she knew—that she had never, in all her life, seen such perfect artistry.
Every rippling movement of her splendid, supple body, every gesture of the proudly poised head, the slender jeweled feet and hands, combined to form a living flame. Not for her were the crude leap and pirouette of the West. She swayed and fire flickered; she raised an arm, and a new flame sprang to life; and all the while she sang in a sweet, high voice, a chant that though she could understand no: word of it, stirred Stella ’ s heart to its very depths.
More and more poignantly, as she li stened, she found herself longing for Roger ’ s presence. There was a message for the two of them, she was certain, as much as for the vast Indian audience, in this exotic dancing and singing, though what the message was she could not tell.
Presently, moved by an irresistible impulse, she turned to the Indian lady nearest her and asked her, in her careful Hindustani, the subject of the dancer ’ s song.
“She sings of love.” The Indian woman, as rapt as herself, sighed the words. “Love at the beginning of time, when human hearts were bright and pure, and men and women sang for joy as they tended their flocks and reaped the golden corn. But wait—from love springs birth and from the sacred fire is born the first Kotpura king.”
The drama went on, with garlanded girls bringing a small wandering boy from the second tent. But Stella could no longer keep her mind on the colorful spectacle enacted before her.
Love—and birth! If only her love for Roger could have followed its normal course to marriage and motherhood. To surrender one ’ s self to the beloved and to pass on the flame of life; what other meaning was there for womanhood? What did a career count, the bleak knowledge that one was serving one ’ s fellow men and women, if the b est thing of all was denied one?
S he had arranged with Chawand Rao that a car should available to take her back to her patient the moment she died to go, and long before the drama ended she slipped un obtrusively out of the pavilion and was driven to the pa l a ce. It was not anxiety for the child that made her leave the queer, unearthly scene, but the tumult in her own brea st. In the sickroom, moving about familiar tasks, her We stern matter-of-factness would surely be too strong for these wild and primitive emotions.
But when she reached the threshold of the sickroom and st umbled over something that lay there, she was nearly overmastered by the most primitive emotion in the world — dark terror. For lying flat on his back, motionless and with outstretched arms, was Armand Verle.
CHAPTER FIVE
In a second her nursing training reasserted itself, and dropping to her knees she groped for his wrist and felt h is pulse, which to her infinite relief beat faintly. She notice d in that same instant that he was breathing heavily and: swiftly, and with the aid of a pocket flashlight looked at his eyes. The pupils—diminished to mere pinpoints—told their own story. He had been drugged—given a strong narcotic that might take hours to work off.
W ho was responsible? The old rani, for a certainty. True, she had, like herself, spent the evening watching the fire drama. But she had a score of servants who would not dare to disobey her orders. It was doubtful if even Jeythoo, loyal as she was, would have the courage to defy her.
She went out into the corridor and called for servants to help her, and a few minutes later Armand had been carried, still in a coma, into a nearby room and deposited on a, divan. She must attend to him, try to force him back to consciousness, but first she must see how Prithviraj was faring.
A glance at the child showed her that much of the good work she had accomplished, since beginning to look after him, had been undone during her brief absence. He, too , had been given a narcotic, though in a very much smaller quantity; the same noxious preparation, no doubt, with which the old rani had
Every rippling movement of her splendid, supple body, every gesture of the proudly poised head, the slender jeweled feet and hands, combined to form a living flame. Not for her were the crude leap and pirouette of the West. She swayed and fire flickered; she raised an arm, and a new flame sprang to life; and all the while she sang in a sweet, high voice, a chant that though she could understand no: word of it, stirred Stella ’ s heart to its very depths.
More and more poignantly, as she li stened, she found herself longing for Roger ’ s presence. There was a message for the two of them, she was certain, as much as for the vast Indian audience, in this exotic dancing and singing, though what the message was she could not tell.
Presently, moved by an irresistible impulse, she turned to the Indian lady nearest her and asked her, in her careful Hindustani, the subject of the dancer ’ s song.
“She sings of love.” The Indian woman, as rapt as herself, sighed the words. “Love at the beginning of time, when human hearts were bright and pure, and men and women sang for joy as they tended their flocks and reaped the golden corn. But wait—from love springs birth and from the sacred fire is born the first Kotpura king.”
The drama went on, with garlanded girls bringing a small wandering boy from the second tent. But Stella could no longer keep her mind on the colorful spectacle enacted before her.
Love—and birth! If only her love for Roger could have followed its normal course to marriage and motherhood. To surrender one ’ s self to the beloved and to pass on the flame of life; what other meaning was there for womanhood? What did a career count, the bleak knowledge that one was serving one ’ s fellow men and women, if the b est thing of all was denied one?
S he had arranged with Chawand Rao that a car should available to take her back to her patient the moment she died to go, and long before the drama ended she slipped un obtrusively out of the pavilion and was driven to the pa l a ce. It was not anxiety for the child that made her leave the queer, unearthly scene, but the tumult in her own brea st. In the sickroom, moving about familiar tasks, her We stern matter-of-factness would surely be too strong for these wild and primitive emotions.
But when she reached the threshold of the sickroom and st umbled over something that lay there, she was nearly overmastered by the most primitive emotion in the world — dark terror. For lying flat on his back, motionless and with outstretched arms, was Armand Verle.
CHAPTER FIVE
In a second her nursing training reasserted itself, and dropping to her knees she groped for his wrist and felt h is pulse, which to her infinite relief beat faintly. She notice d in that same instant that he was breathing heavily and: swiftly, and with the aid of a pocket flashlight looked at his eyes. The pupils—diminished to mere pinpoints—told their own story. He had been drugged—given a strong narcotic that might take hours to work off.
W ho was responsible? The old rani, for a certainty. True, she had, like herself, spent the evening watching the fire drama. But she had a score of servants who would not dare to disobey her orders. It was doubtful if even Jeythoo, loyal as she was, would have the courage to defy her.
She went out into the corridor and called for servants to help her, and a few minutes later Armand had been carried, still in a coma, into a nearby room and deposited on a, divan. She must attend to him, try to force him back to consciousness, but first she must see how Prithviraj was faring.
A glance at the child showed her that much of the good work she had accomplished, since beginning to look after him, had been undone during her brief absence. He, too , had been given a narcotic, though in a very much smaller quantity; the same noxious preparation, no doubt, with which the old rani had
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