it so? As he stood, still looking down on the sleeper, something in the lack of comfort, of all the refinements and luxuries which seem to belong by right to the sickness of dear ones in the West, smote him suddenly with a sense of deprivation, of division. And though he told himself that Death came in far more friendly fashion out there in the sunlight, where you could hear the birds, watch the squirrels, and see the children's kites go sailing overhead in the blue sky; still the bareness of it seemed somehow to reveal the great gulf between his complexity, his endless needs and desires, and the simplicity of that human creature drifting to death, almost as the animals drift, without complaint, without fears, or hopes. It seemed so pitiful. The slender figure, still gay in tinsel and bright draperies, all cuddled up on the quilt, its oval face resting hardly on the thin arm where the bracelets hung so loosely, had an uncared-for look. It seemed alone, apart; as far from Death in its nearness to Life, as it was from Life in its closeness to Death. In swift pity he stooped to risk an awakening by gathering it into his warm friendly arms. It would at least feel the beating of another human heart when it lay there. It would at least be more comfortable than on the bare, hard, pillowless bed.
But he paused. How could he judge? How dare he judge even for that wasted body, which, despite its softness, had never known half the luxuries his claimed? So he left her lying as he had often seen her sleep, all curled up on herself like a tired squirrel, and passing to the parapet leaned over it looking moodily down into the darkening orange trees. Their heavy perfume floated upward, reminding him of many another night in springtime spent with Zora upon this terraced roof.
And suddenly his hand fell in a gesture of sheer anger.
Before God! it had been unfair; this idyl on the housetops. The world had held no more for her save her passion for him, pure in its very perfection. His for her had been but a small part of his life. It never was more than that to a man, in reality, and so this sort of thing must always be unfair. That she had been content made it worse, not better. Poor little soul! drifting away from the glow and the glamour.
A resentment for her, more than for himself, made him go to where Tara sat gossiping with her fellow-servant on the other roof and bid them wait downstairs. If the silence were indeed about to fall, if the glow and the glamour were going, then she and he might at least be alone once more beneath the coming stars; alone in the soft-scented darkness which had so often seemed to clasp them closer to each other as they sat in it like a couple of children whispering over a secret.
Closer! As he leaned over the parapet his keen eyes stared down into the half-seen city spreading below him. Wide, tree-set, full of faint sounds of life; the wreaths of smoke from thousands of hearths rising to obscure it from his view. Obscuring it hopelessly with their tale of a life utterly apart from any he could lead. Even there on the housetop he had only pretended to lead it. It was not she, drifting to death so contentedly, who was alone! It was he. Yet some men he had known had seemed able to combine the two lives. They had been content to think half-caste thoughts, to rear up a tribe of half-caste children; while he? How many years was it since he had seen Zora weeping over a still little morsel of humanity, his child and hers, that lay in her tinseled veil? She had wept, mostly because she was afraid he might be angry because his son had never drawn breath; and he had comforted her. He had never told her of the relief it was to him, of the vague repulsion which the thought of a child had always brought with it. One could not help these things; and, after all, she had only cared because she was afraid he cared. She did not crave for motherhood either. It was the glow and glamour that had been the bond between them; nothing else. And, thank Heaven! she had never tired of it, had never seen him tire of it--for Death would come before that now.
A chiming clash of silver made him turn quickly. She had awakened, and seeing him by the parapet, had set her small feet to the ground, and now stood trying to steady herself by her thin, wide-spread arms.
"Zora! wait! I am coming," he cried, starting forward. Then he paused, speech and action arrested by something in her look, her gesture.
"Let me come," she murmured, her breath gone with the effort. "I can come. I must be able to come. My lord is so near--so near."
A fierce pity made him stand still. "Surely thou canst come," he answered. "I will stay here."
As she stood, with parted lips, waiting for a glint of strength ere she tried to walk, her swaying figure, the brilliance of her eyes, the heaving of her delicate throat, cut him to the very heart for her sake more than for his own. Then the jingle of her silver anklets rose again in irregular cadence, to cease at the next pillar where she paused, steadying herself against the cold stone to regain her breath.
"Surely, I can come; and he so near," she murmured wistfully, half to herself.
"Thou art in too great a hurry, sweetheart. There is plenty of time. The stars are barely lit, and star-time is ever our time."
He set his teeth over the words; but the glow and the glamour should not fail her yet. He would take her back with him while he could to the past which had been so full of it.
"Come slower, my bird, I am waiting," he said again as the jingling cadence ceased once more.
"It is so strange," she gasped; "I feel so strange." And even in the dim light he could see a vague terror, a pitiful amaze in her face. That must not be. That must be stopped. "And it is strange," he answered quickly. "Strange, indeed, for me to wait like a king, when thou art my queen!"
A faint smile drove the wonder away, a faint laugh mingled with the chiming and clashing. She was like a wounded bird, he thought, as he watched her; a wounded bird fluttering to find shelter from death.
"Take care! Take care of the step!" he cried, as a stumble made him start forward; but when she recovered herself blindly he stood still once more, waiting. Let her come if she could. Let her keep the glamour.
Keep it! She had done more than that. She had given it back to him at its fullest, as, close at hand he saw her radiant face, and his outstretched hands met hers warm and clasping. The touch of them made him forget all else; he drew her close to him passionately. She gave a smiling sob of sheer content, raising her face to meet his kisses.
"I have come," she whispered. "I have come to my king." Her voice ended like a sigh. Then there was silence, a fainter sigh, then silence again.
"Zora!" he called with a sudden dread at his heart. "What is it? Zora! Zora!"
Half an hour afterward, Tara Devi, obeying her master's summons, found him standing beside the bed, which he had dragged out under the stars, and flung up her arms to give the wail for what she saw there.
"Hush!" he said sternly, clutching at her shoulder. "I will not have her disturbed."
Tara looked at him wonderingly. "There is no fear of that," she replied clearly, loudly, "none shall disturb Zora again. She hath found that freedom in the future. For the rest of us, God knows! The times are strange. So let her have her right of wailing, master. She will feel silent in the grave without the voices of her race."
He drew his hand away sharply; even in death a great gulf lay between him and the woman he had loved.
So the death wail rang out clamorously through the soft dark air.
CHAPTER IV.
TAPE AND SEALING-WAX.
