The moon and the setting sun were disputing possession of the world again, when George lay on a lounge chair in the verandah of the red-hot bungalow. The air was fresher, if not cooler there, and the factotum within was disturbing the foundations of the round world in attempting to pack his master's things; among them Azîzan's picture, and a parcel which had been sent from the palace addressed to Mrs. Boynton. Something, it was said, she had asked the vakeel at Râjpore to get for her. The lad, though still weak, was joyous to the heart's core in the knowledge that another hour would see him on his way to spend his holiday in the society of the most perfect woman he had ever seen. That was how he viewed his world. Gwen was in full focus; the rest of humanity out of it; even poor Dan, who was at that moment riding his hardest across the desert in order to take over charge of the sub-division at its outermost limit, and so give the boy every possible second of his leave. Not a very just estimate of relative values, but a very usual one when Narcissus is absorbed with the reflection of himself. 'Salaam Aliakoom,' came a breathless voice behind him. He turned to see Azîzan, who had sunk as if exhausted on the verandah steps. He stared at her silent with surprise, in which a certain shamefaced annoyance was mingled. He had no desire to be reminded of her existence at present, and even if, as he had felt inclined to suspect, there was some mystery about her, he could do no good by inquiring now, on the very eve of his departure. 'I have come for the pot, Huzoor,' she began without preamble. 'They took it from me. Lo! I was poor, and the poor have no voice. Justice! Justice!' 'Took it from you?' echoed George, his annoyance increasing at this plunge into the past. 'Do you mean by force?' She nodded. 'But,' he went on, 'you sold it. I gave the money to your mother when she came here--on the night the tents were burnt.' 'My mother died before that, Huzoor. It was not my mother who came, but a bad one from the palace. It is true that I never sold it, never got the money; and now I want the pot back again. It brings luck. I will not sell it.' 'But why didn't you come at once and tell me?' asked George angrily. 'Then I might have done something: now----' She interrupted him eagerly. 'Your slave has been ill; as the Huzoor may perchance notice.' Her wistful tone made George look at her more closely. 'Very ill I should say,' he assented shortly. 'You are not fit to come so far. Why did you? Why didn't you send some one else?' 'I thought the Huzoor would not believe unless he saw me,' she answered after a pause. 'I heard the Huzoor was going away to-day, and I wanted the pot. Surely he will give it back! The protector of the poor has so many things; his slave has but this one thing.'