It was a most stately preamble. Lucy, who was not without a sense of the fitness of things, tried to still her beating heart and to answer it with becoming dignity. And, in fact, she made a pretty fair start. But, as she went on, as she tried to draw a picture of what Grace was to her and to them all, as she entered upon a narration of the events that led to their separation, her dignity evaporated in gasping, spasmodic phrases; and tears, that not even the august presence of these stately citizens could repress, poured from her eyes. They listened in perfect silence. Aglaia, who did not fully understand what was happening, crept up close to her, and whispered to her not to cry. The poor little ayah sat in the background sobbing--like a child. Lucy felt as if she could not go through with it. But at last it was over. Now they would let her go, and she could cry her heart out. Not yet, poor little Lucy! It is Chunder Singh who stands up, and he has thrown back the chuddah from his face, which looks curiously determined. 'We thank you, Miss Sahib,' he says in his grave and sonorous English. 'But there is yet one thing more that we would know. You spoke to me this morning of a message.' 'Oh! yes. I had a message; but it was not for any of you,' cries Lucy, starting up. 'It was for him.' 'If he is not here----' 'Then I must keep it for him until he comes back.' 'Will Miss Sahib pardon her servant----?' 'No, no, no. Oh! I cannot tell you. How can I? They were her last words. I should be a traitor.' 'We thought that if we heard the message sent to his Excellency it would help us to find him. That is all,' says Lutfullah gently. 'Chunder Singh, my good friend, it is enough,' he adds in a lower voice. 'Let her go!' 'Yes, yes; let her go!' say the others. And Lucy--oh! so thankful to be released--draws round her the silken curtains of the litter, and Aglaia gives her hand to the ayah, and, while they go back to the palace, the four ancients of Gumilcund hold a council as to what is to be done for the State. CHAPTER XXXII NO NEWS That was Lucy's last piece of excitement for some considerable time. When, having been carried back to the palace, she fell weeping into the arms of her friends, there began for her and the others a life of the most bewildering monotony. A part of the palace, consisting of a small pillared hall, and two or three sleeping apartments, with the shaded alley in which Chunder Singh and Lutfullah had met them first, and the rajah's summer-house were allotted to them. Day after day, with clock-like regularity, a liberal provision of meats and drinks, water to their hearts' desire, fresh garments, sweetmeats, and books were brought to them. They had everything, in fact, but that for which they craved the most--news.