right, burst in upon them with
the news that Umballa, at the head of many soldiers, was approaching.
The lovers rushed to the front of the bungalow in time to witness the
colonel trying to prevent the intrusion of a priest.

"Patience, Sahib!" warned the priest.

The colonel, upon seeing Umballa, made an attempt to draw his revolver,
but the soldiers prevented him from carrying into execution his wild
impulse.

The priest explained what had happened. The Colonel Sahib, his friend
Bruce Sahib, and his youngest daughter would be permitted to depart in
peace; but Kathlyn Mem-sahib must wed Durga Ram.

When the dazed colonel produced the document which had been legally
canceled, Umballa laughed and declared that he himself had forged that
particular document, that the true one, which he held, was not legally
destroyed.

Burning with the thought of revenge, of reprisal, how could Durga Ram
know that he thus dug his own pit? Had he let them go he would have
eventually been crowned, as surely as now his path led straight to the
treadmill.

Ahmed alone escaped, because Umballa had in his triumph forgot him!

CHAPTER XXIII

REMORSE

There is an old saying in Rajput that woman and the four winds were
born at the same time, of the same mother: blew hot, blew cold,
balmily, or tempestuously, from all points at once. Perhaps.

In the zenana of the royal palace there was a woman, tall, lithe, with
a skin of ivory and roses and eyes as brown as the husk of a water
chestnut. On her bare ankles were gem-incrusted anklets, on her arms
bracelets of hammered gold, round her neck a rope of pearls and
emeralds and rubies and sapphires. And still she was not happy.

From time to time her fingers strained at the roots of her glossy black
hair and the whites of her great eyes glistened. She bit her lips to
keep back the sobs crowding in her throat. She pressed her hands
together so tightly that the little knuckles cracked.

"Ai, ai!" she wailed softly.

She paced the confines of her chamber with slow step, with fast step;
or leaned against the wall, her face hidden in her arms; or pressed her
hot cheeks against the cool marble of the lattice.

Human nature is made up of contraries. Why, when we have had the
courage coolly to plan murder, or to aid or suggest it, why must we be
troubled with remorse? More than this, why must we battle against the
silly impulse to tell the first we meet what we have done? Remorse