"He will soon return," she thinks. "It is growing late, and he promised to be home before nightfall." She goes out on to the verandah, gazing down the road which leads to Mandalay. Two or three black children are resting by a wall at the foot of the hill, one squatting on the ground hugging his knees, the others standing in easy graceful attitudes, with round pitchers on their heads. The well is beneath a huge palm. Eleanor has sometimes "wished" by it with Carol, pretending there is some mystic spell in the water. He will pass that charmed spot as he returns, and she will stand on the steps to greet him. Surely in all the world Carol could not have chosen a more romantic retreat in which to live and love! The shadows deepen, they take forms, and glide from place to place as daylight dies. She peers into the gloom, the children go home to bed. Carol is not in sight! The red flowers of the morning lie withered up and brown on the floor where she has left them. Carol must not be greeted by the sight of her negligence. She stoops down, and gathers them together in both hands, sweeping the dust and fallen petals into her white palm. Crossing slowly to the door, Eleanor calls Quamina. "Take these away," she says. Quamina looks anxiously into her face, as she relieves her young mistress of the dead blossoms. "The Sahib is long in returning," she volunteers, with a nervous leer. "Yes. We shall soon need a light." "The devil will not catch him this evening; the devil is well employed," Quamina assures her. "Have no fear, lady." "What do you mean?" asks Eleanor, a shade of anger crossing her face. Quamina looks up proudly, delightedly. "I have placed food and drink in the rock away from the roadside," she replies chuckling. "He will be busy eating, and never see the Sahib riding up the path. Quamina loves the Sahib and his white lady; she will provide for the devil." Eleanor shrugs her shoulders in sheer despair. She cannot bring this woman to reason. With a pitying smile she returns to the window, and buries her fingers in the soft silk of those yellow pillows with an almost frantic clutch. They are just like the sofa cushions at Lyndhurst. Philip, perhaps, is lounging on them now, or Erminie--he has given them to Mrs. Lane for her new drawing-room. She kneels for a while on the lounge, and though there is no sound her lips move. Thus she stays, directly opposite the open window, listening and looking, wondering and praying. Can some evil have befallen him? She remembers his displeasure when she rode out to meet him that night--the man with the black mask. There is a loud report in the room; she springs to her feet with a cry. It is only a string of her guitar which has broken, and she sinks back into the old attitude despairingly.