Mir Jan’s answer was emphatic.  He took off his turban and placed it on Anstruther’s feet.

“Sahib,” he said, “I am your dog.  If, some day, I am found worthy to be your faithful servant, then shall I know that Allah has pardoned my transgressions.  I only killed a man because—­”

“Peace, Mir Jan.  Let him rest.”

“Why is he worshiping you, Robert?” demanded Iris.

He told her.

“Really,” she cried, “I must keep up my studies in Hindustani.  It is quite too sweet.”

And then, for the benefit of her father, she rattled off into a spirited account of her struggles with the algebraic x and the Urdu compound verb.

Sir Arthur Deane managed to repress a sigh.  In spite of himself he could not help liking Anstruther.  The man was magnetic, a hero, an ideal gentleman.  No wonder his daughter was infatuated with him.  Yet the future was dark and storm-tossed, full of sinister threats and complications.  Iris did not know the wretched circumstances which had come to pass since they parted, and which had changed the whole aspect of his life.  How could he tell her?  Why should it be his miserable lot to snatch the cup of happiness from her lips?  In that moment of silent agony he wished he were dead, for death alone could remove the burthen laid on him.  Well, surely he might bask in the sunshine of her laughter for another day.  No need to embitter her joyous heart until he was driven to it by dire necessity.

So he resolutely brushed aside the woe-begone phantom of care, and entered into the abandon of the hour with a zest that delighted her.  The dear girl imagined that Robert, her Robert, had made another speedy conquest, and Anstruther himself was much elated by the sudden change in Sir Arthur Deane’s demeanor.

They behaved like school children on a picnic.  They roared over Iris’s troubles in the matter of divided skirts, too much divided to be at all pleasant.  The shipowner tasted some of her sago bread, and vowed it was excellent.  They unearthed two bottles of champagne, the last of the case, and promised each other a hearty toast at dinner.  Nothing would content Iris but that they should draw a farewell bucketful of water from the well and drench the pitcher-plant with a torrential shower.

Robert carefully secured the pocket-books, money and other effects found on their dead companions.  The baronet, of course, knew all the principal officers of the Sirdar.  He surveyed these mournful relics with sorrowful interest.

“The Sirdar was the crack ship of my fleet, and Captain Ross my most trusted commander,” he said.  “You may well imagine, Mr. Anstruther, what a cruel blow it was to lose such a vessel, with all these people on board, and my only daughter amongst them.  I wonder now that it did not kill me.”

“She was a splendid sea-boat, sir.  Although disabled, she fought gallantly against the typhoon.  Nothing short of a reef would break her up.”