said, deference and devotion mingling in his voice.

She accepted his help instinctively, scarcely knowing what she did, and
very gently, with a woman's tenderness, he led her back into the tent.

"My _mem-sahib_ must rest," he said. "And I will find a woman to serve
her."

She opened her eyes with a dizzy sense of wonder. Peter had never failed
before to procure anything that she wanted, but even in her extremity
she had a curiously irrelevant moment of conjecture as to where he would
turn in the wilderness for the commodity he so confidently mentioned.

Then, the anguish returning, she checked his motion to depart. "No, no,
Peter," she said, commanding her voice with difficulty. "There is no
need for that. I am quite all right. But--but--tell me more! How did
this happen? Why did he sleep on the mountain?"

"How should the _mem-sahib's_ servant know?" questioned Peter, gently
and deferentially, as one who reasoned with a child. "It may be that the
opium of his cigar was stronger than usual. But how can I tell?"

"Opium! He never smoked opium!" Stella gazed upon him in fresh
bewilderment. "Surely--surely not!" she said, as though seeking to
convince herself.

"_Mem-sahib_, how should I know?" the Indian murmured soothingly.

She became suddenly aware that further inaction was unendurable. She
must see for herself. She must know the whole, dreadful truth. Though