of the long-ago dream-feeling, the strange sense of familiarity—­he knew!  Beyond all cavil, he knew every line of that looming shadow, every curve of the hills.  He knew the exact position of the old bridge over the Gamberi river.  From the spot where he stood, he could find his way unerringly to the Padal Pol—­the fortified entrance to the road of Seven Gates;—­the road that had witnessed, three times in three hundred years, that heroic alternative to surrender, the terrible rite of Johur:—­the final down-rush of every male defender, wearing the saffron robe and coronet of him who embraces death as a bride; the awful slaughter at the lowest gate, where they fell, every man of them, before the victors entered in....

The horror and savage exaltation of it all stirred, so sensibly, in his veins that he caught himself dimly wondering—­was it he, Roy Sinclair, who stood there remembering these things—­or another...?

And before that crazy question could resolve itself—­behold he was lying wide awake again in his ruckled bed, on the lumpy pillow, staring at the wide patch of moonlight framed by his open door.

Not morning yet, confound it all!  But the tiredness and loneliness were clean gone.  It was always so when she came to him thus.  Tacitly, he knew it, and she knew it, for a visitation.  There was no delusion of having got her back again; only the comforting assurance that she was near him still.  There was also, on this occasion, a consuming curiosity and impatience not to be denied.

Switching on his electric torch, he consulted his watch.  Nearly half-past four—­why not ...?  It was no distance to the lower gate, and only a mile of zigzag road up to the city.

Thought and action were almost simultaneous.  He was out of bed, standing in the doorway.  The moon’s unclouded brilliance seemed to flood his brain; to clear it of cobwebs and dispel all desire of sleep.  For he loved the veiled spirit of night as most men love the unveiled face of morning; and in no way, perhaps, was he more clearly of the East.  In a land where the sun slays his thousands, the moon comes triumphantly to her own:  and Roy decided, there and then, that in the glamour of her light he would take his first look at Chitor.  Whether or no it really was his first look, he might possibly find out when he got there.

His train-basket provided him with a hurried cup of tea, biscuits and a providential hard-boiled egg.  He had no qualms about rousing Bishun Singh to saddle Suraj, or disturbing the soldiery quartered at the gates.  His grandfather had written of him to the Maharana of Udaipur—­a cousin in the third degree:  and he had leave to go in and out, during his stay, at what hour he pleased.  He would remain on the rock till dawn; and from the ninth storey of Khumba Rana’s Tower he would see the sun rise over Chitor....

Half an hour later, he was in the saddle trotting along the empty road; Terry, a scurrying shadow in his wake; Bishun Singh left to finish his night’s rest.  Eight before him loomed the magnet that had dragged him out of bed at this unearthly hour—­the great rock-fortress, three miles long, less than a mile broad, aptly likened to a battleship ploughing through the disturbed sea of bush-grown hills at its base.