This thought seemed to take him by the throat and stifle him. He leapt from the bed on which he had been lying in restless pain and threw open the window. The river and the bridge were quiet by that time, but through the breathless night air there came the music of a waltz. It was the last dance of the visiting season at an hotel near by—a number of British officers were dancing on the edge of the volcano. Gordon shut the window and again threw himself on the bed. At length the problem that tormented him seemed to resolve itself into one issue. His father did not realise that the Moslems would die rather than give up possession of their holy place, and that, in order to turn them out of it, he would have to destroy them—slaughter them. A man could not outrage the most sacred of human feelings without being morally blind to what he was doing. His father was a great man—a thousand times greater than he himself could ever hope to be—but in this case he was blind, and somebody had to open his eyes. "I’ll go and bring him to reason," he thought. "He may insult me if he likes, but no matter!" The last cab had rattled home and the streets were silent when Gordon reached the entrance to the Agency. Then he saw that it was late, for the house was in darkness and not even the window of the library showed a light. The moon was full and he looked at his watch. Good heavens! It was two o’clock! The house-dog heard his footsteps on the gravel path and barked and bounded towards him; then, recognising him, it began to snuffle and to lick his hands. At the same moment a light appeared in an upper window. It was the window of his mother’s room, and at sight of it his resolution began to ebb away and he was once more seized with uncertainty. Strife between himself and his father would extinguish the last rays of his mother’s flickering life. He could see her looking at him with her pleading, frightened eyes. "Am I really going to kill my mother—that too?" he thought. He was as far as ever from knowing what course he ought to take, but the light in his mother’s window, filtering through the lace curtains that were drawn across it, was like a tear-dimmed, accusing eye, and with a new emotion he was compelled to turn away. *CHAPTER XXI* As two o’clock struck on the soft cathedral bell of a little clock by the side of her bed Fatimah rose with a yawn, switched on the electric light, and filled a small glass from a bottle on the mantel-piece. "Time to take your medicine, my lady," she said in a sleepy voice. Her mistress did not reply immediately, and she asked— "Are you asleep?" But her lady, who was wide awake, whispered, "Hush! do you hear Rover? Isn’t that somebody on the path?" Fatimah listened as well as she could through the drums of sleep that were beating in her ears, and then she answered— "No, I hear nothing."