After a time, Oman had no idea of how long, a slave entered, carrying a tray on which was such a meal as the wanderer had not seen since he left the Vihara of Truth. Without making the least sound, the white-robed servitor placed one of the low, round stands beside the divan, laid the meal thereon, and disappeared for a moment, to return with a silver basin and ewer, and a broad, fringed napkin. Oman held his hands over the bowl. Perfumed water was poured over them. He dried them on the cloth, and then, with a look, dismissed the slave. For a few seconds more he lay quiet, hesitating to eat. Then he turned upon his elbow and began the lazy meal, not like a hungry man—which he was—but after the fashion of palace dwellers, who feast five times a day. When he was satisfied, he lay back again, and the slave reappeared with sherbet and a jar of wine. Leaving these on the stand, he removed the remnants of the meal, and departed again, this time for good. Oman touched neither the sherbet nor the liquor, but stretched himself out on the couch, clasped his hands over his head, and gave himself up to the dreams that were still haunting him. That he had been in Mandu before was certain. But how, and where? The tale that Churi had told upon his death-night, of the slave prince and the young Ranee, seemed in some way to have taken root in his heart, until their story and his own dreams of this place had become inextricably intertwined. Why were they so close to him? What vaguest suspicion was fluttering through his mind? Above all, how came he to be so familiar with the plan of the palace? Questions—questions—questions! They crowded upon him till he could no longer think: till his brain was fairly numb. Then, gradually, under the influence of the quiet and solitude, he fell into that stupor of profound meditation which is natural to the Hindoo only. His head rested on the cushions. His knees were drawn up under him. His eyes burned brilliantly under their half-closed lids. And his mind, once more under control, wandered far, through unfathomable space. Time passed. The hour grew late, and the busy life of the palace was stilled. Oman heeded nothing, nor remembered what surrounded him. He had forgotten Mandu, the day, the woman of gold, the beauty of Bhavani—everything; and had slipped back into the old freedom of his days on the Silver Peak. Humankind was infinitely far from his thoughts. But humankind had not forgotten him. Suddenly the curtain of his doorway was thrust aside, and Bhavani came quietly into the room. The Rajah was not now in royal raiment, but clad from head to heels in spotless white, the purity of which seemed a fitting frame for his fine physique and the spiritual dignity of his face. At sight of the figure on the divan before him, he paused for a few seconds, and then spoke, gently: “Oman Ramasarman, I am come hither—thine host.”