"Yes, the saddle-bags are packed, and Bheema and myself remain; all the rest went with the lady Sukya."
"Then go and sleep, for we have a long journey to-morrow. I do not need thee. Give me the key of the court door. I can lock myself in, and I shall be awake long before you in the morning."
He entered the court and locked the gate behind him. A lamp was burning in a recess of the verandah, and its light fell upon the figure of the girl Gunga, who had covered herself with a sheet, and, most likely weary with waiting for him, had fallen asleep. She did not hear him; and as he had left his shoes by the side of the outer door, there was no noise whatever from his bare feet.
Moro Trimmul stood over her, and, as he did so, she moved uneasily in her sleep, turned and said something; he could not catch the words. Then some cruel thoughts passed suddenly through his mind. Gunga knew too much; a blow of his knife would silence for ever all chance of disclosure of what had been done for Radha; the gold he had to give her would be saved. There was a large well or cistern behind the house; the wall of the back-yard hung over it; it was a place where the women of the town washed their clothes, and was so held to be unclean. That would hide her. A Moorlee? What Moorlee had not jealousies and strifes? Who would care for her? And he drew the dagger and stood over her in an attitude to strike.
Why he hesitated he could never tell; certainly it was not from fear. Perhaps some lingering feeling of compassion for one so young—perhaps the memory of some caress—stayed the blow for an instant, for he did not strike. The light fell full on her eyes and face as she turned, and she smiled and awoke suddenly.
"I dreamed of thee, beloved," she said, stretching out her arms to him, "and thou art here——But why the knife?" she continued, quickly sitting up, as the light gleamed on the blade. "Moro!—I—I—I—fear thee; why dost thou look at me so? Ah!" and she covered her eyes with her hand, expecting death.
"Only to cut these strings," he said, with a hard laugh, recovering himself and dividing the cord which was tied round the paper containing the gold anklets. "Look, Gunga!" and he held them up to the light, and shook them till the little bells on them clashed gently.
"Thou art good," she said, looking up as he held them above her, still shaking them; "they are very, very beautiful, but thou wilt not give them to me, for thou hast not got Tara. Ah! thou hast just come from her, and wilt not give them. Go! go back to her."
"But my sister is her father's wife, and these are heavier than Tara's. I have not broken faith with thee, Gunga," he replied, "nor my oath at the Pâp-nâs temple. Take them—they are thine henceforth. And now wilt thou go with me, Gunga? I have prepared a horse for thee, and Bheema can walk."
"To the end of life," cried the girl, who had risen to her knees to put on the anklets, and who now clasped his feet,—"to the end of life! Kill me if thou wilt, Moro Trimmul, who would care? It would be no pain to Gunga."