Mrs. Ermsted found no gibe to fling after her. The smile that quivered
on Stella's lips was full of an unconscious pathos that disarmed all
criticism.

The sunshine outside the church was blinding. It smote through the
awning with pitiless intensity. Around the carriage a curious crowd had
gathered to see the bridal procession. To Stella's dazzled eyes it
seemed a surging sea of unfamiliar faces. But one face stood out from
the rest--the calm countenance of Ralph Dacre's magnificent Sikh
servant clad in snowy linen, who stood at the carriage door and gravely
bowed himself before her, stretching an arm to protect her dress from
the wheel.

"This is Peter the Great," said Dacre's careless voice, "a highly
honourable person, Stella, and a most efficient bodyguard."

"How do you do?" said Stella, and held out her hand.

She acted with the utmost simplicity. During her four weeks' sojourn in
India she had not learned to treat the native servant with contempt, and
the majestic presence of this man made her feel almost as if she were
dealing with a prince.

He straightened himself swiftly at her action, and she saw a sudden,
gleaming smile flash across his grave face. Then he took the proffered
hand, bending low over it till his turbaned forehead for a moment
touched her fingers.

"May the sun always shine on you, my _mem-sahib!_" he said.