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“Great Scotland! And Mrs. Perceval?”

Again Hone’s eyes sought the white face on his arm.

“No, she isn’t hurt. It’s just a faint. Pull up close, and I’ll hand her down to you!”

Between them, they lowered her into the boat. Hone followed, and raised her to lean against his knee.

Duncombe began to row swiftly across the stream, with an uneasy eye upon the two in the stern.

“What in the world made you go wrong, I wonder?” he said. “No one ever goes that side, not even the natives. They say it’s haunted. We all landed near the old bathing ghat.”

Hone was moistening Nina Perceval’s face with his handkerchief. He made no reply to Teddy’s words. He was anxiously watching for some sign of returning consciousness.

It came very soon. The dark eyes opened and gazed up at him, at first uncomprehendingly, then with a dawning wonder.

“St. Patrick!” she whispered.

“Princess!” he whispered back.

With an effort she raised herself, leaning against him.

“What happened? Were you hurt? Your face is all bleeding!”

“It’s nothing!” he said jerkily. “It’s nothing!”

She took his handkerchief in her trembling hand and wiped the blood away. She said no more of any sort. Only when she gave it back to him her eyes were full of tears.

And Hone caught the little hand in passionate, dumb devotion, and pressed it to his lips.

VII

“I am so sorry, Major Hone, but she is seeing no one. I would ask you to dine if it would be of any use. But you wouldn’t see her if I did.”

So spoke the colonel’s wife three days later in a sympathetic undertone; while Hone paced beside her rickshaw with a gloomy face.

“She isn’t ill?” he asked. “You are sure she isn’t ill?”

“No, not really ill. Her nerves are upset, of course. That was almost inevitable. But she has determined to start for Bombay on Monday, and nothing I can say will make her change her purpose.”

“But she can’t mean to go without saying good-bye!” he protested.

Mrs. Chester shook her head.

“She says she doesn’t like good-byes. I had the greatest difficulty in persuading her to come here at all. I am afraid that is exactly what she does mean to do.”

Hone stood still. His face was suddenly stubborn.

“I must see her,” he said, “with her consent or without it. Will you, of your goodness, ask me to dine tonight? I will manage the rest for myself.”

Mrs. Chester looked somewhat dubious. Long as she had known Hone, she was not familiar with this mood.

He saw her hesitation, and smiled upon her persuasively.

“You are not going to refuse my petition? It isn’t yourself that would have the heart!”

She laughed, in spite of herself.

“Oh, go away, you wheedling Irishman! Yes, you may dine if you like. The Gerrards are coming for bridge, and you’ll be odd man out. There will be no one to entertain you.”

“Sure, I can entertain myself,” grinned Hone. “And it’s truly grateful that I am to your worshipful ladyship.”

He bowed, with his hand upon his heart, and, turning, went his way.

Mrs. Chester went hers, still vaguely doubtful as to the wisdom of her action. In common with the rest of mankind, she found Hone well-nigh impossible to resist.

When he made his appearance that evening, he presented an absolutely serene aspect to the world at large. He was the gayest of the party, and Mrs. Chester’s uneasiness speedily evaporated. Nina Perceval was not present, but this fact apparently did not depress him. He remained in excellent spirits throughout dinner.

When it was over, and the bridge players were established on the veranda, he drifted off to the smoking-room in an aimless, inconsequent fashion, and his hostess and accomplice saw him no more.

She would have given a good deal to have witnessed his subsequent movements, but she would have been considerably disappointed had she done so, for Hone’s methods were disconcertingly direct. All he did when he found himself alone was to sit down and scribble a brief note.