buildings adjacent to it--one of which, as he knew, was Dost Ali Khan's house--were beginning to burn. The boom of artillery had ceased--there was no need for it now; but from outside he could hear the clatter of arms, and he knew that, in a short time, the fort would be taken by assault. In such case what would their fate be--his own--Ganesh's--his master's--if he was still alive? Might they not be killed by the angry English soldiers, before they could make themselves known? Deeper and deeper grew the silence about him. Those who were not dead or wounded had crowded into the subterranean exit. It would be strange, thought Hoosanee, if the English soldiers were to come in presently and find only him. The torches that had lit the courtyard had died down. There was nothing now to illuminate it but the fiery column. By its light he saw dimly three figures, that seemed to come out miraculously from the very heart of the burning mass. He ran forward with a cry. If this was his master, then everything was true, for not Rama himself could boast such an adventure! The Divine Ones had cared for their own. 'Hoosanee!' That was the rajah's voice. 'Master,' he cried piteously. 'Are you safe?' 'I am safe. Take this burden from me!' It was the form, to all appearance lifeless, of a woman. Hoosanee received it into his arms and, followed by Tom and Ganesh, who were nearly exhausted, carried it into the hut and laid it down on the charpoy. 'Light my lamp!' said Tom. 'Now,' he went on, 'go out, both of you, and wait for me.' They obeyed, and he was left alone with the lifeless form. The face was covered with a veil. He lifted it and gazed down. Yes, it was Vivien Doncaster. Vivien herself--the soft brow--the smiling lips--the merry dimples! The horror of death, which had been swift and sudden, had changed her no more than the horror of guilt in which she had steeped herself. Fair, sweet, innocent, like a sleeping child, she lay before him on the pillow. With a shudder he dropped the veil. 'Farewell, beautiful witch,' he murmured: 'we meet for the last time. That it was not left to me to kill you, I thank God; but I would not, if I could, bring you back to the life which you have so miserably abused. Farewell! As you lived, so you die--a torment and a mystery.' As he spoke, he took a letter from his pocket, twisted it into a match, and, having kindled it at the lamp, deliberately set fire to the charpoy in two or three places. Looking up then, he saw Hoosanee beside him. 'What is it?' he said angrily. 'I thought I told you to remain outside.' 'Master,' answered Hoosanee, 'the English soldiers are coming in through the breach. If we do not wish to die, we must stand aside until you can see the General.' 'You are right, as usual, my good Hoosanee,' said Tom, with his usual mildness. 'Ganesh knows the place, he will hide us.'