sarah went down to the big marquee. she found her three fellow travelers there. they were sitting at

table eating. the guide was explaining that there was another party here.

‘they came two days ago. go day after tomorrow. americans. the mother, very fat, very

difficult get here! carried in chair by bearers—they say very hard work—they get very hot—yes.’

sarah gave a sudden spurt of laughter. of course, take it properly, the whole thing was funny!

the fat dragoman looked at her gratefully. he was not finding his task too easy. lady

westholme had contradicted him out of baedeker three times that day and had now found fault with

the type of bed provided. he was grateful to the one member of his party who seemed to be

unaccountably in a good temper.

‘ha!’ said lady westholme. ‘i think these people were at the solomon. i recognized the old

mother as we arrived here. i think i saw you talking to her at the hotel, miss king.’

sarah blushed guiltily, hoping lady westholme had not overheard much of that conversation.

‘really, what possessed me!’ she thought to herself in an agony.

in the meantime lady westholme had made a pronouncement. ‘not interesting people at all.

very provincial,’ she said.

miss pierce made eager sycophantish noises and lady westholme embarked on a history of

various interesting and prominent americans whom she had met recently.

the weather being so unusually hot for the time of year, an early start was arranged for the

morrow.

the four assembled for breakfast at six o’clock. there were no signs of any of the boynton

family. after lady westholme had commented unfavourably on the absence of fruit, they consumed

tea, tinned milk, and fried eggs in a generous allowance of fat flanked by extremely salt bacon.

then they started forth, lady westholme and dr gerard discussing with animation on the part

of the former the exact value of vitamins in diet and the proper nutrition of the working classes.

then there was a sudden hail from the camp and they halted to allow another person to join the

party. it was mr jefferson cope who hurried after them, his pleasant face flushed with the exertion of

running.

‘why, if you don’t mind, i’d like to join your party this morning. good morning, miss king.

quite a surprise meeting you and dr gerard here. what do you think of it?’

he made a gesture indicating the fantastic red rocks that stretched in every direction.

‘i think it’s rather wonderful and just a little horrible,’ said sarah. ‘i always thought of it as

romantic and dream-like—the “rose-red city”. but it’s much more real than that—it’s as real as—as

raw beef.’

‘and very much the colour of it,’ agreed mr cope.

‘but it’s marvelous, too,’ admitted sarah.

the party began to climb. two bedouin guides accompanied them. tall men, with an easy

carriage, they swung upward unconcernedly in their hobnailed boots completely foot-sure on the

slippery slope. difficulties soon began. sarah had a good head for heights and so had dr gerard. but

both mr cope and lady westholme were far from happy, and the unfortunate miss pierce had to be

almost carried over the precipitous places, her eyes shut, her face green, while her voice rose

ceaselessly in a perpetual wail.

‘i never could look down places. never—from a child!’

once she declared her intention of going back, but on turning to face the descent, her skin

assumed an even greener tinge, and she reluctantly decided that to go on was the only thing to be

done.

dr gerard was kind and reassuring. he went up behind her, holding a stick between her and the

sheer drop like a balustrade and she confessed that the illusion of a rail did much to conquer the

feeling of vertigo.

sarah, panting a little, asked the dragoman, mahmoud, who, in spite of his ample proportions,

showed no signs of distress:

‘don’t you ever have trouble getting people up here? elderly ones, i mean.’

‘always—always we have trouble,’ agreed mahmoud serenely.

‘do you always try and take them?’

mahmoud shrugged his thick shoulders.

‘they like to come. they have paid money to see these things. they wish to see them. the

bedouin guides are very clever—very sure-footed—always they manage.’

they arrived at last at the summit. sarah drew a deep breath.

all around and below stretched the blood- red rocks — a strange and unbelievable country

unparalleled anywhere. here in the exquisite pure morning air they stood like gods, surveying a baser

world—a world of flaring violence.

here was, as the guide told them, the ‘place of sacrifice’—the ‘high place’. he showed them

the trough cut in the flat rock at their feet.

sarah strayed away from the rest, from the glib phrases that flowed so readily from the

dragoman’s tongue. she sat on a rock, pushed her hands through her thick black hair, and gazed

down on the world at her feet. presently she was aware of someone standing by her side. dr gerard’s

voice said:

‘you appreciate the appositeness of the devil’s temptation in the new testament. satan took

our lord up to the summit of a mountain and showed him the world. “all these things will i give

thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.” how much greater the temptation up on high to be a

god of material power.’

sarah assented, but her thoughts were so clearly elsewhere that gerard observed her in some

surprise.

‘you are pondering something very deeply,’ he said.

‘yes, i am.’ she turned a perplexed face to him.

‘it’s a wonderful idea—to have a place of sacrifice up here. i think sometimes, don’t you, that a

sacrifice is necessary…i mean, one can have too much regard for life. death isn’t really so important

as we make out.’

‘if you feel that, miss king, you should not have adopted our profession. to us, death is and

must always be—the enemy.’

sarah shivered.

‘yes, i suppose you’re right. and yet, so often death might solve a problem. it might mean,

even, fuller life…’

‘it is expedient for us that one man should die for the people!’ quoted gerard gravely.

sarah turned a startled face on him.

‘i didn’t mean—’ she broke off. jefferson cope was approaching them.

‘now this is really a most remarkable spot,’ he declared. ‘most remarkable, and i’m only too

pleased not to have missed it. i don’t mind confessing that though mrs boynton is certainly a most

remarkable woman—i greatly admire her pluck in being determined to come here—it does certainly

complicate matters travelling with her. her health is poor, and i suppose it naturally makes her a little

inconsiderate of other people’s feelings, but it does not seem to occur to her that her family might

like occasionally to go on excursions without her. she’s just so used to them clustering round her that

i suppose she doesn’t think—’

mr cope broke off. his nice kindly face looked a little disturbed and uncomfortable.

‘you know,’ he said, ‘i heard a piece of information about mrs boynton that disturbed me

greatly.’

sarah was lost in her own thoughts again—mr cope’s voice just flowed pleasantly in her ears

like the agreeable murmur of a remote stream, but dr gerard said:

‘indeed? what was it?’

‘my informant was a lady i came across in the hotel at tiberias. it concerned a servant girl who

had been in mrs boynton’s employ. the girl, i gather, was—had—’

mr cope paused, glanced delicately at sarah and lowered his voice. ‘she was going to have a

child. the old lady, it seemed, discovered this, but was apparently quite kind to the girl. then a few

weeks before the child was born she turned her out of the house.’

dr gerard’s eyebrows went up.

‘ah,’ he said reflectively.

‘my informant seemed very positive of her facts. i don’t know whether you agree with me, but

that seems to me a very cruel and heartless thing to do. i cannot understand—’

dr gerard interrupted him.

‘you should try to. that incident, i have no doubt, gave mrs boynton a good deal of quiet

enjoyment.’

mr cope turned a shocked face on him.

‘no, sir,’ he said with emphasis. ‘that i cannot believe. such an idea is quite inconceivable.’

softly dr gerard quoted:

‘so i returned and did consider all the oppressions done beneath the sun. and there was

weeping and wailing from those that were oppressed and had no comfort; for with their oppressors

there was power, so that no one came to comfort them. then i did praise the dead which are already

dead, yea, more than the living which linger still in life; yea, he that is not is better than dead or

living; for he doth not know of the evil that is wrought for ever on earth…’

he broke off and said:

‘my dear sir, i have made a life’s study of the strange things that go on in the human mind. it is

no good turning one’s face only to the fairer side of life. below the decencies and conventions of

everyday life, there lies a vast reservoir of strange things. there is such a thing, for instance, as

delight in cruelty for its own sake. but when you have found that, there is something deeper still. the

desire, profound and pitiful, to be appreciated. if that is thwarted, if through an unpleasing

personality a human being is unable to get the response it needs, it turns to other methods—it must be

felt—it must count—and so to innumerable strange perversions. the habit of cruelty, like any other

habit, can be cultivated, can take hold of one—’

mr cope coughed. ‘i think, dr gerard, that you are slightly exaggerating. really, the air up here

is too wonderful…’

he edged away. gerard smiled a little. he looked again at sarah. she was frowning—her face

was set in a youthful sternness. she looked, he thought, like a young judge delivering sentence…

he turned as miss pierce tripped unsteadily towards him.

‘we are going down now,’ she fluttered. ‘oh dear! i am sure i shall never manage it, but the

guide says the way down is quite a different route and much easier. i do hope so, because from a

child i never have been able to look down from heights…’

the descent was down the course of a waterfall. although there were loose stones which were a

possible source of danger to ankles, it presented no dizzy vistas.

the party arrived back at the camp weary but in good spirits and with an excellent appetite for a

late lunch. it was past two o’clock.

the boynton family was sitting round the big table in the marquee. they were just finishing

their meal.

lady westholme addressed a gracious sentence to them in her most condescending manner.

‘really a most interesting morning,’ she said. ‘petra is a wonderful spot.’

carol, to whom the words seemed addressed, shot a quick look at her mother and murmured:

‘oh, yes—yes, it is,’ and relapsed into silence.

lady westholme, feeling she had done her duty, addressed herself to her food.

as they ate, the four discussed plans for the afternoon.

‘i think i shall rest most of the afternoon,’ said miss pierce. ‘it is important, i think, not to do

too much.’

‘i shall go for a walk and explore,’ said sarah. ‘what about you, dr gerard?’

‘i will go with you.’

mrs boynton dropped a spoon with a ringing clatter and everyone jumped.

‘i think,’ said lady westholme, ‘that i shall follow your example, miss pierce. perhaps half an

hour with a book, then i shall lie down and take an hour’s rest at least. after that, perhaps, a short

stroll.’

slowly, with the help of lennox, old mrs boynton struggled to her feet. she stood for a moment

and then spoke.

‘you’d better all go for a walk this afternoon,’ she said with unexpected amiability.

it was, perhaps, slightly ludicrous to see the startled faces of her family.

‘but, mother, what about you?’

‘i don’t need any of you. i like sitting alone with my book. jinny had better not go. she’ll lie

down and have a sleep.’

‘mother, i’m not tired. i want to go with the others.’

‘you are tired. you’ve got a headache! you must be careful of yourself. go and lie down and

sleep. i know what’s best for you.’

‘i—i—’

her head thrown back, the girl stared rebelliously. then her eyes dropped—faltered…

‘silly child,’ said mrs boynton. ‘go to your tent.’

she stumped out of the marquee–the others followed.

‘dear me,’ said miss pierce. ‘what very peculiar people. such a very odd colour—the mother.

quite purple. heart, i should imagine. the heat must be very trying to her.’

sarah thought: ‘she’s letting them go free this afternoon. she knows raymond wants to be with

me. why? is it a trap?’

after lunch, when she had gone to her tent and had changed into a fresh linen dress, the thought

still worried her. since last night her feeling towards raymond had swelled into a passion of

protective tenderness. this, then, was love—this agony on another’s behalf—this desire to avert, at

all costs, pain from the beloved…yes, she loved raymond boynton. it was st george and the

dragon reversed. it was she who was the rescuer and raymond who was the chained victim.

and mrs boynton was the dragon. a dragon whose sudden amiability was, to sarah’s

suspicious mind, definitely sinister.

it was about a quarter-past three when sarah strolled down to the marquee.

lady westholme was sitting on a chair. despite the heat of the day she was still wearing her

serviceable harris tweed skirt. on her lap was the report of a royal commission. dr gerard was

talking to miss pierce, who was standing by her tent holding a book entitled the love quest and

described on its wrapper as a thrilling tale of passion and misunderstanding.

‘i don’t think it’s wise to lie down too soon after lunch,’ explained miss pierce. ‘one’s

digestion, you know. quite cool and pleasant in the shadow of the marquee. oh dear, do you think

that old lady is wise to sit in the sun up there?’

they all looked at the ridge in front of them. mrs boynton was sitting as she had sat last night, a

motionless buddha in the door of her cave. there was no other human creature in sight. all the camp

personnel were asleep. a short distance away, following the line of the valley, a little group of people

walked together.

‘for once,’ said dr gerard, ‘the good mamma permits them to enjoy themselves without her. a

new devilment on her part, perhaps?’

‘do you know,’ said sarah, ‘that’s just what i thought.’

‘what suspicious minds we have. come, let us join the truants.’

leaving miss pierce to her exciting reading, they set off. once round the bend of the valley,

they caught up the other party who were walking slowly. for once, the boyntons looked happy and

carefree.

lennox and nadine, carol and raymond, mr cope with a broad smile on his face and the last

arrivals, gerard and sarah, were soon all laughing and talking together.

a sudden wild hilarity was born. in everyone’s mind was the feeling that this was a snatched

pleasure—a stolen joy to enjoy to the full. sarah and raymond did not draw apart. instead, sarah

walked with carol and lennox. dr gerard chatted to raymond close behind them. nadine and

jefferson cope walked a little apart.

it was the frenchman who broke up the party. his words had been coming spasmodically for

some time. suddenly he stopped.

‘a thousand excuses. i fear i must go back.’

sarah looked at him. ‘anything the matter?’

he nodded. ‘yes, fever. it’s been coming on ever since lunch.’

sarah scrutinized him. ‘malaria?’

‘yes. i’ll go back and take quinine. hope this won’t be a bad attack. it is a legacy from a visit to

the congo.’

‘shall i come with you?’ asked sarah.

‘no, no. i have my case of drugs with me. a confounded nuisance. go on, all of you.’

he walked quickly back in the direction of the camp.

sarah looked undecidedly after him for a minute, then she met raymond’s eyes, smiled at him,

and the frenchman was forgotten.

for a time the six of them, carol, herself, lennox, mr cope, nadine and raymond, kept

together.

then, somehow or other, she and raymond had drifted apart. they walked on, climbing up

rocks, turning ledges, and rested at last in a shady spot.

there was a silence—then raymond said:

‘what’s your name? it’s king, i know. but your other name.’

‘sarah.’

‘sarah. may i call you that?’

‘of course.’

‘sarah, will you tell me something about yourself?’

leaning back against the rocks, she talked, telling him of her life at home in yorkshire, of her

dogs and the aunt who had brought her up.

then, in his turn, raymond told her a little, disjointedly, of his own life.

after that there was a long silence. their hands strayed together. they sat, like children, hand in

hand, strangely content.

then, as the sun grew lower, raymond stirred.

‘i’m going back now,’ he said. ‘no, not with you. i want to go back by myself. there’s

something i have to say and do. once that’s done, once i’ve proved to myself that i’m not a coward

—then—then—i shan’t be ashamed to come to you and ask you to help me. i shall need help, you

know, i shall probably have to borrow money from you.’

sarah smiled.

‘i’m glad you’re a realist. you can count on me.’

‘but first i’ve got to do this alone.’

‘do what?’

the young boyish face grew suddenly stern. raymond boynton said: ‘i’ve got to prove my

courage. it’s now or never.’

then, abruptly, he turned and strode away.

sarah leant back against the rock and watched his receding figure. something in his words had

vaguely alarmed her. he had seemed so intense—so terribly in earnest and strung up. for a moment

she wished she had gone with him…

but she rebuked herself sternly for that wish. raymond had desired to stand alone, to test his

new-found courage. that was his right.

but she prayed with all her heart that that courage would not fail…

the sun was setting when sarah came once more in sight of the camp. as she came nearer in the

dim light she could make out the grim figure of mrs boynton still sitting in the mouth of the cave.

sarah shivered a little at the sight of that grim, motionless figure…

she hurried past on the path below and came into the lighted marquee.

lady westholme was sitting knitting a navy-blue jumper, a skein of wool hung round her neck.

miss pierce was embroidering a table-mat with anaemic blue forget-me-nots, and being instructed on

the proper reform of the divorce laws.

the servants came in and out preparing for the evening meal. the boyntons were at the far end

of the marquee in deck-chairs reading. mahmoud appeared, fat and dignified, and was plaintively

reproachful. very nice after-tea ramble had been arranged to take place, but everyone absent from

camp… the programme was now entirely thrown out… very instructive visit to nabataen

architecture.

sarah said hastily that they had all enjoyed themselves very much.

she went off to her tent to wash for supper. on the way back she paused by dr gerard’s tent,

calling in a low voice: ‘dr gerard.’

there was no answer. she lifted the flap and looked in. the doctor was lying motionless on his

bed. sarah withdrew noiselessly, hoping he was asleep.

a servant came to her and pointed to the marquee. evidently supper was ready. she strolled

down again. everyone else was assembled there round the table with the exception of dr gerard and

mrs boynton. a servant was dispatched to tell the old lady dinner was ready. then there was a

sudden commotion outside. two frightened servants rushed in and spoke excitedly to the dragoman

in arabic.

mahmoud looked round him in a flustered manner and went outside. on an impulse sarah

joined him.

‘what’s the matter?’ she asked.

mahmoud replied: ‘the old lady. abdul says she is ill—cannot move.’

‘i’ll come and see.’

sarah quickened her step. following mahmoud, she climbed the rock and walked along until

she came to the squat figure in the chair, touched the puffy hand, felt for the pulse, bent over her…

when she straightened herself she was paler.

she retraced her steps back to the marquee. in the doorway she paused a minute looking at the

group at the far end of the table. her voice when she spoke sounded to herself brusque and unnatural.

‘i’m so sorry,’ she said. she forced herself to address the head of the family, lennox. ‘your

mother is dead, mr boynton.’

and curiously, as though from a great distance, she watched the faces of five people to whom

that announcement meant freedom…