and smouldered and died away in the grass by the door.  John Westonhaugh, who liked Isaacs sincerely, and had probably contemplated the possibility of the latter marrying Katharine, looked sorry at first, and then a half angry expression crossed his face, which softened instantly again.  Currie Ghyrkins swore loudly that it was out of the question—­that it would break up the party—­that he would not hear of it, and so on.

“I must go,” said Isaacs quietly.  “It is a very serious matter.  I am sorry—­more sorry than I can tell you; but I must.”

“But you cannot, you know.  Damn it, sir, you are the life of the party, you know!  Come, come, this will never do!”

“My dear sir,” said Isaacs, addressing Ghyrkins, “if, when you were about to fire this morning to save that poor devil’s life, I had begged you not to shoot, would you have complied?”

“Why, of course not,” ejaculated Ghyrkins angrily.

“Well, neither can I comply, though I would give anything to stay with you all.”

“But nobody’s life depends on your going away to-morrow morning.  What do you mean?  The deuce and all, you know, I don’t understand you a bit.”

“I cannot tell you, Mr. Ghyrkins; but something dependg on my going, which is of as great importance to the person concerned as life itself.  Believe me,” he said, going near to the old gentleman and laying a hand on his arm, “I do not go willingly.”

“Well, I hope not, I am sure,” said Ghyrkins gruffly, though yielding.  “If you will, you will, and there’s no holding you; but we are all very sorry.  That’s all.  Mahmoud! bring fire, you lazy pigling, that I may smoke.”  And he threw himself into a chair, the very creaking of the cane wicker expressing annoyance and dissatisfaction.

So there was an end of it, and Isaacs strode off through the moonlight to his quarters, to make some arrangement, I supposed.  But he did not come back.  Miss Westonhaugh retired also to her tent, and no one was surprised to see her go.  Kildare rose presently and asked if I would not stroll to the well, or anywhere, it was such a jolly night.  I went with him, and arm in arm we walked slowly down.  The young moon was bright among the mango-trees, striking the shining leaves, that reflected a strange greenish light.  We moved leisurely, and spoke little.  I understood Kildare’s silence well enough, and I had nothing to say.  The ground was smooth and even, for the men had cut the grass close, and the little humped cow that belonged to the old Brahmin cropped all she could get at.

We skirted round the edge of the grove, intending to go back to the tents another way.  Suddenly I saw something in front that arrested my attention.  Two figures, some thirty yards away.  They stood quite still, turned from us.  A man and a woman between the trees, an opening in the leaves jost letting a ray of moonlight slip through on them.  His arm around her, the tall lissome figure of her bent, and