She drew him after her by one hand, like a child at play. Across the marble plinth, right to the wide arched passage in the lower storey; and when, having gained in the race, he would from habit have gone straight on towards the courtyard, she pulled him back with a peal of laughter. "Not that way, stupid! Here--it's a dear little balcony all by itself with steps down to the river and a boat." "Perfect!" he exclaimed with an answering laugh, as he disappeared after her. But in that instant's pause two figures had passed into the other end of the long passage from the chapel. Two figures, one of which, half-disdainfully, half-regretfully, had been going round the beauties of the palace; the other, gambolling sideways by reason of its curbing deference its urging servility, engaged in garrulous tales of past glory. "Yea! _Ger-eeb-pun-wâz_," it was saying, "Bun-avatâr used to meet Anâri Begum here. She liked him best in uniform, and she wore--" It was then that, framed in the distant archway, seen clear against the radiance of the garden, that vision of a laughing girl, a flashing uniform appeared. Old Akbar Khân gave a faint mumbling petition to be preserved, and fell back, his teeth chattering. "Anâr--Anâr--herself," he muttered. "And he--God help us all! Why did they light up the garden?" But Roshan Khân knew better. His eyes were younger. And he had the key--the key of that shimmering silver dress. "Fool!" he said sharply. "They are no ghosts. 'Twas Dering-_sahib_ and--and--" he gave a bitter laugh--"one of his _mems_. They do such things often." But as he walked on, his hands clenched themselves to the tune of the words which sang in his brain, "God smite his soul to hell! God smite his soul to hell!" The two great stabilities, Love of God and Love of woman, had joined hands, as they always do. A formidable combination. CHAPTER X THE PIVOTS OF LIFE Lance Carlyon was not, as a rule, given either to loss of spirits or temper, yet both were at vanishing-point as he flung off the garb of his namesake of the lake; swearing as he did so that he would never wear the blessed thing again. It cramped him all over; body and soul. And then--for he knew his Tennyson well, as one of his name could hardly fail to do--his memory raced swiftly over the love-loyal knight's career; until suddenly he laughed at a phrase which had always tickled him. "_So groaned Sir Lancelot--not knowing he should die a holy man_." If he had?--what would have been the result? Would he simply have refrained from remorseful pain, or from the honour rooted in dishonour which caused it?