The storm of protest died on Geoffries' lips. Prejudices, the ingrained arrogance of race which scorned to accept friendship at the hands of an inferior, sank to ashes as his eyes met those of this Hindu prince. "What have I done to deserve your kindness, Rajah Sahib?" he began helplessly, but Nehal Singh cut him smilingly short. "You have saved me," he said. "To-night my faith hung in the balance. You have given it back to me, and in my turn I will save you and give you back what you have lost. And this shall be a bond between us. You will hear from me to-morrow. Good night." "Good night, Rajah Sahib--and--thank you." He hesitated, and then went on painfully: "You have shown me that we have behaved like cads. I--am awfully sorry." He was not referring to the Bazaar, as Nehal supposed. "The past is over and done with," Nehal Singh answered, "but the future is ours--and the common ideal which we must follow for the common good." Hugh Geoffries stood a long time after the Rajah had left him, absorbed in wondering speculation. Who was this strange man who a few weeks ago had been but a shadow, and to-day stood in the midst of them, sharing their life and yet curiously alone? He had met other Indian rulers, but they had not been as this man. They had also joined the European life, but they had come as strangers and had remained as strangers. They had learned to assume an outward conformity which this prince had not needed to learn. And yet he stood alone, even among his own people alone. Wherein lay the link, wherein the barrier? Was it caste, religion? Hugh Geoffries found no answer to these questions. He went home sobered and thoughtful, dimly conscious that he had brushed past the mystery of a great character, whom, in spite of all, he had been forced to reverence. CHAPTER XII THE WHITE HAND It is an old truth that things have their true existence only in ourselves. A picture is perfect, moderate, or indifferent, according to our tastes; an event fortunate or unfortunate according to our character. Thus life, though in reality no more than a pure stream of colorless water, changes its hue the moment it is poured into the waiting pitchers, and becomes turbid, or assumes some lovely color, or retains its first crystal clearness, in measure that the earthenware is of the best or poorest quality.