"Of course," she said then. "Nationality makes no difference." They crossed over the broad square, through the gopura, into the inner temple. Nehal Singh, who had sunk into a deep meditation, roused himself and called to her notice many curious and beautiful things which she would otherwise have passed by without interest. Whether it was his loving description, or whether it was because she was calmer, she could not say, but the place impressed her with its stately magnificence as it had not done before. "The ages seem to hang like ghosts in the atmosphere," she told her companion, in a hushed undertone. He assented, and the dreamer's look which had haunted his eyes for twenty-five years crept back into its place. "Who knows what unseen world surrounds us?" he said quietly. They had already left the first court behind them and passed the Sacred Pool, a placid, untroubled mirror for the overhanging trees and towering minarets. There they had paused a moment, watching their own reflections which the warm evening sunshine cast on to the smooth surface. Then they had moved on, and now stood before the entrance of the Holy of Holies. Beatrice drew back with a gesture of alarm. A tall, white-clad figure had suddenly stepped out of the shadowy portal and stood erect and threatening, one hand raised as though to forbid their entrance. Long afterward, Beatrice remembered the withered face, and always with a shudder of unreasonable terror. "Do not be afraid," Nehal Singh said. "He defends the entrance against strangers. He will let you pass." He went up to the old priest and spoke a few words in Hindustani, which Beatrice did not understand. Immediately the Brahman stood aside, and though his stern, piercing gaze never left her face, she felt that by some means or other his animosity had been disarmed. "What did you say to him?" she asked. Nehal Singh shook his head. "One day I will tell you," he answered; and some instinct made her hesitate to press the question further.