We glided along the straight military road from Peshawar to
Nowshera, the gold-bright sun dazzling in its whiteness - a
strange drive through the flat, burned country, with the ominous
Kabul River flowing through it. Military preparations everywhere,
and the hills looking watchfully down - alive, as it were, with
keen, hostile eyes. War was at present about us as behind the
lines in France; and when we crossed the Kabul River on a bridge
of boats, and I saw its haunted waters, I began to feel the
atmosphere of the place closing down upon me. It had a sinister
beauty; it breathed suspense; and I wished, as I was sure Vanna
did, for silence that was not at our command.

For Mrs. Delany felt nothing of it. A bright shallow ripple of
talk was her contribution to the joys of the day; though it was,
fortunately, enough for her happiness if we listened and agreed.
I knew Vanna listened only in show. Her intent eyes were fixed on
the Tahkt-i-Bahi hills after we had swept out of Nowshera; and
when the car drew up at the rough track, she had a strange look
of suspense and pallor. I remember I wondered at the time if she
were nervous in the wild open country.

"Now pray don't be shocked," said Mrs. Delany comfortably; "but
you two young people may go up to the monastery, and I shall stay
here. I am dreadfully ashamed of myself, but the sight of that
hill is enough for me. Don't hurry. I may have a little doze, and
be all the better company when you get back. No, don't try to
persuade me, Mr. Clifden. It isn't the part of a friend."

I cannot say I was sorry, though I had a moment of panic when
Vanna offered to stay with her - very much, too, as if she really