He silently followed his companion, and they went out into the glare of the sun. The heat was still terrific, for it was only a little past mid-day. For a time, Walter kept bravely on, but his strength soon began to fail him. Even old Indians never thought of walking at such times, and he, a new-comer, was not yet inured to the climate. A feeling of oppression seized him, and he could scarcely resist the desire to lie down by the road-side. But, encouraged by Mehal, and buoyed up with the thought that every mile brought him nearer to Delhi, where he hoped to meet the object of his search, he struggled bravely on. The dusty road, treeless and shelterless, seemed to quiver in the heat. His mouth was parched with thirst, and his limbs tottered beneath him. But, with the resolution of despair, he kept up for yet a little while longer. “Zeemit,” he said at last, “I can go no farther; I am sinking.” “No, no; you must not stop here, or you will die. See; look ahead! To the left there, there is a clump of jungle. In that jungle is a dawk-house, where the palanquin bearers rest when travelling backwards and forwards. It is but half-a-mile, and you will there find shelter, for it is almost sure to be deserted now. Come, sahib. Courage!” Thus cheered by his faithful companion, he struggled on, his eyes almost blinded with the glare, his brain in a whirl, his limbs trembling as if he had been stricken with an ague. Had he not been a strong man, he would have fallen by the wayside, and then death must have speedily ensued. But he held up. The welcome goal was reached at last, and he tottered in. The place was one of the small, square, flat-roofed, stuccoed bungalows to be found on the high roads in all parts of India at that period. They were generally erected at the Government expense, and were used as shelters for travellers, and as places where change of horses could be had for the mail-dawks. It was two storeys high, and contained four rooms, with a circular stairway at one corner leading to the upper storey and the roof. At the back of the bungalow was a compound and a stable, and beyond a patch of jungle. Round the building ran the indispensable verandah; and a small doorway, screened by a portico, gave entrance to the house. Utterly exhausted, Gordon struggled into one of the lower rooms. It contained a cane-bottom lounge fixed to the wall; on to this he threw himself; and in a very few minutes nature succumbed, and he was asleep. Zeemit did not follow him, for two Coolies were lying on a bamboo-matting in the verandah, and they rose up as the travellers reached the house. “Peace be with you, countrymen,” said the old woman, addressing them. “Sorrow is mine, for my poor son is stricken with illness, and we have far to go.” “Where are you journeying to, mother?” asked one of the men, when he had returned Zeemit’s greeting.