The light at least! As Father Ninian mechanically took the red lamp from its niche he felt that he needed no more light than those words, "he understands," had sent into his very soul. Yes, he knew what love was. But he knew also--it came home to him in a second--that his love, even after all these years, differed not at all from this girl's. He heard it in her voice--that voice so strangely like that other voice--which he remembered--oh! so well!
"Take off the shade," said Vincent, "it makes everything so--so red--you--you can't see the truth." He shivered as he spoke.
But that first look at the girl had been enough for Pidar Narâyan. It had roused him, his apathy was gone. He thrust the lamp into Vincent's trembling hands without a word, and his own steady ones--the hands which had not touched their kind, except to heal body or soul, since they had said farewell to a woman--took up the task.
So for a few minutes there was silence, but for the old pantaloon's ceaseless mumblings as he rocked himself backwards and forwards. He had meant no harm, he protested--he had conducted more affairs of the kind to a decent ending than he could well remember--no one could be more discreet--accidents would happen--
"She is shot through the lungs," said Father Ninian, breaking the silence. "There is very little to be done--I--I--" He would have said "fear," but for Vincent's face of anguish. What right had he to feel sorrow?--he, the man who had brought this about. "Still, I will try. Akbar! bring the candles from the altar. Stay! she had better go there. It will save time. You two can carry her."
But Vincent had her in his arms, with a brief "Where?"
"The chapel--the lights are lit. Lay her on the cushions before the altar. I will be with you again directly."
When he returned from his room with lint and bandages she was lying there as he had directed, her long red skirt trailing down the white steps.
"The candles, please,--the smaller ones, Akbar,--and place them at her head. They will give me a better light."
Vincent shivered again at the sight; she looked already dead, with those tall tapers about her. Ah! what did it all mean? Was he dreaming? How was it possible? The wild improbability of it stunned him; when not three hours ago he had had a sherry-and-bitters before dinner! The curious irrelevance of his thoughts made him feel as if he must wake soon. Yet there she lay. Laila, whom he loved!