Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 26, 1899, Page 2

CHAPTER V. (Continued.) “T shall be the happiest of men in giving her my name. “You will love her? “I love her already, father; or, rath- er, the word love fails in its power. I worship—I adore her Sir John seixed his son’s hands and ed them, while his face be- came radiant. Ah, God is good!” he murmured. ) see Agnes your wife and Hra the wife of your brother, has been my most ardent desire. If Providence per- mits me now to complete my task, which will render invincible and invul- nearable my country’s power in India, duty to the world will be per- nnd I can die in peace.” evening. Nine o’clock had struck, when, rising from the dinner table, where they had loitered in happy ment of each other, over their re- a ir John and the young people descended the flight of steps which led Into the garden of the bungalow. A light breeze, bearing on its wings the perfume of flowers, lent a delicious coolness to succeed the intense heat of the day. The goddess of night seeme sown all the jewels in her ca the velvet of her mantle. George and 4 s, Edv walked slowly a in silence. Now and then a word escaped one or the other, and obtained an uncertain answer; but their hearts beat in uni- son, and, in the midst of the silence, spoke and understood. John Malcolm, thoughtful and re- ricing, followed his children, as, in his , he called them all. In this mo- ment the future appeared spread be- fore him in glowing colors. He forgot in this hour the mysterious investiga- tions on whose success, he believed, hung the safety of the East Indian company. He remembered no longer the terrible dangers suspended over his head, like the sword of Damocles, and which, at any moment, might fall and crush him. In the distance, the clock on the pal- ace of Lord Singleton,, governor of the *y of Benares, struck ten. had the last reverberation , when the hoot of an owl, peated, sounded on the night. d to have ket upon d and Hera died awa thri shivered as a ma from sleep. This signal, by which the unknown summoned him, recalled to Lim all that the enchanting vision of s betrothed had, since morning, com- stely shed. to hear the signal, was to heart beat wildly and the » in his veins; to-night, all ed. It brought him a sensa- tion of pain—an icy shiver passed over him. “I will not go!” he murmured to him- self. I will go again—never!” Agnes .felt the arm on which she ned tremble. She lifted hér lovely s, in surprise, to his face. “What is the matter, Sir George?” asked, in vague uneasiness. thing,” he answered—“absolutely nothing.” “But you shuddered.” “It was nervousness, perhaps. mot conscious of it.” “It was not caused, then, by the dis- mal ery of the owl, which sounded so ar us three times?” h, you heard it?” “Yes; and I, like you, felt a most painful impression—for, although a mun, you cannot deny that, for the mo- ment, you experienced the weakness of @ woman?” she said, smiling. “I will not deny it. You have guessed sh I was was this night-bird—an owl? They say that the owl divines by {n- stinct the approach of death, and that, in uttering its funeral cry above a house, it announces that one of its in- s is soon to leave the world.” “So they portend,” answered George. “But it would be absurd, indeed, to at- tach the least credence to this popular superstition, for which there is no pos- sible foundation.” “You are strong-minded, Sir George.” “No. All that common sense permits ‘me to believe, I readily accept; but I rebel against absurdities.” “Why, then, just now, did you shiv- er?’ “Because, I presume, the cry, sud- denly breaking the calm stillness of the night, produced upon my nerves the effect of a false note in the midst of an harmonious concert.” “And you felt no fright?” 0.” “No the least presentiment?” “Not the leas “You are braver and happier, then, than I, for to me, I acknowledge, this sinister cry, in this calm, peaceful night, seems a warni’ and predicts, to ne one of us a near and ineyjtable inisfortune.” ‘These words answered in so singular ed, impassive and immovable, believing some natural delay prevented the usu- al immediate response. However, at the end of eight or ten minutes, he be- gan to think it strange that the young Englishman did not come. “Doubtless he has not heard the ery,” he reasoned. ‘ And, putting one of his hands to his mouth, he sounded for the second time, with rare perfection, the peculiar hoot of the owl. At this second call, George experi- enced deep and painful emotion; but, on the young girl beside him, the im- ! pression was yet more acute. i Conquered by a suddei and inexpli- cable uneasiness, she began to tremble in every limb. Her breast heaved, her heart beat hurriedly, and she stam- mered, in almost indistinct tones: “In heaven's name, Sir George, let us return to the house! These.cries make me wretched. You may jest at my weakness, but you cannot efface from my mind the conviction that they por- tend tg us misfortune.” ' As she uttered these last words, she felt her strength desert her, The earth appeared to slip from under her feet— all grew dark before her, and she would have fallen if George had not caught her and held her in his arms. “My God!” cried Sir John, a prey to the most violent anxiety; “what is the matter with the dear. child?” “She has fainted, father,” answered George, in agony. “What must be done?” “Let us hasten to the house,” replied the judge. “Doubtless, it is a passing trouble, and our care socn will restore her.” George, bearing his sweet and pre- cious burden, overcome with inconceiv- able rapidity the distance which lay between them and the bungalow. The ether had difficulty in keeping pace with him. : When he entered the salon Agnes had entirely lost consciousness. Her long lashes were lowered over the large eyes, around which was outlined a blue dow of infinite delicacy; her head swayed from shoulder to shoulder; her pale face was half-concealed by tae masses of her unbound hair. orge laid her, with tender care, on a divan, and soon their united efforts produced an immediate and happy re- sult. She uttered a long sigh and opened her eyes, and, as her swoon had been too short to bring but momentary con- fusion to her mind, she extended her hands to those who gatnered about her, saying, with a charming blush and smile: “T am, indeed, ridiculous! Oh, do not deny it—I know it full well, but I do not recognize myself to-night. Twenty times—a hundred times—I have heard the hoot of the owl, without feeling the slightest uneasiness. Why, then to- day, has it worked me such. harm? I do not know, and cannot guess. Per- haps it is fatigue after our journey, and the joy at finding myself once more in my dear guardian’s house, which made me nervous and impress- ionable.” “Yes, dear child,” answered Sir John, quic doubtless it is as you state. A few houts of quiet sleep will res you. Come! Hera and I will take you to your room. Give me one of your arms, and Hera will support the oth- er.” But Agnes was already staniling, while a little low, musical laugh burst from her lips as she nnswered: “Ah, Iam stronger than you imagine, T do not need assistance—I can walk quite alone,” and, emphasizing her words by action, she crossed the salon with a rapid, though somewhat totter- ing step, reached the threshold, but stopped as she was about to cross it, and returned, lifting her face to Sir John for a kiss. “Pardon, dear friends,” she said, “to the foolish Agnes of this evening. ‘To-morrow you will find the Agnes of every day.” Then, pressing the hands which Sir George and Edward extended to her, she slowly ascended the staircase to her room. Sir John and his two sons remained together some minutes, discussing the strange event of the evening. George, anxious to be alone, to aban- don himself to reflection without con- straint, was the first to bid the others good-night. Shutting himself in his own apart- |. ment, he opened the window, and, lean- ing his head upon the supporting pillar of the balcony, that the night air might blow upon his burning temples, he gave himself up to thought; but re- fiection only confirmed his resolution to break forever with the beautiful un- known. CHAPTER VI After having for the second time giv- en to the echoes the ery of the owl, Saugor waited patiently and with con- fidence. This confidence was succeed- ed by an indescribable astonishment, when he perceived that his second call remained, like the first, without result. The idea oceurred to him that, per- haps, the guests of the bungalow were absent. To convince himself of this, he left the horses under the care of the negro who accompanied him, and, plunging into the arched pathway, he was not long in reaching and skirting the thick hedge which formed the boundary to the garden. An opening in this hedge permitted him full view of the house. He could distinguish that nearly all the windows were lighted, and that several shadows passed and repassed behind the Chi- nese blinds in one of the apartments on the ground floor. Among these he theught he recognized George Mal- colm. Then the young man, in reality, was at the bungalow—then it was impossi- ble that the second signal should not a manner to Malcolm's secret thought | have reached his ear, and, if he did not that oncé again he shuddered, more vi- olently than before. sight all was silent. Sauger had scarce ut- i. signal before he heard ap- ching him George’s rapid step. To-i of whom he knew nothing excepting respond to it, some unknown reason had prevented him. Saugor was accustomed to obey, lit- erally, every command of this woman, | her marvelous beauty and still more The Hindoo, patient by nature, wait-| marvelous caprice; but he never ex- , % ceeded them. His passive obedience |. precluded any idea of initiative. Therefore, he now retraced his steps, rejoined the horses, sprang on one and signalled the negro to mount the other, an soon, at full gallop, had reached the mysterious palace, whose threshold George Malcolm had ever, crossed with bandaged vision. He traversed, with rapid step, the suite of sumptuously furnished apart- ments, until he arrived at the boudoir where the unknown awaited him. Hearing the sound of his approach in the adjoining salon, she hastily placed her mask over her face, while a slight biush colored her pale cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. Saugor raised the portiere which sep- arated the salon from the boudoir, then, with hands crossed over his breast, his body half-inclined, his head respectfully bowed, he stood, silent. ‘The unknown threw on him a hasty glance and shuddered. “Alone?” she cried. “Alone!” murmured Saugor. “Has any misfortune happened to George Malcolm?’ she questioned, in tremulous tones. The Hindso shook his head in dis- sent. “Is he absent?” “No, mistres.” “Has he not heard the signal?” “It is impossible not, for I repeated it. and I could plainly hear the sound of voices in the bungalow.” By a violent and abrupt movement, the unknown tore off her mask. The customary paleness of her complexion had become livid. Her lips quivered. “And,” she continued, “he has not re- sponded?” “No, mistress.” “But—then,” she added, with an ac- eent of indescribable bitterness, “he has not wished to follow you. He is weary of the rendezvous. He will come no more.” Saugor had no opinion to offer. He lowered his eyes and maintained si- lence. A large Venetian mirror, in a frame of filagree silver, was placed in one of the panels directly opposite the young woman. Accidentally, her glance rest- | ed upon the glass, which reflected, so faithfully her regal beauty and ex- quisite form. A proud light swept over her fa She slightly raised her arched brows, and her con sted lips parted in a smile. “How, then?’ she murmured. “Can it be possible? Have I not, like Circe, invincible attractions? Am 1 of those whom love forsakes? Some powerful reason has prevented his accompany- ing Saugor this evening. This reason 1 wish to know. I wish him to return. He will return, and to hold, him, if necessary, I will do that to enchain him to me that [ have never done be- fore. I will drop my mask and reveal myself to him. Yes; I will do even this, for I love him.” These words she uttered in so low a tone that they reached Saugor only in an indistinct murmur. She now :ip- proached the Hindoo, and to him, aloud, said: “Saugor?” “Mistr “You must return.” “To the bungalow?” “Yes.” “What shall I do?” “You will find some means to enter the house.” “Yes, mistress.” “You will reach George Malcolm. You will tell him that I await him; that I wish to see him; that he must follow you—that he must! Do you per- fectly understand?” “I will tell him all, mistress, but—” Saugor hesitated. “Well?” queried the unknown, impa tiently. “Fin then, Saugor—finish! “If he refuse A haughty smile came to the lips of the beautiful woman as she ‘threw a hasty glance again toward the mirror. “Rest easy, Saugor,” she replied— “rest easy! He will not refuse!” The Hindoo bowed. The unknown continued: “Go, then, my faithful servitor. Go quickly. The minutes until then will appear to me hours.” Hardly had she finished speaking be- fore Saugor, with the silent rapidity peculiar to the race, had disappeared. A half-league at most, separated the palace from the bungalow, though Sau- gor, although to more completely de- ceive the young Englishman regarding the road, and to persuade him that the distance was much greater, had been accustomed to make numerous detours; but to-night, having no such motive, to lengthen the course, he fairly annihi- lated spece. Alighting at the accustomed place, he disembarrassed hithself of the long, white garment, whose ample folds would have hampered his movements and made any climbing almost impos- sible. He then sought, in the shaded walk, a spot where the hedge, less bushy, presented least resistance, Having found it, he glided through the entangling braches like a snake, until noiselessly and almost without hindrance, he penetrated the luxuriant wall into the garden of the bungalow. | Opposite him, on the other side of the | lawn, planted in great trees, uprose the house, several windows of which were still ighted. he caution of the Hindoo is almost as proverbial as the cunning of the ser- pent. Saugor, subtle as all of his race, took care, first, to leave behind him no trace of his route. Consequently, in- stead of following the walks leading to the bungalow, on whose sands the im- pressions of his feet would have been distinguished, he stepped, instead, on the grass, leaping across the paths which intercepted the lawn, no matter how great their width, until, all unsus- pected, he reached the house. Several windows, as we have said, were lighted. On the ground floor, those of Sir John’s study; on the first floor, those of the room belonging to the young girls, and in George's sleep- ing chamber. not finding him whom he sought, but of discovery any of the servants, who, giving alarm, would compel him to take t, and, consequently, render useless and without result his purpose. To study those within, he approached one of the lighted windows on the ground floor, and, peering through the glass, he could distinguish an old man seated at a desk spread with volumin- ous papers. It was Sir John Malcolm. “The father!” Saugor murmured, con- -tinuing to skirt the bungalow to fur- ther investigate his search. Thus he stood below George’s open window. The blind was lifted. The sound of a restless step could be dis- tinctly heard. Evidently, the inmate of this room paced to and fro with fe- yerish movement, which betokened great agitation of mind. “It must be he!” thought the Hindoo. Each of the lower windows opened on a balcony. The creeping vines— whose flower offers in this country so infinite a variety—trailed the length of a wire support for this purpose, coyer- ing the whole with a mass of bloom. Saugor, notwithstanding his immense stature, joined the suppleness of the panther to the agility of the monkey. He made a place for his foot on the wire, which seemed too frail to bear the weight of his body, and, with a sin- gle bound, he reached the balcony, to which he clung with his hands. As soon as his head was level with the window, he could see that his guess had not been wrong, and that but one more movement was necessary to find himself in George Malcolm’s pres- ence. Waiting until the latter had turned his back toward him, [n his feverish and neryous promenade, Saugor be- strode the balcony, and George, retrac- ing his steps, beheld the Hindoo stand- ing, motionless, before the window. der the folds of his long, white mantle, which concealed him from head to foot. Thus he could not recognize him, and, at this hour, his herculean stature and fierce, expressive eyes were not reas- suring. Astonished and somewhat alarmed at such an unexpected apparition, he halted in his walk and extended a band towards a panolpy to seize some weapon, half-opening his lips to utter a cry for help. Saugor prevented him by a gesture, and quickly whispered: -“Do not call; do not dream of de- fense. I am not an enemy!” “Who, then, are you?” “Iam he wh face is unknown to you, but whose voice you should recog- nize. I am he who to-night awaited you in vain in the shaded walk.” “My guide?” cried George. “Yes,” “And whom do you seek to-night in this house?” “Yourself.” “For what purpose?” “To lead you to one who expects you.” “Who sent you?’ “She.” About George’s mouth crept a smile of satisfied vanity. “She of whom you speak,” he said— “does she know that twice this even- ing you have uttered the signal, and twice I have given uo response?” “She knows it.” “And, notwithstanding this, she has | given you the order to return?” Yes. ‘Go! she commanded me. ‘T mu ee and speak to him. He must Iearn that I await him, and he will come.’ ” : For several seconds George was si- lent. “Come, sir,” Saugor continued. “We will find the horses in the accustomed place, and we will fly through space!” “Depart without me,” answered George. “I will not follow you!” Saugor made an abrupt movement, and his countenance expressed the mest profound stupor. Evidently he eould not believe hi rs, and the thought of serious r tance to any wish of the unknown appeared to him quite incredible. “I have come,” he murmured, “to take back the sahib with me.” “I have perfectly understood that such was your intention,” replied the Englishman. “But all anticipations are not realized. You have come alone. You will depart alone.” opie shook his head in open disbe- lief. “It is impossible,” he said. “And why?” “The mistress has commanded. She must be obeyed.” “You, whe owe her obedience, do well to act and speak thus,” replied George. “You are a faithful servant, and you deserve a good master. If, by any chance, you lose the place you now occupy, come to me, and I will willingly take you into my service.” Opening a drawer, from which he took ten guineas, he said: “Several times you have acted to- ward me as 2 guide, and to-night you have exposed yourself to serious peril in order to reach me. This merits some recompense. Take this.” * And he placed the gold pieces in the hand of the Hindoo. The latter regarded for a moment, with a kind of astonishment, the shin- ing metal—then an expression of inef- fable disdain spread over his face. He shook his hand, as if to shake off a con- tact repnisive to it, and the guineas rolled upon the Indian matting to the floor. ; “What are you doing?’ cried George. “Sahib,” Saugor answered, with strange dignity, “she to whom I belong is richer than the diamond mines of god Vishnu himself. Gold flows be- tween her fingers as water bubbles from its source. Gold is so common in her palaces that the poorest of her ser- vants learn to despise it!” “Strange race!’ murmured the listen- er to himself. “Even in slavery such pride!” Aloud, he added: “The custom in our country is to re- ward such services. I did not intend to offend you in treating you as a fel- low countryman.” “The sahib has not offended his ser- |. vant,” Saugor answered, respectfully bowing as he spoke. “The sahib has been mistaken, that is all.” Edward, less preoccupied than his brother, had already extinguished his light ee LA Ege He approached the window, looked ‘ out, and, seeing that the moon was ris- [ ing’above the trees, he continued: _. He had never seen Saugor except un- Golconda, and more generous than the |* Son Sey the “come?” “E have already answered you,” said the Englishman, with a firmness which left Saugor no hope. “My resolution is irrevocably taken. I will not follow you.” “Why?” “I render account but to myself,” George replied, with marked hauteur. But, with no less hauteur, Saugor spoke again: “The sahib is wrong. To her who waits, who never before waited, he must render account of a refusal which is insult.” “Well, be it so, then!” exclaimed George.’ “I will write the unknown who sends you. You will carry to her my letter, and at least she will not ac- cuse me of having illy understood or executed her commands.” Seated before a table, the English- man hastily wrote, on a sheet of paper bearing his crest, the following lines: “To her whose face I do not know— to her who to me is nameless: Thanks to you, madame, I have had a dream, a charming and intoxicating dream— which might, which should, perhaps, have led to love! Happily for my heart, between me and loye there was a mask! I have entreated you, but ever vainly. The jealous mask has not fallen; it has closed a passage to love. To-day the awakening has come. The dream is ended, but its memory never can be effaced. There exists an image —yours—adorable, although incomplete —which will ever rest, clear and lu- minous, in the grateful heart of GEORGE MALCOLM.” This he put in an envelope and sealed with his ring, upon which was en- graven the Malcolm escutcheon. “Here,” he said, extending it to Sau- gor. “There is nothing left for you to do but to bear to your mistress this message.” 3 The Hindeo made his salutation— then, with a single leap, and not touch- ing the support of the balcony, reachea the ground. George hastened to the window, to follow him with his eyes, but he could see nothing. His dark form was al- rendy lost amid the shade of the trees. The young Englishman stood pensive. “Have I done my duty, or more than my duty,” he said to himself. “Have I not committed the crime of rudeness toward a woman whose debtor, after all, I am, since she has done me the honor to accord me her favor and giv- en me its every proof? Might I not have made of my auste y less parade —have gone for the last time to the rendezvous, and, “instead of writing, have spoken? This Hindoo was not wrong when he said my refusal was outrage, and if I had consented to fol- low him to-night, I might have taken all sting from the rupture.” Thus he reasoned for and against himself, until at Iast, throwing b his shoulders and protidly lifting his head, as if ridding himself of a heavy burden, he said, almost aloud: “Yes—a hundred times, yes! I have done my duty, and only my duty! A love such as one look from Agnes Bur- tell has kindled in my soul, should be preserved from all impure eontact. Even involuntary infidelity would soil this pure child. Honor demanded that I refuse. I should again refuse.” Absorbed by these contradictory thoughts, which so Iong had agitated him, he lost all consciousness of time, but, in reality, since Saugor’s depart- ure almost an lrour had elapsed. Suddenly the Englishman started. A small, white object, which appeared heavy, fefl at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, and saw that it was a sheet of paper wrapped about a stone. He unrolled it, and found written upon it, in English, and in very elegant chirography, these lines: “Come! The mask will fall, and the dream shall never end, for it shall be- gin anew in love!” And, lower, these words: “The messenger waits.” Again George approached the window, and now, standing beneath the balco- , Silent and motionless, he descried a an figure. It was Saugor, the mys- terious guide. A ‘To do Malcolm justice, this time there: was no struggle. Curiosity, feeling: it-), self conquered in advance, made no ef- fort to enter in the conflict with duty. “He took a sheet of paper, en which he traced four words: “It is too late.” This, in his turn, he rolled about the stone, and, having thrown it into the garden, closed the window, to deprive the Hindoo of any further possibility of a new temptation. “Gol? he murmured, with nvanifest relief. “It is this time ended—well end- ed!” He threw himself, evercome with ex- hxustion, upon his couch, to sleep and dream of her whom he at last ae knowledged his heart’s sovereign. Ten minutes later Saugor placed the little nete im the hands ef the un- known. As she read the four words which left her no hope, her pale face became still paler. A smile of incomprehensi- ble bitterness parted her lips and re- vealed the dazaling whiteness of her teeth. “Ah?” she cried, “it is too late! So be it, then. You repulse my love. I prom- ise you my hate. The Princess Djella knows neither forgetfulness nor for- giveness! Beware, George Malcolm!” ‘The princess (for by her own confess- ion we learn her name and title) had uttered these last words aloud. The Hindoo, in his relations of confi- dence, now asked: “What is it, mistress, that you pro- rese to do?” “Revenge myself,“ was her reply. “How?” “I do not know, but I swear to you that my revenge will be terrible and worthy the offense.” “Mistress, will you confide to me this | vengeance?” “To you?” f “You well know that Saugor, to serve you, hesitates at nothing.” “I know it; but what can you de?’ “I can strike. At a signal from you, I can flow through George Malcolm's veins the subtle poison which leads to slow death in a path of agonized tg:- ture. Must he die to-night? I am ready. My lasso shall strangle him, or I will skedithe my dagger in his breast.” The princess, calmly regarding Sau-| gor, shrugged her shoulders. i { “I forbid you to touch a single hair; | his betrothed; upon’ murmure : you and to all others, his body is sa- ered. Remember this.” < The Hindoo’s countenance expressed simple stupefaction. “What!” he murmured; “you wish, — then, that he may live?” 7% “Yes, I wish him to live that he may suffer! I wish him to live that he may see his love abased, his hopes per- ish! I wish to crush under my feet the heart which in its pride refuses itself to me! I wish that he may at least pray for death itself to relieve him from his torture, and. I wish to strike the blow nryself! Do you now under- stand my revenge, Saugor? And do you believe that it is better planned than yours?” The Hindoo prostrated himself at Djella’s feet. His countenance was ir- r) ‘ radiated by the fire of implacable hate. ‘ “Mistress,” he stammered, “you are ry great! I adore you as the best-loved daughter of Siva, God of Evil, and of Bowhanie, Goddess of Hate!” “The Tamerlides are sons of the ry gods,” replied the princess, with haugh- ty pride, “and I am the daughter of the Tamerides!” CHAPTER VII. Three weeks of the month Sir John had assigned to his son as the period which much elapse before all his plans might be revealed to him had passed. During that time he had redoubled his activity in the pursuit of his in- vestigations, sometimes leaving the bungalow at daybreak, alone and unat- tended, and remaining absent until nightfall, and often through the night, not seeking his bed at all. * George and Agnes were now be- trothed. They felt that they belonged each to the other; they believed that nothing could separate them. Never could there have been a love more ab- sorbing, more beautiful, than that which existed between them. Yet, in this world, their sky was too bright, It presaged storm. One evening, among the letters lying before Sir John Malcol’s plate, two were conspicuous by reason of the thickness of the in paper and the bon size of the seals which closed them. One of the latter bore an exact repro- duction of the English crest. The oth- er offered, in semi-relief, the fantastic image of a Hindoo divinity, with many heads and a hundred arms. From the first of these Sir John tore the w ping, and, glancing his eyes over the page, exclaimed, addressing himself to the young girls: “Here is something, dear children, which interests y a “What can it be?’ both asked at ; once. id “An invitation to a grand fete.” , The young girls clapped their hands. Sir John then read aloud: k “Lord Singleton, Governor of the , Presidency of Benares, prays Sir John 4 Malcolm, Sir George Malcolm, Sir Ha- i] ward Malcolm and the Misses Burtell, ye to honor him with their presence at the > palace of the President on Saturday, September 8.” “A fete by Lord Singleton! A fete f at the palace of the President, whose j i spscious rooms and immense gardens ‘° + are # mass of marvels. Will it not be ‘ eharming?’ cried Agnes. “More than that,” answered Sir John. “It will be superb, and I assure you that Lord Singletor rivals successfully FEasterm magnificence, and bears so Tigh the standard of English courtesy and British elegance and luxury that it cannot fail to rouse the pride of the most exacting of his eountrymen.” “And,” asked Agnes, “this fete will take place next Saturday?” “Ses,” “And to-day is Monday. “We have barely time to arrange our toiletets.” “Coquettes!” exclaimed George, with ‘ a smile. “Coquettes if it please you,” replied “but it is certainly our duty to sustain the honor of our flag. We wish you to be very proud of us. We wish to eclipse all the begums, daz- vie the rajahs. We wish to be very beautifull” “Really ?” said George, smiling again. “Really? Yow think, then, the task will be so very difficult?” “So much so that I am ge’ g to give you a piece of advice, be more beautiful than the le est, there is but one thing for you to do.” “And that?” “Remain exactly as you are,” “Platterer!” exclaimed Agnes, mak~ ing «# little threatening gesture with her finger. “Ah, daughter of Eve,” he exclaimed, “you well know that flattery for an- other is for you and Hera but the truth. I did not know that Lord Sim gleton knew of my arrival,” he added, turning to his fixther. - “I myself apprised him of it,” re sponded Sir Johm. “I have been most remiss in mot before this presenting you to him, as I told him I would have the honor of doing. However, from te- day my time will be more at liberty. To-day I have secured certain proof, , which, heretofore, has always eseaped me, and whieh even now is im my study. Soon, George, you shall know the result.” “It is Indeed, happy mews i? you can be more with us,” answered George, “We live here as guests whose hest is i always absent. But tell me of Lord i Singleton—is he a yo ng man?” 4 “In appearance he looks forty. In reality he is almost fifty. His wife 4 died soon after his appointment here— - some fifteen years ago. He is still a f widower. He lives like a prince, and expends most generously his splendid fortune. Every year he gives this fete, celebrated throughout the whole of In. dia, and which, for you, will possess wonderful interest. At it are gathered all the direct descendants of the old patrician races. The descendants of the Tamerlides, who pretend to be the posterity of the gods, are represented, and the rajahs, whose names and cos- tumes are alike striking. All these pa- tricians disdain terrestial origin, and pretend really to believe that they spring from the deities they worship.” t Sir John now examined the second os seal , “This is strange,” he murmures, holding it toward George. “Do you see this image?” “T see a frightful and grotesque idol.” “It is the seal of the Tamerlides.” _ “This ancient race of whom you ha just spoken?” ~~ (To be Continued.) . «