She felt that if she hesitated--deliberated--she would be lost, and must become, in any land, even though unknown, a social outlaw, a virtual outcast. All this rushed upon her mind, though she said it not, and with all its minor details of mortification and bitterness, as she lay with her face hidden on the breast of Wilmot. He smiled fondly, yet sadly, down upon her bent head, and clasped her trembling fingers in his stronger hands, and turning up her white and desperate little face, he dared, in the excess and blindness of his passion, to call on heaven to hear that she would never have cause to regret the step she was about to take. And so they separated with reluctance, though in haste, aware that when they met again it would be to part no more! CHAPTER V. Fred Wilmot had obtained a year's leave from the general commanding at Mirzapatam, and had taken all his measures for their mutual flight. He was to meet her at evening gun-fire, near the old ruined tomb in the baubool grove, when Aloodeen, his native valet, would bring his buggy. In this they would proceed to the branch line that joined the greater line at Allahabad, from whence they could take the great Peninsular Railway to Calcutta, long before reaching which all traces of them would be lost! It was early morning when the scheme was planned; a whole day was to elapse ere it could be put in operation; yet it seemed to pass with frightful rapidity to Clare, who felt like one in a dream, or as if it was some other person, and not herself, who was to meet Wilmot at the tomb of Abu Mirza. Her silence, her pre-occupation, her nervousness, more than all, the whiteness of her little face, could not fail to attract the attention of her husband who, with unwonted tenderness, bent over her, and, taking her cheeks between his hands, said,-- "Look up, little woman--why, what is the matter with you?" She closed her eyes, which dared not meet his earnest, honest, and searching gaze. He then took her little hands caressingly in his, and felt, with alarm, that though the atmosphere without was stifling, they were icy cold and trembling. "Is there anything wrong, Clare? What is the matter with you, my darling little wife?" Still she was silent, for her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and she could only sigh in her heart secretly. "Oh, heaven--what am I to do? Avoid the temptation--flee the sin--yea, even confess all--ere it be too late!" Then she thought of her husband's frigidity of manner, his intense sense of morality, religion, purity, and rectitude, and her timid heart died within her. "God help us, child," said Cecil Thorne, "I hope that no illness has seized you." He thought wildly over the several fever and cholera beds he had been beside of late, and the strong man felt his soul die within him with fear, as he saw alternately the wistfulness and wild excitement in his wife's eyes. "A doctor must be summoned," he exclaimed; "qui hi--hollo, there, Chuttur Sing!"