He had not seen her again.  She had gone to her room with Peter in attendance, Peter who owed his life to the knife in Everard’s girdle.  He had had a strong feeling that Peter was the only friend she needed just then, and certainly Tessa had been his first responsibility.  But the feeling that possibly she might need him was growing upon him.  He wished he had satisfied himself before starting that this was not the case.  But he comforted himself with the thought of Peter.  He was sure that Peter would take care of her.

Yes, Peter would care for his beloved mem-sahib, whatever his physical disabilities.  He would never fail in the execution of that his sacred duty while the power to do so was his.  If all others failed her, yet would Peter remain faithful.  Even then with his dog-like devotion was he crouched upon her threshold, his dark face wrapped in his garment, yet alert for every sound and mournfully aware that his mistress was not resting.  Of his own wound he thought not at all.  He had been very near the gate of death, and the only man in the world for whom he entertained the smallest feeling of fear had snatched him back.  To his promptitude alone did Peter owe his life.  He had cut out that deadly bite with a swiftness and a precision that had removed all danger of snake-poison, and in so doing he had exposed the secret which he had guarded so long and so carefully.  The first moment of contact had betrayed him to Peter, but Peter was very loyal.  Had he been the only one to recognize him, the secret would have been safe.  He had done his best to guard it, but Fate had been against them.  And the mem-sahib—­the mem-sahib had turned and gone away as one heart-broken.

Peter yearned to comfort her, but the whole situation was beyond him.  He could only mount guard in silence.  Perhaps—­presently—­the great sahib himself would come, and make all things right again.  The night was advancing.  Surely he would come soon.

Barely had he begun to hope for this when the door he guarded was opened slightly from within.  His mem-sahib, strangely white and still, looked forth.

“Peter!” she said gently.

He was up in a moment, bending before her, his black eyes glowing in the dim light.

She laid her slender hand upon his shoulder.  She had ever treated him with the graciousness of a queen.  “How is your wound?” she asked him in her soft, low voice.  “Has it been properly bathed and dressed?”

He straightened himself, looking into her beautiful pale face with the loving reverence that he always accorded her.  “All is well, my mem-sahib,” he said.  “Will you not be graciously pleased to rest?”

She shook her head, smiling faintly—­a smile that somehow tore his heart.  She opened her door and motioned him to enter.  “I think I had better see for myself,” she said.  “Poor Peter!  How you must have suffered, and how splendidly brave you are!  Come in and let me see what I can do!”