t with the Gulab, and the hush and perfume of the
forest-clad hills, and the gentle glamour of moonlight, his senses
would smother placid intellectuality; he would be like a toper with a
bottle at his elbow mocking weak resolve.

Then the girl said something: a shy halting request that set his blood
galloping: "Sahib, it is not far to Mandhatta--four _kos_, or perhaps
it is five; would it be unpermitted to suggest that we go there, for
the moon is beautiful and the road is good."

"All right, girl!" and remembering that he had spoken in English, he
added, "It will be expedient, for you will there find shelter."

"Yes, Sahib, Guru Swami will be there, and I am known of him; and there
are places where one may rest."

"I'll tell the driver to hitch up," Barlow declared, rising.

But she laid a detaining hand upon his arm: "Sahib, the sweetest thing
in all Bootea's life was the time she rode on the horse with him.
Then, too, the moon, that is the soul of Purusha, smiled upon her.
Would it be permitted to Bootea just one more happiness, for
to-morrow--to-morrow--"

The girl turned away, and seemed busy adjusting her gold-embroidered
jacket.

"So you shall, Gulab," Barlow declared. And he, too, thought of the
sweetness of that ride where she lay like a confiding child in his
arms; and also for him, too, was to-morrow--to-morrow; and for him,
too, just one more foolish, useless happiness--just a sensuous burying
of his face in flowers that on the morrow would have shrivelled.

"I'll send the _tonga_ on ahead," he declared, "and we'll just have
that jolly old farewell ride together, girl--I'd love it."

Now she turned back to him and her face was placid, soft, content, as
though Mona Lisa had stepped out from the painted canvas, and, now
embodied, was there listening to the sigh of the night-wind through the
feathered _sal_ forest.

With ejaculations of "Bap, bap, bap! _Shabaz_!" and queer gurgling
clucking of the throat, and a sonorous rumble from the wide, low
wheels, the driver drove the tonga on into the moonlight. Barlow had
saddled his horse and thrown his blanket loosely behind the saddle.
The air was chilling, but his sheepskin coat would turn its cold
breath; the blanket was for Bootea.

As he had done once before, his feet in stirrups, he reached down a
hand and swung the girl up in front of him. Then he enveloped her in
the blanket as she nestled against his chest, arms about his waist.
Her warm bod