There was something now swaying idly against the landing-stage; a rude craft buoyed up by air! And there was a rude sort of man in it,--comprehending, yet uncomprehending,--primitive, simple, expectant. "Huzoor!" he said, with broad smiles and outstretched hand. "I have been waiting the Huzoor's pleasure. The Presence will go whither?"
Whither?
Even in her excitement the quaint coincidence struck her as absurd, and yet it seemed to sweep her further still from her moorings.
Whither?
She gave that queer little cry again, and this time it was "Lance! Lance!"
"Whither did the Miss-sahiba say?" asked Am-ma gravely.
The cry turned to a strange laugh. "To Eshwara--where else does the river go--where else?"
The strange, frail boat was sidling against the landing-stage in the pulse of the river; her stranger, frailer self was adrift on the greater river of life. And a hand, heedless, seeing nothing strange in either, careless of all the fine-drawn niceties of culture, had hold of hers.
"So, straight to the centre, Huzoor! I have placed the seat correctly. That is right! The Miss-sahiba recollects the old rules; we shall be in Eshwara before dawn!"
She sat down mechanically, feeling only that she was adrift--adrift on the river that went to Eshwara--where else--and that she was glad; glad because she could not stay, because she could not face--