flood-water bore them up and seemed as though it would last for ever. The boat was a rudderless dinghy. Huddled up in the stern, with the spare pair of oars in his arms, the guest asked no questions about details. There was presently a flash of lightning, followed by a second flash—little red scratches on the ponderous sky. "Was that the Rajah?" he asked.
"What—what do you mean?"
"Row back."
"But there's no Rajah—nothing"
"Row back, you will see what I mean."
Aziz found it hard work against the advancing wind. But he fixed his eyes on the pin of light that marked the Guest House and backed a few strokes.
"There. . ."
Floating in the darkness was a king, who sat under a canopy, in shining royal robes. . . .
"I can't tell you what that is, I'm sure," he whispered. "His Highness is dead. I think we should go back at once."
They were close to the promontory of the tombs, and had looked straight into the chhatri of the Rajah's father through an opening in the trees. That was the explanation. He had heard of the image—made to imitate life at enormous expense—but he had never chanced to see it before, though he frequently rowed on the lake. There was only one spot from which it could be seen, and Ralph had directed him to it. Hastily he pulled away, feeling that his companion was not so much a visitor as a guide. He remarked, "Shall we go back now?"
"There is still the procession."
"I'd rather not go nearer—they have such strange customs, and might hurt you."
"A little nearer."
Aziz obeyed. He knew with his heart that this was Mrs. Moore's son, and indeed until his heart was involved he knew nothing. "Radhakrishna Radhakrishna
