“Well?” said he cheerfully, for the morning sun had dispelled the doubts of the night.

“My dear friend,” I said, “Miss Westonhaugh wants to see you immediately.”

“How?  What?  Of course; I will go at once, but how did you know?”

“Wait a minute, Isaacs; she is not well at all—­in fact, she is quite ill.”

“What’s the matter—­for God’s sake—­Why, Griggs, man, how white you are—­O my God, my God—­she is dead!” I seized him quickly in my arms or he would have thrown himself on the ground.

“No,” I said, “she is not dead.  But, my dear boy, she is dying.  I do not believe she will live till this evening.  Therefore get to horse and ride there quickly, before it is too late.”

Isaacs was a brave man, and of surpassing strength to endure.  After the first passionate outburst, his manner never changed as he mechanically ordered his horse and pulled on his boots.  He was pale naturally, and great purple rings seemed to come out beneath his eyes—­as if he had received a blow—­from the intensity of his suppressed emotion.  Once only he spoke before he mounted.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Jungle fever,” I answered.  He groaned.  “Shall I go with you?” asked I, thinking it might be as well.  He shook his head, and was off in a moment.

I turned to my rooms and threw myself on my bed.  Poor fellow; was there ever a more piteous case?  Oh the cruel misery of feeling that nothing could save her!  And he—­he who would give life and wealth and fortune and power to give her back a shade of colour—­as much as would tinge a rose-leaf, even a very little rose-leaf—­and could not.  Poor fellow!  What would he do to-night—­to-morrow.  I could see him kneeling by her side and weeping hot tears over the wasted hands.  I could almost hear his smothered sob—­his last words of speeding to the parting soul—­the picture grew intensely in my thoughts.  How beautiful she would look when she was dead!

I started as the thought came into my mind.  How superficial was my acquaintance with her, poor girl,—­how little was she a part of my life, since I could really so heartlessly think of her beauty when her breath should be gone!  Of course, though, it was natural enough, why should I feel any personal pang for her?  It was odd that I should even expect to—­I, who never felt a “personal pang” of regret for the death of any human creature, excepting poor dear old Lucia, who brought me up, and sent me to school, and gave me roast chestnuts when I knew my lessons, in the streets of Rome, thirty years ago.  When she died, I was there; poor old soul, how fond she was of me!  And I of her!  I remember the tears I shed, though I was a bearded man even then.  How long is that?  Since she died, it must be ten years.

My thoughts wandered about among all sorts of bric-a-brac memories.  Presently something brought me back to the present.  Why must this fair girl from the north die miserably here in India?  Ah yes! the eternal why.  Why did we go at such a season into the forests of the Terai? it was madness; we knew it was, and Ram Lal knew it too.  Hence his warning.  O Ram Lal, you are a wise old man, with your gray beard and you mists of wet white velvet and your dark sayings!  Ram Lal, will you riddle me, also, my weird that I must dree?