“Oh,” he answered, “in Istamboul, years ago.  Everybody plays in Istamboul—­and most people sing love-songs.  Besides it is so easy,” and he ran scales up and down the strings with marvellous rapidity to illustrate what he said.

“And do you never sing English songs, Mr. Isaacs?” asked the collector of Pegnugger, who was enchanted, not having heard a note of music for months.

“Oh, sometimes,” he answered.  “I think I could sing ’Drink to me only with thine eyes’—­do you know it?” He began to play the melody on the guitar while he spoke.

“Rather—­I should think so!” Kildare was heard to say.  He was beginning to think the concert had lasted long enough.

“Oh, do sing it, Mr. Isaacs,” said the young girl, “and my brother and I will join in.  It will be so pretty!”

It certainly sounded very sweetly as he gave the melody in his clear, high tones, and Miss Westonhaugh and John sang with him.  Having heard it several thousand times myself, I was beginning to recognise the tune well enough to enjoy it a good deal.

“That is very nice,” said Kildare, who was sorry he had made an impatient remark before, and wanted to atone.

“Eh? what? how’s that?” said Mr. Ghyrkins just waking up.  “Oh! of course.  My niece sings charmingly.  Quite an artist, you know.”  And he struggled out of his chair and said it was high time we all went to bed if we meant to shoot straight in the morning.  The magistrate of Pegnugger concurred in the opinion, and we reluctantly separated for the night to our respective quarters, Isaacs and I occupying a tent together, which he had caused to be sent on from Delhi, as being especially adapted to his comfort.

On the following day at dawn we were roused by the sound of preparations, and before we were dressed the voices of Mr. Currie Ghyrkins and the collector were heard in the camp, stirring up the sleepy servants and ordering us to be waked.  The two old sportsmen felt it their duty to be first on such an occasion as this, and in the calm security that they would do everything that was right, Isaacs and I discussed our tea and fruit—­the chota haziri or “little breakfast” usually taken in India on waking—­sitting in the door of our tent, while Kiramat Ali and Narain and Mahmoud and the rest of the servants were giving a final rub to the weapons of the chase, and making all the little preparations for a long day.  And we sat looking out and sipping our tea.

In the cool of the dawn Miss Westonhaugh came tripping across the wet grass to where her uncle was giving his final directions about the furnishing of his howdah for the day; a lovely apparition of freshness in the gray morning, all dressed in dark blue, a light pith helmet-shaped hat pressing the rebellious white-gold hair almost out of sight.  She walked so easily it seemed as if her dainty little feet had wings, as Hermes’ of old, to ease the ground of their feather weight.  A broad belt hung across her