"I say it because it is true. I have never lived--never. You killed me years ago--all that was best in me. Save your soul from a second murder." "If you live, do you know what may lie before you?" "You talk of things 'worse than death.' What shame, what misery could be worse than the years spent at your side?" "You are mad, Margaret. I shall pay no attention to you. I must save you against your will." All through the hurried dialogue neither had spoken above a whisper. Even in that moment they obeyed the habit of a lifetime, hiding hatred and bitterness beneath a mask of apparent calm. Without a sound, but with a frantic strength, Margaret wrenched herself free. "Leave me to my own fate!" she demanded, in the same passionate undertone. "You have ceased to be responsible for me." He made one last effort to hold her. In the same instant the firing ceased altogether. There followed the roar and crash of bursting timber, the pattering of naked feet, the fanatic yells drawing every second nearer. "Margaret!" he cried wildly, holding out his revolver in the darkness. "If not at my hands, then at your own. Save yourself--" "I shall save myself, have no fear!" she answered, with a bitter, terrible laugh. From the couch Christine Stafford's voice rose peacefully: "Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!" Another voice answered, "Amen!" There was the report of a revolver and a sudden, startling stillness. It lasted only a breathing space. Furious shoulders hurled themselves against the frail, weakly barred door. It cracked, bulged inward, with a bursting, tearing sound, yielded. The moonlight flooded into the little room, throwing up into bold relief the three upright figures and the little heap that knelt motionless by the couch. The crowd of savage faces hesitated, faltering an instant before the sahibs who yesterday had been their lords and masters. Then the sahibs fired. It was all that was needed. The room filled. There was one stifled groan--no more than that. No cry for mercy, no whining. Little by little the room emptied again. The cries and bloodthirsty screams of triumphant vengeance died slowly in the distance, the grey moonlight resumed its peaceful sovereignty. Only here and there were dark stains its silver could not wash away. CHAPTER II THE DANCING IS RESUMED. "Oh, I love India--adore it, simply!" Mrs. Cary exclaimed, in the tone of a person who, usually self-controlled, finds himself overwhelmed by the force of his own enthusiasm. "There is something so mystic, so enthralling about it, don't you think? I always feel as though I were wandering through a chapter of the _Arabian Nights_ full of gorgeous princes, wicked robbers, genii, or whatever you call them. Isn't it so with you, Mrs. Carmichael?" Her hostess, a thin, alert little woman with a bony, weather-beaten face, cast an anxious glance at the rest of her guests scattered about the garden.