'Yea! she sleeps still, Huzoor. The breaking of the pot did not disturb her at all. She was weary, see you, after sixteen years of waking. So now when my fathers say, "Where is Azîzan?" I can answer, "Hush! she sleeps! she will waken when she is refreshed." Lo! it is well the pot broke. It was accursed; bringing ill to all.' 'There you see, Lewis!' began Rose eagerly---- 'It did not bring it to me, dear,' he replied, interrupting her, 'and a man can but judge from his own experiences. And then, as I have often told you, we really know nothing for certain----' 'Except,' put in Rose obstinately, 'that poor George----' 'Don't you think we ought to be moving?' he asked quietly. 'Remember you promised Mrs. Dalel to have tea in the chalet and inspect the son and heir, and you are tired enough as it is.' 'But you said you wanted to go and see some slope or another, and I'm not in the least tired,' she insisted when they had left the yard and reached the road. 'Lewis! you never used to fuss this way. I wish you wouldn't.' 'It is only another method of showing my real views on the mental and physical calibre of women. You must have read, my dear, of the wonderful recuperative power which the lower animals have of reproducing another tail when----ahem--by the way, this is not a safe spot! I remember saying something of the same sort on purpose to annoy when we were here before----' He paused, and looked down the narrow alley of the village to where the palace was beginning to share the unreal beauty which the dust-cloud from the feet of the homing cattle gave to the whole scene, by hiding the dull plain in a golden mist that gave distance and height to the low sand-hillocks behind which the sun was setting cloudlessly. A glorious sight, the dignity and calm majesty of which lingers long in the memory of those who have seen it in India, day after day, month after month; lingers to claim a higher place in the imagination than the more varied and complex sunsets of the West with their stormy contrasts and passionate beauty. 'Leave me here,' she said suddenly. 'I should like it. I'll sit on that pile of old potsherds, and wait till you come back. It will rest me.' It was peaceful enough of a certainty, and silent too. Only every now and again the tinkle of a low-toned bell from some leader of the herds below chiming in on the musical moan of the potter's wheel heard over the low wall. 'It was a woman seeking something.' The rhythm came back to her, stirring the old sense of curious unrest. Stirring it in others of her sex also, if one might judge by the eyes which, seeing the stranger alone, began to peer from the neighbouring hovels. Eyes followed by figures; deep-bosomed mothers most of them, with a slim girl or two doing nursemaid to other folks' babies.