now in the most radiant colours. She had promised to forget; the first thing she did after leaving Madhav was to remember; to remember and hang with rapture on each word he had uttered,—on each tear he had shed; and often would the rapture vanish and be succeeded by the thought that god and man abhorred her impurity of heart.
A part of their journey had been accomplished when the growing blackness of the skies announced that a storm was near.
"Thakuran, hasten your footsteps," said Karuna, breaking the long silence; "there will be a storm; let us reach your house before it commences."
"Yes," said Matangini unconsciously, "go on."
Karuna increased her speed and Matangini imitated her, more from example than from any sense of necessity.
"There—hear,—bigger drops are falling on the leaves," said Karuna speaking once more.
"Yes?" said Matangini, then awaking for the first time from her abstraction, and, stopping to listen, continued, "Ah it is not the sound of rain-drops—it seems to be—what? perhaps the sound of human feet treading over the leaves and stumps of trees."
"Is it so, Thakuran?" ejaculated Karuna and increased her speed, apprehensive lest she should fall into the hands of some loiterer from among the dacoit band.
But they had not proceeded far when the wind rose in fury, the lightning flashed, the
