never seen it, but had heard it described as the most romantic spot in
Markestan. It had been the site of a fierce battle in some bye-gone age,
and its glories had departed. For centuries it had lain deserted and
crumbling. Yet some of its ancient beauty remained. Its marble floors
and walls of carved stone were not utterly obliterated though only owls
and flying-foxes made it their dwelling-place. Natives regarded it with
superstitious awe and seldom approached it. But Europeans all looked
upon it as the most beautiful corner within reach, and had it been
nearer to Kurrumpore, it would have been a far more frequented
playground than it was.

The hoot of a motor-horn broke suddenly upon the silence, and Stella
started. It was the horn of Major Ralston's little two-seater; she knew
it well. But they had not proposed using it that night. She and Tommy
were to accompany them in a waggonette. The crunching of wheels and
throb of the engine at the gate told her it was stopping. Then the
Ralstons had altered their plans, unless--Something suddenly leapt up
within her. She was conscious of a curious constriction at the throat, a
sense of suffocation. The fuss and worry of the engine died down into
silence, and in a moment there came the sound of a man's feet entering
the compound. Standing motionless, with hands clenched against her
sides, she gazed forth. A tall, straight figure was coming towards her
between the whispering tamarisks. It was not Major Ralston. He walked
with a slouch, and this man's gait was firm and purposeful. He came up
to the verandah-steps with unfaltering determination. He was looking
full at her, and she knew that she stood revealed in the marvellous
Indian moonlight. He mounted the steps with the same absolute
self-assurance that yet held nought of arrogance. His face remained in
shadow, but she did not need to see it. The reason of his coming was
proclaimed in every line, in every calm, unwavering movement.