And so he lay at ease in his chair, feasting his eyes upon his young wife’s grave face, savouring life with the zest of the epicurean, placidly at peace with all the world on that night of dreams.

It was growing late, and the moon had topped the distant peaks sending a flood of light across the sleeping valley before he finally threw away the stump of his cigar and stretched forth a lazy arm to draw her to him.

“Why so silent, Star of my heart?  Where are those wandering thoughts of yours?”

She submitted as usual to his touch, passively, without enthusiasm.  “My thoughts are not worth expressing, Ralph,” she said.

“Let us hear them all the same!” he said, laying his head against her shoulder.

She sat very still in his hold.  “I was only watching the moonlight,” she said.  “Somehow it made me think—­of a flaming sword.”

“Turning all ways?” he suggested, indolently humorous.  “Not driving us forth out of the garden of Eden, I hope?  That would be a little hard on two such inoffensive mortals as we are, eh, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” she said seriously.  “I doubt if the plea of inoffensiveness would open the gates of Heaven to any one.”

He laughed.  “I can’t talk ethics at this time of night, Star of my heart.  It’s time we went to our lair.  I believe you would sit here till sunrise if I would let you, you most ethereal of women.  Do you ever think of your body at all, I wonder?”

He kissed her neck with the careless words, and a quick shiver went through her.  She made a slight, scarcely perceptible movement to free herself.

But the next moment sharply, almost convulsively, she grasped his arm.  “Ralph!  What is that?”

She was gazing towards the shadow cast by a patch of flowering azalea in the moonlight about ten yards from where they sat.  Dacre raised himself with leisurely self-assurance and peered in the same direction.  It was not his nature to be easily disturbed.

But Stella’s hand still clung to his arm, and there was agitation in her hold.  “What is it?” she whispered.  “What can it be?  I have seen it move—­twice.  Ah, look!  Is it—­is it—­a panther?”

“Good gracious, child, no!” Carelessly he made response, and with the words disengaged himself from her hand and stood up.  “It’s more probably some filthy old beggar who fondly thinks he is going to get backsheesh for disturbing us.  You stay here while I go and investigate!”

But some nervous impulse goaded Stella.  She also started up, holding him back.  “Oh, don’t go, Ralph!  Don’t go!  Call one of the men!  Call Peter!”

He laughed at her agitation.  “My dear girl, don’t be absurd!  I don’t want Peter to help me kick a beastly native.  In fact he probably wouldn’t lower himself to do such a thing.”

But still she clung to him.  “Ralph, don’t go!  Please don’t go!  I have a feeling—­I am afraid—­I—­” She broke off panting, her fingers tightly clutching his sleeve.  “Don’t go!” she reiterated.