"Mem-Sahib!" he said, softly.
"Yes, Ayeshi?"
"Mem-Sahib—I have seen so many die of late. Death at its best is sleep. The Sahib sleeps deeply. Perhaps it is the will of his God that death should come to him now that he has given so much for those he loves. Is there not a saying in your Book, Mem-Sahib—-'Greater love hath no man than this, that he layeth down his life for his friend'?"
Sigrid Fersen lifted her head.
"Yes," she answered steadily.
"Meredith Sahib taught it me. I have forgotten much, but not that. It was true of him. Others—those who come here to teach us—preach to us, but he lived. He did not believe—no, not as Sahib Meredith believed. He believed in the flowers and the birds and the wind and the mountains—he believed in us." He put his hands to his breast, and his eyes glowed in the darkness. "I was his brother—his younger brother," he said proudly.
"And he loved you, Ayeshi."
"He loved all men—even the worst." He came a step nearer to her. "Mem-Sahib—a woman died out in Bjura—died horribly. He stayed with her to the end. She was hideous, and he took her head on his knee and comforted her as though she had been his mother. There was a little child, and he took it and promised he would care for it. She died happy."
Her head was bent again.
"That was like him, Ayeshi."