He looked up and
saw a servant standing in the curtained doorway. The man's eyes were
fixed on the outstretched figure at Nehal's feet, and there was an
expression on the dark face so full of fear and horror that the Rajah
involuntarily drew back.
"Who was this woman?" he demanded. "Whence comes she?"
"Lord Sahib, she was a mad-woman whom the Lord Behar Singh kept out of
mercy. She must have escaped her prison. More I know not."
The man was trembling as though in the shadows there lurked a hidden
threatening danger, and Nehal turned aside with a gesture of desperate
impatience.
"Why hast thou come before the time?" he asked.
"Lord Sahib, outside there are two English prisoners. They demand to
be brought before thee. What is thy will?"
"Bring them hither."
Nehal Singh stood where the bowing servant left him, at the side of
the poor dead woman, his hands crossed upon his sword-hilt, his eyes
fixed on the parted curtains. There he waited, motionless, passive, as
a man waits who knows that he has become the tool of Destiny.
A moment later, Beatrice stood before him.
CHAPTER XII
HIS OWN PEOPLE
She was not alone, but in that first moment he saw nothing but her
face. It seemed to him that the whole world was blotted out and that
only she remained, grave, fearless, supreme in her wan beauty, a
tragic figure glorified by a light of unconquerable resolution. He
looked at her but he did not greet her; no muscle of his set and ashy
features betrayed the thrill of passionate recognition which had
passed like a line of fire through his veins.
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