"Greyman! You mean Douglas, I suppose?"

She stared for a second. "Douglas? I don't know. I mean----" Then she paused. How could she say, "The man you rode against at Lucknow," when she wanted to forget all that; forget everything? And then a sudden fear made her add hastily, "He is here, surely--he came long ago."

Major Erlton nodded. "I know; but his real name is Douglas; at least he says so. Do you mean to say you haven't seen him? That he didn't help you to get out?"

"You mean that--that he has gone back?" asked Kate faintly.

Her husband gave a low whistle. "What a queer start; a sort of Box and c.o.x. He went back to find you yesterday."

Kate's hand went up to her forehead almost wildly. Then Tara must have known. But why had she not mentioned it? Still, in a way, it was best as it was; since once he heard she, Kate, had gone, he would return.

For Tara would tell him, of course.

These thoughts claimed her for the moment, and when she looked up, she found her husband watching her curiously.

"He must have done an awful lot for you, of course," he said shortly; "but I'd rather it had been anyone else, and that's a fact. However, it can't be helped. Hullo! here's the khansaman with some tea.

Thoughtful of the old scoundrel, isn't it?"

"I--I ordered it," put in Kate, feeling glad of the diversion.

Major Erlton laughed kindly. "What, begun already? The old sinner's had a precious easy time of it; but now----" He pulled himself up awkwardly, and, as if to cover his hesitation, walked over to a box, and after rummaging in it, brought out a packet of letters.

"Freddy's," he said cheerfully. "He's all right. Jolly as a sandboy. I kept them--in--in case----"

A great grat.i.tude made the past dim for a moment. He seemed nearer to her again. "I can't look at them to-night, Herbert," she said softly, laying her hand beside his upon them. "I'm--I'm too tired."

"No wonder. You must have your tea and go to bed," he replied. Then he looked round the tent. "It isn't a bad little place, you'll find--I'm on duty tonight--so--so you'll manage, I dare say."

"On duty?" she echoed, pouring herself out a cup of tea rather hastily.

"Where?"

"Oh! at the front. There is never anything worth going for now. We are both waiting for the a.s.sault; that's the fact. But I shan't be back till dawn, so----"

He was standing looking at her, tall, handsome, full of vitality; and suddenly he lifted a fold of her tinsel-set veil and smiled.

"Jolly dress that for a fancy ball, and what a jolly scent it's got.

It is that flower, isn't it? You look awfully well in it, Kate! In fact, you look wonderfully fit all round."

"So do you!" she said hurriedly, her hand going up to the henna blossom. There was a sudden quiver in her voice, a sudden fierce pain in her heart. "You--you look----"

"Oh! I," he replied carelessly, still with admiring eyes, "I'm as fit as a fiddle. I say! where did you get all those jewels? What a lot you have! They're awfully becoming."

"They are Mr. Greyman's," she said; "they belonged to his--to----"

then she paused. But the contemptuously comprehending smile on her husband's face made her add quietly, "to a woman--a woman _he loved very dearly_, Herbert."

There was a moment or two of silence, and then Major Erlton went to the entrance, raised the curtain, and looked out. A flood of moonlight streamed into the tent.

"It's about time I was off," he said after a bit, and there was a queer constraint in his voice. Then he came over and stood by Kate again.

"It isn't any use talking over--over things to-night, Kate," he said quietly. "There's a lot to think of and I haven't thought of it at all. I never knew, you see--if this would happen. But I dare say you have; you were always a oner at thinking. So--so you had better do it for both of us. I don't care, _now_. It will be what you wish, of course."

"We will talk it over to-morrow," she said in a low voice. She would not look in his face. She knew she would find it soft with the memory held in that one word--now. Ah! how much easier it would have been if she had never come back! And yet she shrank from the same thought on his lips.

"There was always the chance of my getting potted," he said almost apologetically. "But I'm not. So--well! let's leave it for to-morrow."

"Yes," she replied steadily, "for to-morrow."

He gathered some of his things together, and then held out his hand.

"Good-night, Kate. I wouldn't lie awake thinking, if I were you.

What's the good if it? We will just have to make the best of it for the boy. But I'd like you to know two things----"

"Yes----"

"That I couldn't forget, of course; and that----" he paused. "Well!

that doesn't matter; it's only about myself and it doesn't mean much after all. So, good-night."

As she moved to the door also, forced into following him by the ache in her heart for him, more than for herself, the jingle of her anklets made him turn with an easy laugh.

"It doesn't sound respectable," he said; then, with a sudden compunction, added: "But the dress is much prettier than those dancing girls', and--by Heaven, Kate! you've always been miles too good for me; and that's the fact. Well I--let us leave it for to-morrow."

Yes! for to-morrow, she told herself, with a determination not to think as, dressed as she was, she nestled down into the strange softness of the camp bed, too weary of the pain and pity of this coming back even for tears. Yet she thought of one thing; not that she was safe, not that she would see the boy again. Only of the thing he had been going to tell her about himself. What was it? She wanted to know; she wanted to know all--everything. "Herbert!" she whispered to the pillow, "I wish you had told me--I want to know--I want to make it easier for--for us all."

And so, not even grateful for her escape, she fell asleep dreamlessly.

It was dawn when she woke with the sound of someone talking outside.

He had come back. No! that was not his voice. She sat up listening.

"The servants say she is asleep. Someone had better go in and wake her. The Doctor----"

"He's behind with the dhooli. Ah! there's Morecombe; he knows her."

But there was no need to call her. Kate was already at the door, her eyes wide with the certainty of evil. There was no need even to tell her what had happened; for in the first rays of the rising sun, seen almost starlike behind a dip in the rocky ridge, she saw a little procession making for the tent.

"He--he is dead," she said quietly. There was hardly a question in her tone. She knew it must be so. Had he not begged her to leave it till to-morrow? and this was to-morrow. Were not her eyes full of its rising sun, and what its beams held in their bright clasp?

"It seems impossible," said someone in a low voice, breaking in on the pitiful silence. "He always seemed to have a charmed life, and then, in an instant, when nothing was going on, the chance bullet."

It did not seem impossible to her.

"Please don't make a fuss about me, Doctor," she pleaded in a tone which went to his heart when he proposed the conventional solaces.

"Remember I have been through so--so much already. I can bear it. I can, indeed, if I'm left alone with him--while it is possible. Yes! I know there is another lady, but I only want to be alone, with him."

So they left her there beside the little camp-bed with its new burden.

There was no sign of strife upon him. Only that blue mark behind his ear among his hair, and his face showed no pain. Kate covered it with a little fine handkerchief she found folded away in a scented case she had made for him before they were married. It had Alice Gissing's monogram on it. It was better so, she told herself; he would have liked it. She had no flowers except the faded henna blossom, but it smelled sweet as she tucked it under the hand which she had left half clasped upon his sword. She might at least tell him so, she thought half bitterly, that the lesson was learned, that he might go in peace.

Then she sat down at the table and looked over their boy's letters mechanically; for there was nothing to think of now. The morrow had settled the problem. Captain Morecombe came in once or twice to say a word or two, or bring in other men, who saluted briefly to her as they pa.s.sed to stand beside the dead man for a second, and then go out again. She was glad they cared to come; had begged that any might come who chose, as if she were not there. But at one visitor she looked curiously, for he came in alone. A tall man--as tall as Herbert, she thought--with a dark beard and keen, kindly eyes. She saw them, for he turned to her with the air of one who has a right to speak, and she stood up involuntarily.

"His name was up for the Victoria Cross, madam," said a clear, resonant voice, "as you may know; but that is nothing. He was a fine soldier--a soldier such as I--I am John Nicholson, madam--can ill spare. For the rest--he leaves a good name to his son."

The sunlight streamed in for an instant on to the little bed and its burden as he pa.s.sed out, and glittered on the sword and ta.s.sels. Kate knelt down beside it and kissed the dead hand.