Straight down the quiet road under the majestic trees, with the monkeys, frightened by the torchlight, chattering nervously among the branches,—­ to the right near the lane Yasmini used the night before, and on toward the shadowy bulk of the great house in the distance the elephant trod loftily, the swing and sway of his back suggesting ages of past history, and ever-lasting ages more to come.  The horses kicked and squealed, for the Rajput loves a mettled mount; but nothing disturbed the elephant’s slow, measured stride, or moved the equanimity of his mahout.

Villagers came to the walls, and stood under the roadside trees to smile and stare.  Every man and child salaamed low as the procession passed, and some followed in the dust to feast their curiosity until the end of it; but not a voice was raised much above a whisper, except where once or twice a child cried shrilly.

“Why the silence?” Tess asked in a whisper, and without turning her head Yasmini answered: 

“Would you have the English know that I was hailed as maharanee through the streets?  Give them but leave and they would beat the tomtoms, and dance under the trees.  These are all friends here.”

The great house was surrounded by a high wall, but a gate was flung wide open to receive them and the procession never paused until the leading elephant came to a halt under a portico lit by dozens of oil lamps.  Standing on the porch were four women, veiled, but showing the glint of jewels and the sheen of splendid dresses underneath; they were the first that night to give tongue in acclamation, raising a hub-bub of greeting with a waving of slim hands and arms.  They clustered round Yasmini as she climbed down from the elephant, and led her into the hall with arms in hers and a thousand phrases of congratulation and glad welcome.

“Four queens!” Hasamurti whispered.

Tess and Hasamurti followed, side by side, not down the main hall, but to the left, into a suite of rooms reserved for women, where they all removed their veils and the talking and laughter began anew.  There were dozens of other women in there—­about half as many ladies as attendants, and they made more noise than a swarm of Vassar freshmen at the close of term.

The largest of the suite of rooms was higher than the rest by half a dozen steps.  At its farther end was a gilded door, on either side of which, as far as the walls at each end, was a panel of very deeply carved wood, through the interstices of which every whisper in the durbar hall was audible when the women all were still, and every man and movement could be seen.  Yasmini took her stand close to the gilded door, and Tess and Hasamurti watched the opportunity to come beside her—­no very easy matter in a room where fifty women jockeyed for recognition and a private word.