The dumb sympathy of Peter’s eyes kept the torturing thought constantly before her.  She felt sure that Peter believed him guilty of Dacre’s murder though it was more than possible that in his heart he condoned the offence.  Perhaps he even admired him for it, she reflected shudderingly.  But his devotion to her, as always, was uppermost.  His dog-like fidelity surrounded her with unfailing service.  The ayah had gone, and he had slipped into her place as naturally as if he had always occupied it.  Even now, while Stella stood at her window gazing forth into the garish moonlight, was he softly padding to and fro in the room adjoining hers, hushing the poor little wailing infant to sleep.  She could trust him implicitly, she knew, even in moments of crisis.  He would gladly work himself to death in her service.  But with Mrs. Ralston gone to Bhulwana, she knew she must have further help.  The strain was incessant, and Major Ralston insisted that she must have a woman with her.

All the ladies of the station, save herself, had gone.  She knew vaguely that some sort of disturbance was expected at Khanmulla, and that it might spread to Kurrumpore.  But her baby was too ill for travel; she had practically forced this truth from Major Ralston, and so she had no choice but to remain.  She knew very well at the heart of her that it would not be for long.

No thought of personal danger troubled her.  Sinister though the night might seem to her stretched nerves, yet no sense of individual peril penetrated the weary bewilderment of her brain.  She was tired out in mind and body, and had yielded to Peter’s persuasion to take a rest.  But the weird cry of the night-bird had drawn her to the window and the glittering splendour of the night had held her there.  She turned from it at last with a long, long sigh, and lay down just as she was.  She always held herself ready for a call at any time.  Those strange seizures came so suddenly and were becoming increasingly violent.  It was many days since she had permitted herself to sleep soundly.

She lay for awhile wide-eyed, almost painfully conscious, listening to Peter’s muffled movements in the other room.  The baby had ceased to cry, but he was still prowling to and fro, tireless and patient, with an endurance that was almost superhuman.

She had done the same thing a little earlier till her limbs had given way beneath her.  In the daytime Bernard helped her, but she and Peter shared the nights.

Her senses became at last a little blurred.  The night seemed to have spread over half a lifetime—­a practically endless vista of suffering.  The soft footfall in the other room made her think of the Sentry at the Gate, that Sentry with the flaming sword who never slept.  It beat with a pitiless thudding upon her brain....

Later, it grew intermittent, fitful, as if at each turn the Sentry paused.  It always went on again, or so she thought.  And she was sure she was not deeply sleeping, or that haunting cry of an owl had not penetrated her consciousness so frequently.