the place revealed a lighted window upon the first floor. Standing in the shadow of an old apple tree, Nicol Brinn watched the blind of this window minute after minute, patiently waiting for a shadow to appear upon it; and at last his patience was rewarded.
A shadow appeared—the shadow of a woman!
Nicol Brinn dropped his cigar at his feet and set his heel upon it. A bitter-sweet memory which had been with him for seven years arose again in his mind. There is a kind of mountain owl in certain parts of northern India which possesses a curiously high, plaintive note. He wondered if he could remember and reproduce that note.
He made the attempt, repeating the cry three times. At the third repetition the light in the first-floor window went out. He heard the sound of the window being gently opened. Then a voice—a voice which held the sweetest music in the world for the man who listened below—spoke softly:
"Nicol!"
"Naîda!" he called. "Come down to me. You must. Don't answer. I will wait here."
"Promise you will let me return!"
He hesitated.
"Promise!"
"I promise."
