f her robe.

"I am very sorry I startled you," I said. "You are certainly ill, or
you would not be so easily upset."

I laid my hand as I spoke on her soft tresses, but she withdrew from
the touch, sinking down among the cushions. Leaving her to recover her
composure, I took up the half-empty cup she had dropped on the central
table. Thirsty myself, I had almost drained without tasting it, when a
little half-stifled cry of dismay checked me. The moment I removed the
cup from my mouth I perceived its flavour--the unmistakable taste of
the _dravadone_ ("courage cup"), so disagreeable to us both, which we
had shared on our bridal evening. Wetting with one drop the test-stone
attached to my watch-chain, it presented the local discoloration
indicating the narcotic poison which is the chief ingredient of this
compound.

"I don't think this is wise, child," I said, turning once more to
Eveena. To my amazement, far from having recovered the effect of her
surprise, she was yet more overcome than at first; crouching among the
cushions with her head bent down over her knees, and covering her face
with her hands. Reclining in the soft pile, I held her in my arms,
overcoming perforce what seemed hysterical reluctance; but when I
would have withdrawn the little hands, she threw herself on my knee,
burying her face in the cushions.

"It is very wicked," she sobbed; "I cannot ask you to forgive me."

"Forgive what, my child? Eveena, you are certainly ill. Calm yourself,
and don't try to talk just now."

"I am not ill, I assure you," she faltered, resisting the arm that
sought to raise her; "but ..."

In my hands, however, she was powerless as an infant; and I would hear
nothing till I held her gathered within my arm and her two hands fast
in my right. Now that I could look into the face she strove to avert,
it was clear that she was neither hysterical nor simply ill; her
agitation, however unreasonable and extravagant, was real.

"What troubles you, my own? I promise you not to say one word of
reproach; I only want to understand with what you so bitterly reproach
yourself."

"But you cannot help being angry," she urged, "if you understand what
I have done. It is the _charny_, which I never tasted till that night,
and never ought to have tasted again. I know you cannot forgive me;
only take my fault for granted, and don't question me."

These incoherent words threw the first glimpse of light on the meaning
of her distress a