen look that comes only to those whose souls are poised for flight. Oman saw at once that death was near; and his heart contracted, painfully: “Yes,—thou seest it,” said the wanderer, quietly, as he looked into Oman’s eyes. “It is time. My spirit is glad of its release.” He lapsed into silence again; nor had Oman any desire to break the stillness over which, as he knew, Rama brooded. The wanderer retained his consciousness: seemed, indeed, to be lost in a revery, while Oman sat watching him. After a time, in the course of his musing, the dying man’s hand crept up to that string which was about his neck; nor, this time, did his touch stop with the string. With an air of delivering himself of a heavy secret, he drew, from beneath his loose garment, a tiny, golden box. Lifting this in his thumb and first finger, he turned his face to Oman, and began to speak, disjointedly, at first, as if he were thinking aloud; then, by degrees, launching into narrative form, with a story that held Oman spell-bound at his side. “Look—it is here,” he observed, quietly. “Here is the Asra ruby; the great stone that I have kept my own for thirty years. Here it is, in this box, safe to the end. And Fidá is gone—and I cannot—See, hermit! It lies in this little box, that treasure. Thou hast never made move to take it from me since I have dwelt with thee; and therefore it shall be thine after my death. Yes, I have said it. Thine. But take it not from me until I have passed. Dost thou hear, hermit?” His tone grew threatening and harsh. “I am dying, and thou mayest take it from me dead.” He glared again into Oman’s face; but, seeing the gentle expression there, lost his sudden angry fear, and dropped again into the lighter tone. “The years—the years are many since it came to me. I was not then a young man; and I had done much wrong in the world. My name—no one knows it now. I have never told it since that night. But I may speak it at last. My name is Churi, and I was a slave, a doctor, in the palace of Mandu.” “Mandu!” echoed Oman, quickly, in a strange tone.