It broke her heart. The same crisis stands to-night before
you, her son. What will you do--Steven Caruthers?"
The Rajah lifted his head. The struggle was written in his dark,
sunken eyes and on the compressed lips.
"I can not desert them," he said wearily. "They trust me--my people
trust me."
"Who are your people?" was the swift question. "You must choose."
Again the same silence, the same waiting while the hand of fate seemed
to hover above them in the darkness. Beatrice left her place at the
dead woman's side. With a firm, proud step she came to the Rajah and
took his hand in both her own. He started at her touch, and for a long
minute his gaze seemed to sink itself in hers, but she never wavered.
When she spoke an immeasurable tenderness rang in her voice, a
boundless understanding and sympathy.
"Steven--have you forgotten? Long ago in the old temple? Don't you
remember what you told me then--how you loved and admired us? You
called us the world's Great People, and when you spoke of our heroes
there was something in your voice which thrilled me. Was it only your
books, was it your teachers--Behar Singh--who made you feel as you
did? When you came among us, what led you? The face of a woman? Was it
only that? Or was it something more?--the call of a great, wonderful
instinct?"
His eyes were riveted on her face, but for that moment he did not see
her. He did not see the tears that glistened on her cheeks.
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