In the distance she could hear the soldiers' children and some of the Christianised natives singing in the Mission School; their united voices came through the open windows on the calm pure air of the Indian night, and she could hear her husband accompanying them on an indifferent harmonium, so earnestly and humbly in the service of his Master, in the hymn he had translated from the _Tembavani_:-- "Whilst Thee, with tongues of splendour, The orbs of heaven praise, Whilst groves to Thee their voices, With tongues of brilliance raise: Whilst Thee, with tongues of joyance All gay wood-warblers sing; Whilst praise to Thee, wood-flowerets, From tongues of fragrance fling: And whilst with tongues of clearness, The water-floods applaud Thee, With the tongue that Thou hast given, Shall I not daily laud Thee?" "Poor Cecil--how unworthy I am of you!" thought she, and tears started to her eyes afresh as she thought of him and the _morrow_! Her heart gave a convulsive leap and she stood still for a moment as the evening gun boomed over the cantonments when the sun set, and then the darkness fell instantly, as it always does in India where there is no twilight, and she saw Fred Wilmot instantly approach her, but from what point she scarcely knew. He was attired in plain clothes, for travelling evidently, but he was bareheaded, and she could see that his face looked most startlingly pale, that also pain and bewilderment were in it, and that he scarcely seemed to see her. Something in his looks and manner rooted Clare to the spot. "Fred--Fred--Wilmot!" she cried, in a low voice, but, without stopping, he gave her one sad glance expressive of pity and love, sorrow and pain, and passing on towards the tomb, left her alone--alone and bewildered, while a new sense of great fear that she could not analyse, caused her to rush towards the house she had so lately quitted. At the door she met her husband, full of excitement and agitation. "You abroad, Clare," he exclaimed, with grave surprise; "have you then heard what has happened--ah, your white face tells me that you have?" "What has happened, Cecil?" she asked, in a low, breathless voice. "Poor Wilmot--God forgive me if I have wronged him!--has just been murdered and robbed by his native servant, a Patan scoundrel named Aloodeen." "Murdered?" "Yes---just as the sunset gun was fired." In a swoon Clare fell at his feet like one who was dead. He had been stabbed to the heart! Who, or what was it in his likeness that Clare had seen at the place they were to meet? She was saved from her great temptation--saved to remain a sorrowing and innocent wife. She never again saw the face of Wilmot, even in a dream, though often in the years to come she decked his lonely grave with flowers. THE GREAT SEA SERPENT.