CHAPTER V

THE WOMAN


Summer in the Plains! Pitiless, burning summer!

All day a blinding blaze of sun beat upon the wooden roof, forced a way
through the shaded windows, lay like a blasting spell upon the parched
compound. The cluster-roses had shrivelled and died long since. Their
brown leaves still clung to the veranda and rattled desolately with a
dry, scaly sound in the burning wind of dawn.

The green parakeets had ceased to look for sweets on the veranda.
Nothing dainty ever made its appearance there. The Englishman who came
and went with such grim endurance offered them no temptations.

Sometimes he spent the night on a _charpoy_ on the veranda, lying
motionless, though often sleepless, through the breathless, dragging
hours. There had been sickness among the officers and Merryon, who was
never sick, was doing the work of three men. He did it doggedly, with
the stubborn determination characteristic of him; not cheerfully--no one
ever accused Merryon of being cheerful--but efficiently and
uncomplainingly. Other men cursed the heat, but he never took the
trouble. He needed all his energies for what he had to do.

His own chance of leave had become very remote. There was so much sick
leave that he could not be spared. Over that, also, he made no
complaint. It was useless to grumble at the inevitable. There was not a