It was of no great size, though its twisted length was not inconsiderable, for its possible fertile perch beside the high-rock-placed palace was narrow. But it lay a very beautiful ribbon of blooms and fragrant shrubs, of exquisite vistas and lilied tanks at the edge of the fortress. A moat, more ornament than of possible need or use, was cut in the other side, and over the moat and its shimmering water a bridge—not drawn now—was perhaps the most beautiful bridge in Asia—a bridge of writhing, coiling snakes, carved stone and malachite cunningly—and at what human labor!—intertwisted and twined. And beyond the moat, down on the brown rocks’ narrow perches lay the tiny dung-thatched homes of the peasants of Rukh. And the garden was pungent with hot, mingled sweetness.
The sun was setting. To-morrow at sunset! She lifted her hand to her neck and felt it curiously. At this hour to-morrow—she shuddered. Shame! she cried on herself. Englishwomen had died, suffering worse than death before they died. She was going to her death undefiled. She thanked her father’s God for that! And as she threw back her head with a little lift of English pride, she saw the hills beyond the garden. It was good to see the mountains so—the great white-topped mountains. She lifted her eyes to them hungrily, and asked that from them her help might come—help to live, help to home and babies, or help to die. Over beyond the hills, back of the great snow piles lay Pahari. Ronny and Iris were there. She’d go to them, not here in this prison-place, but out in God’s own open, she’d be with them, she’d spend such hours as were left her now with them.
Mother-love, and the anguish-push—her will, made it an almost omnipotent thing, wrought its incalculable miracle. She was with her children. She relived with them their little lives. She played with them. She folded her arms about them. She gave her breasts to their baby lips. She was not grieving now—the hours were too few—she was joying in her boy and in Iris. And her face grew younger again, and softened.
And Rukh, coming noiselessly to her, standing and watching her, unseen by her, wondered at what he saw in her altered face—youth, peace, content. He had changed again, but the clothes he wore now still were European.
Even when he spoke at last, though she turned quiet eyes up to his, she paid no heed, and he thought did not hear.
She made no attempt to go. She showed no resentment of his presence. He would have preferred either to the blank she gave—or rather the blank he found. She gave nothing.
He tried her in several ways. She made no response—gave no sign.
He bit his lip, and waited.
At last he beckoned the serving woman, and sent her away to execute a command. While she was gone he told Mrs. Crespin that he had substituted the girl’s service of her—the best he now had to offer her—for that of the woman who had attended her till now, and added his regret and his explanation.
Mrs. Crespin made no comment.