not the man to whom she had given herself. And to none other would the
chance be offered.

No, she was secure; she was secure. She guarded her heart from all. And
she could not suffer deeply--so she told herself--so long as she kept it
close. Yet, as the wonder-music of the torrent lulled her to sleep, a
face she knew, dark, strong, full of silent purpose, rose before her
inner vision and would not be driven forth. What was he doing to-night?
Was he wandering about the bazaars in some disguise, learning the
secrets of that strange native India that had drawn him into her toils?
She tried to picture that hidden life of his, but could not. The keen,
steady eyes, set in that calm, emotionless face, held her persistently,
defeating imagination. Of one thing only was she certain. He might
baffle others, but by no amount of ingenuity could he ever deceive her.
She would recognize him in a moment whatever his disguise. She was sure
that she would know him. Those grave, unflinching eyes would surely give
him away to any who really knew him. So ran her thoughts on that night
of magic till at last sleep came, and the vision faded. The last thing
she knew was a memory that awoke and mocked her--the sound of a low
voice that in spite of herself she had to hear.

"I was waiting," said the voice, "till my turn should come."

With a sharp pang she cast the memory from her--and slept.




CHAPTER VII