Disordered, hair gleaming like bronze waves in the dim lamplight was
revealed and the great dark eyes of Miska looked out from the
artificially haggard face--eyes wide open and fearful.
"Bend not that beautiful body so," whispered Chunda Lal, "that is
straight and supple as the willow branch. O, Miska"--his voice
trembled emotionally and he that had been but a moment since so fierce
stood abashed before her--"for you I become as the meanest and the
lowest; for you I die!"
Miska started back from him as a muffled outcry sounded in the room
beyond the half-open door. Chunda Las started also, but almost
immediately smiled--and his smile was tender as a woman's.
"It is the voice of the black smoke that speaks, Miska. We are alone.
Those are dead men speaking from their tombs."
"Ah-Fang-Fu is in the shop," whispered Miska.
"And there he remain."
"But what of ... _him!"_
Miska pointed toward the eastern wall of the room in which they stood.
Chunda Lal clenched his hands convulsively and turned his eyes in the
same direction.
"It is of _him_," he replied in a voice of suppressed vehemence, "it
is of _him_ I would speak." He bent close to Miska's ear. "In the
creek, below the house, is lying the motor-boat. I go to-day to bring
it down for him. He goes to-night to the other house up the river.
To-morrow I am gone. Only you remaining."
"Yes, yes. He also leaves England to-morrow."
"And you?"
"I go with him," she whispered.
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