A cry of unspeakable despair broke from the woman's lips, and she agitated her arms wildly above her head. They retired, settled, approached again, the girl still gesticulating wildly. Then the ping of the shikari's revolver rang through the jungle. Again it sounded, and again, the girl retreated trembling, and two of the birds fell to the ground mortally wounded, while their mate sailed away sullenly to his eyrie in the hills. Before the echo of his last shot had died away, Bâl Narîn was standing with bowed head before the girl in the hut, and addressing her in his choicest Hindoostani. 'Let me entreat my gracious lady not to fear me,' he said. 'I am a poor hunter from the hills--a man of the Ghoorka nation, to whom the white races are honourable. I saw my gracious lady's distress, and I slew the birds that caused her fear. Can I help her further?' 'Could you help me--would you?' said the poor girl. 'Let my gracious lady try me?' said Bâl Narîn. At this moment there rang another sound through the jungle--a low whistle, prolonged and flute-like, but curiously tremulous, that seemed to be floating down from above them. The girl pressed her finger to her lips, and a colour, soft as the crimson of the morning, flooded her pale face. The tremulous, sweet sounds go on--they form themselves into a melody. Ah! What is this? What is this? In a moment--in less than a moment--the poor girl is back again in the past. Under her feet is a carpet of soft, green grass; above, swayed gently to and fro by the breath of a June morning in England, wave the light branches of a weeping willow-tree--the waters of a river lie before her--a boat is cutting through them--it has one rower. Oh! the fair, boyish face--the dreamy eyes--the rapture of adoring love! 'Come where my love lies dreaming,' he sings. 'Yes; I am dreaming. I must awake,' sobs poor Grace. The sounds go on--distant but clear. 'Dreaming the happy hours away--Come--Come--Come where my love----' Groaning, she covers her face with her hands. Bâl Narîn, in the meantime, is showing the most extraordinary excitement--shouting, dancing, tossing his hands about in exultation. Returning from her dream, the girl gazes at him in speechless surprise. 'Pardon your servant, gracious lady,' he says, 'if his pleasure lifts him off his feet! My master and I have waited for this moment. As the sick unto death long for the morning, so have we longed for it, and how can I help being triumphant?' 'Your--master?' says the girl, fixing her large, fever-bright eyes upon his face. 'My master--the Rajah of Gumilcund. He is on his way. He will be here soon, if--now the demons of the jungle guide him! Here! here!' he cries, lapsing into his native Ghoorka in his overpowering excitement. 'Look for the cotton-tree! Ah! what a fool I am! He does not know my tongue. Lady, you have a light within?' Trembling with excitement, Grace ran inside and caught up a little rush-candle--their last!