"That is the House-of-the-Eight-Half--brothers," said Yasmini. "He
who built it had eight wives, and a son by each. That was ages ago,
and the descendants of the eight half-brothers are all at law about
the ownership. There are many stories told about that house."

Suddenly she broke into laughter, leaning on her hand and mocking
them as Puck mocked mortals. A man could not doubt her. Colonel and
adjutant, both men who had seen grim service and both self-possessed
as a rule, knew that she could read clean through them, and that from
the bottom of her deep, wise soul she was amused.

"I am from the North," she said, "and the North is cold; there is
little mercy in the hills, and I was weaned amid them. Yet--would the
sahib not better beg of me?"

"How d'ye mean?" asked Kirby, surprised into speaking English.

"_Three days_ ago there came a wind that told _me_ of war--
of a world-war, surely not this time stillborn. Two years ago the
same wind brought me news of its conception, though the talk of the
world was then of universal peace and of horror at a war that was.
Now, to-night, this greatest war is loose, born and grown big within
three days, but conceived two years ago--Russia, Germany, Austria,
France are fighting--is it not so? Am I wrong?"

"I came to ask about Ranjoor Singh," said Colonel Kirby, twisting at
his closely cropped mustache.

There was a hint of iron in his voice, and he was obviously not the