'Why does not the sun always remain over my head?' asks John Hay.




THROUGH THE FIRE
[Footnote: Copyright, 1891, by MACMILLAN & Co.]


The Policeman rode through the Himalayan forest, under the moss-draped
oaks, and his orderly trotted after him.

'It's an ugly business, Bhere Singh,' said the Policeman. 'Where are
they?'

'It is a very ugly business,' said Bhere Singh; 'and as for THEM, they
are, doubtless, now frying in a hotter fire than was ever made of
spruce-branches.'

'Let us hope not,' said the Policeman, 'for, allowing for the difference
between race and race, it's the story of Francesca da Rimini, Bhere
Singh.'

Bhere Singh knew nothing about Francesca da Rimini, so he held his peace
until they came to the charcoal-burners' clearing where the dying flames
said 'whit, whit, whit' as they fluttered and whispered over the white
ashes. It must have been a great fire when at full height. Men had seen
it at Donga Pa across the valley winking and blazing through the night,
and said that the charcoal-burners of Kodru were getting drunk. But it
was only Suket Singh, Sepoy of the load Punjab Native Infantry, and