Then it was all over. He made no protest. He rode by her side as though he had been turned to stone, rigidly upright, his hand hanging lifeless at his side, his face expressionless. She felt that she had struck right at his life's vitality--that she had killed him. Yet it was not remorse that blinded her till the white road became a shimmering blur--it was a frightful personal pain which was hers and hers alone. Neither spoke. They passed a crowd of natives returning to the Bazaar. They salaamed, but Nehal Singh made no response, as was his wont. He did not seem to see them. Mechanically he guided his horse through the bowing crowd. The silence became unbearable. She had flippantly told herself that as long as he did not make a "scene" she would be satisfied. He had not made a "scene." From the moment that she had made her final declaration he had not spoken, and now she was praying that he would say something to her--anything, she did not care what, only not that terrible accusatory silence. At last, in desperation, she began to make it up with him as she had planned--in an incoherent, helpless way. "I have hurt you," she stammered. "Forgive me--I did not mean to. It has all been a cruel mistake. I looked upon you as a friend. How could I tell that you meant more than that? If I have deceived you, I can only ask you with all my heart to forgive me." He turned his head and looked at her. His eyes were dull and clouded, as though a film had been drawn across them. "Not you have deceived me," he answered quietly. "I have deceived myself. I thought I was following a great God-sent light. It was nothing more than a firefly glittering through my darkness. You are not to blame." He was already casting contempt at the influence which she had exercised over him; he was cutting himself free from her--as she had desired, as was inevitable. Yet, with a foolish, senseless anger, she sought to draw him back to her and hold him, if only by the reverence for what had been. "Do not despise our friendship!" she pleaded. "If it has not been what you thought it was, has it any the less opened the gates of Heaven and earth, as you said? What I have given you is good--the very best I had to give. The ideal was a high one. I helped you toward it with my friendship. Is it bad because it was only friendship--because it couldn't be more than that? You do not know," she went on, with a forced attempt to appear cheerful and matter-of-fact, "you do not know how much your trust and confidence has been to me. I have been so proud to help you. If I had ever thought it would come to this--I would have stopped long ago." So she lied, clinging to his respect as though it had been her salvation. And he believed her. His face relaxed, and for the first time she saw clearly what he was enduring.