Something in her shrank back abashed before the naked truth of the old man's words. She had had her chance, according to her world, and she had failed. She had failed utterly; and yet---- Something else in her, strange, incomprehensible, clamoured against the verdict, and the deadly weariness, the passionate apathy she had so often felt before came over her. The knife dropped to her side, and half mechanically she looked out through the arches of the balcony to where the red-brick bungalow should stand. There was nothing to be seen but sheets of water streaming from above, while from below came a rush and a roar. Suddenly as she listened came another sound; a _pit-pat pat-pit_ on the floor in half a dozen places. The rain had conquered the thick-domed roof. 'It is "_Tofhân Elâhi_," she said, and even as she spoke a babel of voices rose at the closed door. 'Open! open! The river saps the foundation. _Ari bhai!_ is he dead, that he hath no fear? Beat it down!--Oh, Diwân sahib!--Oh! servant, who hath closed the door?--Open! open!--Nay! without a smith 'tis hopeless--And I tarry not!--Listen! there goes more of the wall--Open, fools! open!' Amid the roar and rush, the vain blows and shouting, the old man's eyes were on Azîzan's, not so much in appeal as in command. He could not move and his faded voice would never reach through the clamour, so his only safety lay in her obedience. But she shook her head, then crouched down--as if to wait till they should once more be alone--in her favourite attitude, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chin, the knife still clasped in her hand ready for use. A louder roar came from without, a rattle as of bricks, mingled with cries of caution and alarm. Then gradually the blows and voices dwindled away from the ceaseless clamour of the rain and the intermittent rumblings of falling masonry, as the smallest crack widened beneath the pressure to a breach until, bit by bit, the solid walls seemed to melt away. 'Why didst thou not open the door, fool?' The words in the greater silence were just audible to the girl. 'Because I did not choose.' Again the odd sound like a laugh came from that bent figure. 'The woman's reason. Why didst thou not choose, Azîzan?' There was no anger, scarcely a trace of anxiety even, in his tone. He was no novice to the ways of women, and the girl's face told him that his chance of life was almost gone. What must be must, and death came to all; to the mad fool in her turn. The sombre fire of her eyes met his sullenly; but she made no answer, save to lay the knife down quietly on the sill of the arch against which she leant. The steel rang clear upon the hard red sandstone.