e patience, my
friend; for I understand. Do I not love Pundita even as you love the
Mem-sahib?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Bruce roughly,

"I have eyes."

"Well, yes; it is true. Behind you are your people; behind us,
nothing. That is why I am frantic. Umballa, whenever he finds himself
checkmated, digs up what he purports to be an unused law. There is
none to contest it. I tell you, Ramabai, we must escape soon, or we
never will. You suggested this impossible marriage. It is horrible."

"But it lulls Umballa; and lulled, he becomes careless. Beyond the
north gate there are ever ready men and elephants. And when the moment
arrives, thither we shall fly, all of us. But," mysteriously, "we may
not have to fly. When Umballa learns that the Colonel Sahib will
refuse to sign the necessary treasury release the soldiers will
understand that once again they have been trifled with."

"We must wait. But it's mighty hard."

The garden of brides has already been described. But on this day when
the ten veiled candidates sat in waiting there was spring in the air;
and there were roses climbing trellises, climbing over the marble
walls, and the pomegranate blossoms set fire to it all. At the gate
stood Ramabai, dressed according to his station, and representing by
proxy the king. Presently a splendid palanquin arrived, and within it
a tardy candidate. She was laden with jewels, armlets, anklets and
head ornaments; pearls and uncut sapphires and rubies. Upon lifting
her veil she revealed a beautiful high caste face. Ramabai bade her
pass on. No sooner had she taken her place than still another
palanquin was announced, and this last was drawn by fat sleek bullocks,
all of a color.

Ramabai held up his hand. The bullock drivers stopped their charges,
and from the palanquin emerged a veiled woman. This was Kathlyn.

The selected candidates were now all present. As master of ceremonies,
Ramabai conducted them into the palace, thence into the throne room
gaily decorated for the occasion. In a balcony directly above the
canopy of the throne were musicians, playing the mournful harmonies so
dear to the oriental heart.

Upon the throne sat Colonel Hare, gorgeously attired, but cold and
stern of visage, prepared to play his part in this unutterable
buffoonery. Near by stood Durga Ram, so-called Umballa, smiling. It
was going to be very simple; once yonder stubborn white fool was
wedded, he should be made