of the great, man-eating river, and while beyond the arrogant town the highlands came into view, closing in like a tide of stone—as if Asia were there, behind those naked, sun-scorched ridges that glowed like topaz and sapphire—Asia, passive, patient, amorphous, yet minatory—threatening, even in its sleep, the handful of Europeans who were clinging to its outer fringe …
As Hector looked, something hidden seemed to grow within him to a height of abnormal perceptiveness. The sense of a past life, a life which he was dimly remembering again, became magnified with every minute that passed. He felt that presently the power of perceiving would pass into that of doing. He would strike a blow for his fate … a blow … his hand touched the sword that pressed against his heart …
Then, very suddenly, a dry cackle jerked him back into the realities of his life.
“Yes,” somebody was saying, “they kicked him out of the Dragoons. Cheated at cards, the damned cad. What's he going to do in India? Heaven knows. The usual thing, I s'pose—go under—mate up with some low-caste bazaar woman—live native style—come 'round the Club, cadgin' for drinks … you know, Jack! Calcutta's full of his sort …”
