They happened to be in a comparatively wholesome region when they halted, and it was decided, in the brief consultation which Tom held with his followers, that they should remain where they were for that day and part of the next night, starting for the Maharajah's Road with the rising of the moon. Grace and Kit would have a cart to travel in, so, although their progress would be slow, the fatigue would not be great, and as there would be no need now for any of those tentative flights into the open spots amongst the jungle that made their former journey tedious, they would get over the ground more quickly. Bâl Narîn calculated that in two or three days, at the outside, they would reach the Maharajah's Road, at the point where they left it. Here Tom hoped to pick up Hoosanee. It had been arranged that if he found no trace of the fugitives on the lower slopes of Sisagarhi, he should return to the point where the cavalcade had divided, and wait there a certain specified time for his master, after which time, should no news come, he would hasten back to Gambier Singh, acquaint him with what had happened, and ask his advice. It was almost certain now that the rajah and his party would reach the meeting-point before the time agreed upon, and Tom's only fear was that Hoosanee, who was so much of his friend that he longed to let him know speedily his success and happiness, would not be there so soon. But, in such case, a plan for communicating with him could soon be devised. After all this, having heard through Kit that Grace wanted nothing, the rajah and Bâl Narîn gave themselves up to the rest which they needed so sorely. The hours of the day rolled on. The sun rose high in the heavens, and a deep noontide silence, unbroken by the noises that at dead of night and early morning make the jungle terrible, brooded over the camp. Everyone slept but the two or three who remained on watch to keep the camp-fires burning. It was in the midst of this silence that the English girl came slowly to herself. Up to this she had been in a dream. All she had distinctly realised was that she might rest--that the strain, which had tried her to the utmost limit of endurance, was over. Now, as she opened her eyes and, by the light that stole in through the canvas walls and closed chicks, saw the curtains of rose and amber, and the pretty camp-furniture, and the fresh garments, and the bowls of clear water, she began dimly to understand that this was not a dream, such as those that had visited her in her wanderings, but a reality. The gates of the dear old life--the life of safety, and love, and reverence--were opening to her once more. It was the horror she and Kit had lived through that was the dream. This was true.