The wooing Indian climate was fast ripening the exquisite loveliness of eighteen.
Her dark eyes gleamed with earnestness, and the rich brown locks crowned her stately head as with a coronal of golden bronze.

The roses on her cheeks were not yet faded by the insidious climate of burning India, and a thrilling earnestness accented the music of her voice.
"What can we do, Nadine ?" murmured Justine Delande.
"Nothing," sighed the motherless girl.

"But when this Major Hawke comes, you must, for my sake, find out all you can.

Ah! To leave India forever!" she sighed.

Her marble prison was only a place of sorrow and lamentation.
Major Hawke's flying steeds reached the marble house, after a circuit to Ram Lal's jewel mart.