"So you shall, Gulab," Barlow declared. And he, too, thought of the
sweetness of that ride where she lay like a confiding child in his
arms; and also for him, too, was to-morrow--to-morrow; and for him,
too, just one more foolish, useless happiness--just a sensuous burying
of his face in flowers that on the morrow would have shrivelled.

"I'll send the _tonga_ on ahead," he declared, "and we'll just have
that jolly old farewell ride together, girl--I'd love it."

Now she turned back to him and her face was placid, soft, content, as
though Mona Lisa had stepped out from the painted canvas, and, now
embodied, was there listening to the sigh of the night-wind through the
feathered _sal_ forest.

With ejaculations of "Bap, bap, bap! _Shabaz_!" and queer gurgling
clucking of the throat, and a sonorous rumble from the wide, low
wheels, the driver drove the tonga on into the moonlight. Barlow had
saddled his horse and thrown his blanket loosely behind the saddle.
The air was chilling, but his sheepskin coat would turn its cold
breath; the blanket was for Bootea.

As he had done once before, his feet in stirrups, he reached down a
hand and swung the girl up in front of him. Then he enveloped her in
the blanket as she nestled against his chest, arms about his waist.
Her warm body was like a draught of wine and he muttered, "My God! I
shouldn't have done this!" But he knew that he would have had that
ride if devils had jeered at him from the jungle that lined the road.

As the horse swung along in leisured walking stride, the girl seemed to
have gone to sleep; her cheek lay against Barlow's shoulder, and he