'Not all,' protested Jack Raymond resignedly; 'but if Miss Drummond can spare us a minute, I'll show you John Ellison's.' The girl's face lit up. 'Isn't that about all?' she asked quickly. 'The very name seems to dominate the place still. _Jân-Ali-shân!_ That's what the natives call him, your father says, Jerry. It means the "Spirit of Kings." A good name, isn't it, for the man who held this garden against all comers, even starvation?' Her head was up, her voice rang; but the thrill did not pass to the man's heart from these as it had from the clasp of that little hand, which some day would have a man's grip. 'There was a heap of bunkum talked, though, about the actual physical privations of the mutiny time; they had iced soda and Moselle cup on the ridge at Delhi, you know, Miss Drummond,' he said, out of pure contrariety. 'I should like to be sure of that,' she began indignantly. 'I should like to be sure of a lot of mutiny tales,' he interrupted; 'but there's a halo of romance on our side and a shadow of fear on theirs, which plays the deuce with abstract truth. I wish we could forget the whole business.' 'Forget! Forget our glorious past!' 'Was it so glorious? I asked Budlu once'--he pointed to a white ghostlike figure which had begun to follow them from the cemetery gate--'how a mere handful of us here kept their thousands at bay. Budlu is supposed to have been inside, during the siege, as a child's bearer--that's why they made him caretaker; but I've reason to believe he was outside--not that it matters now! Well, his answer was: "The _sahibs_ had nothing to do with it. It was the dead women and the dead babies. Every one knows that the strength of the strongest man is water before the ghost of a mother and child."' They had reached the slope of that gentle hollow where, even in their bitterest stress, the living had crept obstinately, under cover of night, to lay their dead to rest in the shadow of the deserted church, and he paused to point downwards to a tall cypress and add, 'There is John Ellison's grave.' Lesley paused too. Calm and still in the moonlight, the grassy slopes, set with flowers and blossoming shrubs, seemed to centre on that hollow of heroes' graves, as they, in their turn, centred round the plain plinth, with its marble slab under the cypress tree. There were but two words on it--'John Ellison'--but they filled the eye, the heart, the brain. Lesley Drummond stood looking at them silently, and Jack Raymond stood watching her, approving her silence. But Jerry, whose round childish face had a curious ghostly look on it, as if he were seeing visions, went creeping on round the plinth, his grey eyes wide; a stealthy little figure dreaming of torches and deaders and crack-bang firings over walls. But he was back in a second, his face eager, startled. 'Oh, if you please--he's quite, quite shot--lyin' there close by. Hadn't we better buwy him?'