Ralph was sitting, languid and feeble, in a long chair in front of the hospital, where he had lain ill for some weeks.
The hospital was a mile or two inland from Moulmein; a comfortable place, but Ralph was weary of it. Everything had a parched, burnt-up appearance; the little pagodas, to be seen on the surrounding hills, were all alike; the punkah was working, yet there seemed to be no air to breathe; nothing suggested freshness, or gave him a start towards recovery.
A grove of palm trees rose majestically on one hand, interspersed with tamarinds, and trees of strange form covered with brilliant flowers.
Along the road came a girl in native dress, carrying a huge basket of roses, on her way to sell them in the bazaar. She had the flowers of a white, purple-striped orchid nestled coquettishly in the coils of her hair; and was smoking a huge green cheroot.
Then a long procession of yellow-robed "phoongyees," or monks, came by; each clasping his lacquered begging-bowl, and staring before him into vacancy, with rapt concentration of thought.
An open carriage appeared. "Come along, Denham," cried Mr. Gilchrist from it, "the doctor orders a drive for you, and we will go out to the Battery Point, to see whether there is not a breath of air to be met with there."
"It will be very nice if there is," said Ralph; "this place is like a furnace. Is it always as hot as this here, Mr. Gilchrist?"
"Not always. The rains are at hand; after that it will be cooler."
They drove out to the Point, watching the native boats, light, square-sailed, fitted with thatched houses, rowed with great difficulty against the stream, by men standing, instead of sitting, to row.
They looked out over Washing Head Island, with its pagoda mounting guard over the Holy Well, whence, it is said, is drawn the water in which the king once a year cleanses his sacred head.