He gave up all thoughts of ever seeing his friend Harper again. It was true that sufficient time had not elapsed for the succour to arrive, even if he had managed to live through the thousand dangers he would have to face. But it was such a forlorn hope, that Gordon felt it was a fallacy to cherish any expectation of again seeing him. Life, as viewed through the medium which then presented itself, seemed to have practically ended for him. If he reached Allahabad, it would be but as a storm-tossed waif, thrown up, as it were, by a raging sea that had washed away all that was dear and precious, leaving him lonely and broken-hearted, to curse the unlucky chance that had saved him. These were his melancholy reflections. After all he had endured, it was scarcely matter for wonder that they should be gloomy and tinged with morbidness. There are moments sometimes in a person’s existence when life seems full of nameless horrors--when death is viewed in the light of a loving friend who brings peace and rest. Such a moment as this was Walter’s experience. His cup of sorrow was full; it was overflowing, but then, when the tide has reached its highest flood, it commences to recede. Night was nearly passed. The fairy-like glamour which precedes the coming dawn, especially in India, was over the land. It was like a flush on the face of nature--surrounding objects were commencing to assert their presence. The outlines of trees and buildings could be faintly discerned, standing out against the roseate-flushed sky. With the departing darkness and coming light, a faint glimmer of hope appeared upon the path of Walter Gordon; he began to think that things might not be so bad after all; and then his senses were suddenly and unexpectedly soothed by the melody of a bird. For weeks the roar of the guns had scared all the feathered songsters away; but the cessation of the din for the last twenty-four hours had induced a stray bul-bul--that gem of the Indian feather tribe--to alight on the branches of a blackened and shot-shattered tree which stood some little distance away. Perhaps the tiny singer had wandered from its tribe, and, missing the rich foliage which the storm of fire had destroyed over an extensive area, it was uttering a lament; for there was ruin, desolation, and decaying mortality around--the work of man’s hand; and the song of the bird might have been a song of sorrow. Who can tell? But as it sat there a mere speck on the leafless and blackened tree, and trilled its beautiful and mellow notes that sounded clear and soft on the still morning air, the soul of Walter Gordon was touched.