of dreamy indolence. Against the intensified darkness of the room behind
him his features stood out with the distinctness of a finely cut cameo. A
man of about twenty-five years, he yet seemed younger, thanks, perhaps, to
his expression, which was extraordinarily untroubled.

Thought, poetic and philosophic, but never tempestuous, sat in the dark,
well-shaped eyes and high, intellectual forehead. Humor, sorrow, care,
anxiety and doubt, the children of a strenuous life, had left his face
singularly unscarred with their characteristic lines. For the rest, beyond
that he was unusually fair, he represented in bearing and in feature a
Hindu prince of high caste and noble lineage. Between him and the old man
upon the divan there was no apparent resemblance. The latter was
considerably darker, and lacked both the refinement of feature and dignity
of expression which distinguished the younger man. Nevertheless, when he
spoke it was in the tone of familiarity, almost of paternal authority.

"Art thou not weary, my son?" he asked abruptly. "For an hour thou hast
neither moved nor spoken. Tell me with what thy thoughts are concerned. I
would fain know, and thy face has told me nothing."

Nehal Singh let the curtain fall back into its place, and the yellow patch
of sunshine upon the marble faded. He looked at his companion steadfastly,
but with eyes that saw nothing.

"My thoughts!" he repeated, in a low, musical voice. "My thoughts are
valueless. They are like caged birds which have beaten their wings against
the bars of their cage and now sit on their golden perches and dream of
the world beyond." He laughed gently. "No, my father. You, who have seen
the world, would mock at them as dim, unreal reflections of a reality
which you have touched and handled. For me they are beautiful enough."