for a few moments after the train that was carrying major meredith back to algiers had pulled jerkily out of the station, carew lingered on the deserted ill-lit platform. then, acknowledging with a curt nod the half-caste stationmaster’s obsequious greeting, he strode leisurely to where the horses were waiting in the care of a kabyle lad he had picked out from among the heterogeneous collection of loafers lounging before the station entrance. he signed to the boy to follow him with captain andré’s horse and trotted suliman slowly towards the town. entering by the es-sebt gate he turned in the direction of the cavalry barracks. despite the late hour the numberless cafés with their flaring gas lamps and tawdry garishness were at their busiest. the pavements were thronged, a ceaseless stream of cosmopolitan humanity; slow-moving, dignified arabs, servile and furtive-eyed jews meekly giving place to all who elbowed them, and eager, chattering frenchmen—all jostling, indiscriminately. even the roadway was invaded, and bands of zouaves with interlocked arms reeled along regardless of the traffic, roaring out the latest musical song with unmelodious vigour and shouting questionable jibes at the passers by.

tonight blidah seemed to be en fête, noisier and more blatant than usual. and to carew, fresh from nearly a year in the desert, the scene was distasteful. it was not new to him, years spent in algeria had familiarised him with the nightly aspect of the garrison towns, and he was in no mood to be either interested or amused by what he saw. he had no love for blidah at the best of times and he had already been there once before that day.

at the cavalry barracks he handed over captain andré’s grey to the sleepy groom who was waiting and, dismissing the kabyle lad, turned with a sigh of relief in the direction of the bab-el-rabah. passing through the gateway he headed towards the east, intending to return by the same route by which he had brought major meredith. once clear of the town suliman broke of his own accord into the long, swinging gallop to which he was accustomed and for a time carew let him take his own pace. but soon he checked him, drawing him into a reluctant walk. and as the bay sidled and reared, snorting impatiently, his master bent forward in the saddle and ran his hand caressingly over the glossy arched neck. “gently, gently, core of my heart,” he murmured in the language that came more readily to his lips than his own, “there is no need for haste. tomorrow is also a day.” and pacing slowly forward through the quiet night he set himself at last to face the torturing recollections of the past that for years he had put resolutely out of his mind but which had been cruelly awakened by the wholly unexpected advent of his old friend. inscrutable as the arabs amongst whom he lived, he exhibited no outward sign of agitation, but under the passivity that had become second nature with him there was raging a bitter storm of anger and revolt against fate that had thrown micky meredith across his path to shatter the hard-won peace that had come to him in the desert. meredith was bound up with all he wished to forget, was the living reminder of the home and happiness he had lost. his coming had reopened the wound that carew had thought healed forever. memories, like stabs of actual pain, crowded in upon him. the old struggle, the old bitterness he had conquered once was overwhelming him again, shaking him to the very depths of his being. the past he had resolved to forget rose up anew with terrible distinctness. royal carew—and the woman he had loved! with the sweat of agony thick on his forehead he lived again through the horror of that ghastly homecoming. he saw again, clearly as though they stood before him, the pitying, terrified faces of the old servants from whom he learned the sordid story of his betrayal. he passed once more through the hours of anguish when he had knelt in dumb, helpless misery beside the tiny cot in the luxurious nursery and watched the death struggle of the child whom, worse than motherless, he loved so passionately. the dark waters of despair had closed over his head that night. weak from the terrible wound that had brought him back to england, crushed by the double tragedy, he had longed and prayed for death. and when he had at last found courage to go forward with what remained to him of life, it was as a changed man, embittered out of any semblance to his former self. he had divorced his wife that she might marry the man for whom she had left him, and with grim justice, because she had been the mother of his son, he had settled upon her an adequate fortune. but for the woman herself he had no feeling left but loathing and contempt. she had deceived him, lied to him. she had destroyed his faith, his trust. she had opened his eyes at last to the unworthiness that had been patent to all but the husband who worshipped her. she had killed his love—and with it had died esteem and belief in the sex she represented. with her his ideal of womanhood, pinnacled high with chivalrous regard, had shattered into nothingness. because of her he had become the cynical misogynist he was, seeing in all women the one woman whose falseness had poisoned his life. the thought of her stirred him now to nothing but a sense of cold disgust.

but the memory of the little son who had died was a living force within him. it had gone with him through all the years of loneliness and disillusion, a grief as bitter now as on that first night of his bereavement. not for the woman, but for the child his starved heart still yearned with passionate intensity. the tiny face was present with him always, even yet he could remember the clinging touch of the fragile baby fingers closing convulsively on his in that last moment of terrible struggle. it was to try and deaden the pain of memory, to ease the burden of his solitude, that he had kept the little waif of the desert. and the blind boy in his helplessness and dependence had in some measure filled the blank in his life. but tonight the remembrance of his loss was heavy upon him. even with the child meredith was connected, for his visit to royal carew had been made a few months after the birth of the heir who had been born to such high hopes. together the two men had discussed in all solemnity the probable career of the sleepy scrap of pink humanity who at that time had shown no sign of the delicacy which had developed later.

and royal carew! for the first time in years he let his thoughts turn to the beautiful property he had voluntarily surrendered and a wave of intense home sickness passed over him. he crushed it down with a feeling of contempt for his own weakness. once it had seemed to him the fairest place on god’s earth, he had loved every stick and stone of it. he loved it still, but with his love was the remembrance of bitter pain that made him shrink from ever seeing it again. childless, it was for him purposeless. if the child had lived—but the child was dead, and things were better as they were. regrets were useless. there was nothing to be gained by harking back to what might have been. carew’s lips tightened and he forced his mind into another channel of thought. after all, it had been no fault of meredith’s. carew had guessed the reason of the soldier’s restrained manner at the moment of meeting and the knowledge had added warmth to his own greeting. pride had stirred him, that and a vague idea of testing his own command over himself. naturally long-sighted he had seen and known meredith even before doctor chalmers had hailed him. almost he had been tempted to pass by with no sign of recognition. then he had cursed himself for a coward and had reined in suliman with that sudden jerk that had made mrs. chalmers’ heart stand still. and now was he glad or sorry for meredith’s coming? it was a question that in his present mood he found himself unable to answer. he had no wish to further analyse his feelings. he had become unaccustomed to self-consideration. for once he had relaxed the rigid control he exercised over his own thoughts—and once was enough. during the years of strenuous work in the desert he had succeeded in suppressing self, and in that work he would endeavour to regain the contentment that was all he had to hope for.

with a powerful effort of will he put away all thoughts of meredith and the memories he had awakened and, touching suliman with his heel, concentrated on the results of the difficult mission from which he was now returning to algiers.

it had been a delicate business, attended with considerable danger that had not disturbed him, and subtle oriental intrigue, in dealing with which hosein’s help had been invaluable. the man had been carew’s body-servant and faithful companion for all the years he had lived in algeria. the son of his father’s old dragoman, carew remembered him as a singularly intelligent urchin, a year or two older than himself, employed about the villa on mustapha superieur where the winters of his own boyhood had been spent, and he had sought him out on his first return to the country. he had never regretted it. devoted and singleminded in his service the arab had been friend as well as servant and a loyal cooperator in carew’s chosen work. a wanderer by instinct, it was not only in algeria that hosein had travelled and the green band of the mecca pilgrim that he wore gave him a prestige which had carried his master and himself through some sufficiently awkward situations. carew had owed his life to him not once nor twice, and he knew that but for hosein’s watchfulness he would never have returned alive from this last dangerous undertaking. the report he was carrying back to the governor in algiers was due as much to hosein as to himself. and the arab should not be the loser if he could help it, he thought with a sudden rare smile.

immersed in his thoughts he had taken little notice of his surroundings and had not realised how far he had come on his homeward journey. a whistling snort from suliman and a sudden wild swerve that would have unseated a less practised horseman brought him back abruptly to the immediate present, and looking round sharply he saw that they had arrived at the outskirts of the deserted village. dragging his horse to a standstill he looked keenly about him, but in spite of the brilliant moonlight, he could see nothing moving. yet suliman was accustomed to night work and it was unlike him to shy at shadows. the deserted village had a bad reputation in the neighbourhood but carew had never avoided it on that account, he had a reputation himself that was sufficiently widely known.

he glanced perfunctorily to right and left as he rode through the winding, grass-grown street, but to all appearances, the place seemed empty as it had been when he passed through it earlier in the evening. he was nearing the last group of tumbled-down huts when the sound of a piercing shriek breaking weirdly on the silence of the night sent suliman high on his heels in furious protest. hauling him down, carew twisted in the saddle, listening intently. it came again, echoing from a little lane that straggled from the main street, the wail of a woman’s voice crying wildly in french for help. a woman—in such a place and at such an hour! carew’s compressed lips parted in a mirthless grin and he relaxed his strained attention. what was a woman doing at midnight in that village of ill repute? some little fool, doubtless, who had tempted providence too highly, paying the price of her folly! well, let her pay. in all probability she had brought it on herself—she could abide by the consequences. it was no business of his, anyhow. why should he, of all men, interfere to help a woman in her need—what was a woman’s suffering to him? his face was set and grimly hard as he soothed his plunging horse and prepared to ride on. but as suliman started forward the cry was repeated with words that made carew check him with an iron hand and bring him, quivering to his haunches. clear and distinct they came to him—words of frenzied entreaty to a higher power than his, words in a language he least expected to hear.

“help, help! oh, god, send help!”

an englishwoman! for a moment he battled with himself. then with a terrible oath he wrenched his horse’s head round savagely and drove him down the little lane at a headlong gallop.

the lane was a cul-de-sac, the house he sought at the far end of it, for there only did a dim light filtering through an unshuttered window show any sign of habitation. deep shadows masked the entrance and a few feet short of it, in a patch of vivid moonlight, he pulled up and, leaping to the ground, raced towards the hidden doorway. his foot was on the crumbling step when out of the gloom three figures rose up to bar his entrance and hurled themselves upon him. the attack was silent, and in silence he met it. there was no time to reach for the revolver he had neglected to draw. straining, heaving, he wrestled in the darkness with opponents whose faces he could not see, whose arms encircled him and whose clutching sinewy hands tore murderously at his throat. a knife pricked him and with a blind instinct he caught at and held the hand that brandished it, crushing it in his strong fingers till he felt the yielding bones crack and the weapon slipped to the ground with a faint tinkle. in perfect physical condition, with steely muscles toughened by years of strenuous and active life, he knew that singly he could have matched any one of the men who were hemming him in, but against three even his great strength was unavailing. struggling to free his arms, he gave back step by step as they pressed him closer in a continued silence that was menacing by its very unusualness. even the man whose hand he had maimed had made no sound beyond a muffled growl. only the shuffling of feet on the dry ground, the panting, animal-like grunts of exertion as they grappled with him, were audible. the rank stench of filthy, sweat-drenched garments was pungent in his nostrils; hot, fetid breath fanning his face gave him—accustomed though he was to the dirt and squalor of the arabs—a feeling of nausea that sent a shiver of disgust through him. at last with a tremendous effort he wrenched himself free and reeled back, gasping, into the patch of moonlight, his heart pounding against his ribs, perspiration pouring from him. and as the bright light struck across his face the men who had followed him swiftly drew back with sudden indetermination, muttering amongst themselves. he caught the words “el hakim,” the title he bore amongst the desert people, and almost before he realised it they had vanished into the shadows of the neighbouring houses and he was alone. for a moment he fought for breath, wiping the blinding moisture from his dripping face, fumbling for the revolver in his waistcloth. then another strangled cry from within the lighted hut spurred him into action and he sprang forward, flinging back the heavy burnous from his shoulders as he ran. the rotting door crashed open under the sudden impact of his weight and in the entrance he halted with levelled revolver. for a second only. his eyes sweeping the tiny room met those of a gigantic, evil-faced arab who, startled at his appearance, had flung to the ground the woman who struggled in his arms and turned to meet the intruder with a scowl of murderous ferocity. a grim smile of recognition flickered across carew’s stern face. “thou—dog?” he thundered, and leaped at him. for a moment the arab wavered, then a knife flashed in his hand. but with a quick feint carew dodged the sweeping blow and caught the upraised wrist in a vice-like grip. with his revolver pressing into the man’s stomach he forced him back slowly against the wall of the hut, his fingers tightening their hold until the paralysed hand unclenched and the knife clattered to the floor. kicking it beyond reach, carew backed a few paces and, still keeping the arab covered, turned his attention for the first time to the woman he had come reluctantly to aid. only a girl apparently, her face almost childish in its strained, white piteousness, she had dragged herself up from the floor and was standing rocking on her feet in the middle of the room. he looked with a kind of cruel deliberation on the slender, shaking limbs which, clothed in boyish riding dress that intimately revealed their delicate beauty, would have been the joy of an artist, but which filled him only with an acute feeling of antagonism. the folly of it, the shameless, senseless folly of it! a woman must be a fool and worse than a fool to expose herself thus in a land of veiled femininity. his antagonism augmented and he viewed unmoved the signs of terrible struggle through which she had passed. that she had fought desperately was evidenced in the marks of violent handling she bore, in the unbound hair that lay in curling chestnut waves about her shoulders, in the tattered silk shirt that, ripped from throat to waist, bared the soft whiteness of her heaving breasts to the austere gaze bent so pitilessly on her. she seemed unaware of carew’s nearness. panting for breath, her hands clenching and unclenching mechanically, she stood like a driven animal at bay, her eyes fixed on the arab in a wild, unblinking stare. carew broke the silence abruptly with a blunt question addressed to her that was brutally direct. he spoke in french that both could understand and because he had no wish tonight to pass as other than an arab himself. the harsh voice roused her to a realisation of his presence. she started violently, her hunted eyes turning slowly to him as if she dared not lose sight of the sinister figure by the wall. for a few seconds she stared at him uncomprehendingly, then her cheeks flamed suddenly as the meaning of his words penetrated. her lips quivered and she shrank back, dragging the tangle of soft hair over her uncovered bosom with an instinctive gesture of modesty. she tried to speak, but for some time no words would come, then a wail of entreaty burst from her. “take me away, oh, for god’s sake take me away!” she cried, and buried her face in her hands with a convulsive shudder.

he jerked his head impatiently. the life he had led for the last twelve years had made him intolerant of convention, he had no intention of allowing it to interfere now with the rough and ready justice he was fully prepared to administer. he had no reason to hesitate. the arab was a well-known criminal, the abduction of an english visitor an offence the algerian government could not in any sense condone.

“i will take you away when you have answered my question, madame,” he said coldly. “this is no time or place for false modesty. does he go free or—” he raised his revolver with a gesture that was unmistakable. but the sharp cry of protest arrested him, and shuddering again she drew further from him till she leant against the opposite wall, clinging to it and hiding her face like a child fearful of some impending horror. “no—no—not that,” she gasped, “let him go. you came—in time.” the last words trailed into an almost inaudible whisper and with a little moan she slipped to the floor as if the last remnant of her strength had left her.

indifferent to her distress he turned from her to the more pressing matter of the arab.

“what shame is this, o abdul?” he said sternly, relapsing into arabic. shuffling his feet the man glanced past him towards the open doorway from which carew’s tall figure effectually barred him. he knew that in the few minutes that had passed he had been nearer to death than was comfortable to contemplate. he had no desire to enter into a detailed history of his offence, his sole wish at the moment was to remove himself as speedily as might be from the proximity of the accusing eyes fixed on him. true, a reprieve had been granted—but for how long? memories of past dealings with the man who stood before him made him keep a wary eye on the revolver that carew still held with unpleasant suggestiveness.

“shame indeed, o sidi,” he whined with a cringing salaam, “had i known that the lalla was under thy protection. but is not my lord known throughout all algeria as one who deigns not to stoop his eyes to the face of a woman?”

there was cunning mixed with curiosity in the swift upward glance that met carew’s frowning stare for an instant and then wavered to earth again. the scowl on the englishman’s face deepened.

“yet would i have killed thee for what thou hast done tonight,” he said quickly, “be very sure of that, o abdul. but the lalla has given thee thy life. give thanks—and go.”

he cut short the arab’s glib protestations and hustled him towards the door. but on the threshold the man paused irresolutely, with another obsequious salaam.

“i have served my lord in the past,” he muttered sullenly, “for the sake of that service will not my lord forget—tonight?”

carew looked at him through narrowing eyelids.

“to suit thine own ends hast thou served me,” he said pointedly, “and forgetfulness comes not readily to those who live with a sharp reminder—as i shall live,” he added, stooping swiftly and catching up the knife that lay near his foot. with a cold smile he thrust it into his waistcloth and turned slowly back into the room. he did not trouble to wait and watch the man off the premises. he had known abdul el dhib for years and his knowledge made him confident that in the meantime he was safe from any form of revenge from the human jackal on whose head the algerian government had set a price. usually his activities were confined to more remote districts and carew had been surprised to see him so near to civilisation. but it was no part of his business to act as a common police spy and he knew that abdul had counted on the fact when he had endeavoured to make terms with him. remained the more perplexing problem of the woman thrust, wholly undesired, on his hands. she was still crouched on the dusty mud floor where she had fallen and he went to her reluctantly.

she shivered at his touch, staggering to her feet with a swift glance of apprehension round the room. clutching the screening mass of curls about her she passed a hand over her eyes as though clearing away the remembrance of some horrible vision. she showed no fear of the tall arab-clad figure standing beside her, by some curious instinct she seemed sensible that his presence constituted a protection and not a menace. but equally she displayed no haste to explain the predicament in which he had found her or to disclose her identity. stunned by the terrible experience through which she had passed, she appeared to be only half conscious and incapable of any initiative. carew, passionately anxious to be quit of the whole business, was not inclined to beat about the bush, but came to the point with characteristic directness.

“you come from blidah, madame?”

she looked at him blankly, her puzzled eyes still shadowy with pain, and he repeated the question slower and more distinctly.

“blidah—” she echoed vaguely. “blidah? no—algiers.”

a look of dismay crossed carew’s face. algiers was thirty miles away. he could have taken her back to blidah easily enough, but algiers with suliman, who had already done a hard day’s work, carrying double—it was out of the question. he jerked his head with a gesture of annoyance and scowled thoughtfully, mentally cursing abdul el dhib and the woman beside him with fine impartiality.

“where in algiers?” he asked shortly, by way of gaining time to think out the awkward situation. but the girl was past all explanations. “algiers—” she repeated weakly and, reeling, would have fallen but for the strong arm slipped round her. that settled it. half fainting and wholly unable to express herself she could give him no assistance and he realised there was nothing for it but the expedient he least desired—that of taking her to his own camp. his own camp—good god! antagonism grew into actual dislike as he glanced down at the slender boyish figure leaning against him. with a grunt of disgust he half led, half carried her out of the hut.

suliman, trained to stand, was waiting in the patch of moonlight, jerking the dangling bridle impatiently. unhooking his heavy burnous carew rolled it into a long, soft pad and flung it across the horse’s neck in front of the high-peaked saddle. then he swung the girl up with a curt “hold on to his mane” and leaped up behind her, wondering what would be the result of suliman’s first excited plunge. but with instinctive good grace the horse refrained from his usual display of light-hearted exuberance and set off soberly at a slow canter to which carew held him. there were no signs of abdul and his band of cut-throats, no lurking shadows in the vicinity of the silent houses and in a few minutes the village was behind them.

carew rode with a tight rein and a watchful eye on the drooping little figure in front of him. his own tall, muscular form was drawn up in the saddle taut and rigid with repugnance at her nearness, every fibre in his being revolting from the proximity of her woman’s body. the subtle torture of it made him grit his teeth and thick, cold drops of moisture gathered on his forehead. he raged at the necessity that had forced him to a step that an hour ago he would have thought beyond the bounds of possibility. and tonight of all nights, when his senses were already raw and aching with the recollections of the past that had racked him almost beyond bearing.

the calm to which he had schooled himself through years of self-discipline and self-suppression had been swept away and he was aghast at the tumult within him which seemed to be tearing down every defence and barrier he had raised so strenuously.

the need of one fragile girl had caused him to break a resolution from which he had sworn never to turn. and at the moment he could cheerfully have thrown the fragile girl behind the clump of rocks they were passing and washed his hands of the whole affair. because she was english—it was the sole reason for the action that had so surprised himself. race loyalty had, in an extreme moment, proved stronger than his determination and her sex had been swamped in her nationality. but for those few words in english he would have ridden on. the appeal coming in another language had left him unmoved, but repeated in the mother-tongue that had become almost foreign to him had stirred him powerfully, even against his own inclination. but the call of the blood that had triumphed so unexpectedly over him did not in any way mitigate the constraint of his present situation. it was an embarrassment that grew momentarily more acute and distasteful. he was impatient of every little circumstance that augmented his discomfiture. his nerves on edge he found cause for annoyance even in the slow pace at which he was compelled to ride. it irked him as badly as it was irking suliman who, with his nose turned towards home, was snatching at his bit and endeavouring to break into the usual gallop. the girl herself settled the last problem. she had been drooping more and more over the horse’s neck, clutching instinctively at the thick mane in which her fingers were twined, but now without a word or sound she collapsed and fell back in a dead faint.

with his face gone suddenly ghastly carew lifted her until she lay across his thighs, his left arm crooked about her shoulders, her dishevelled little head pressing against his breast. god in heaven, it only wanted this! cursing savagely he drove his spurs with unwonted cruelty into his horse’s sides and gave him his head. and in the wild rush through the cool night that followed he tried to forget that he carried a woman in his arms. but the slender little body, warm and yielding against his own, was a reminder that obtruded too powerfully to allow of forgetfulness. so had he carried his wife once after a minor accident in the hunting field, and then, as now, a thick strand of scented hair had blown across his face blinding him with its soft fragrance. he tore it away with shaking fingers.

impossible now to stem the flood of recollection. it was stronger than his will to put it from him. more painful, more crushing even than before it swept him with a force he was powerless to resist and he made no further effort, surrendering his mind to its bitter memories while he urged suliman recklessly, careless whether he broke his neck and the girl’s or not. and with a madness almost equal to his own, goaded by the sharp spurs that carew used so seldom the bay tore on at racing speed, breasting the tiny hillocks and thundering down their gentle declivities, taking rocks and pitfalls in his stride, as if tireless. and when at last the open plain was reached he turned of his own accord in the direction of the camp, hardly slackening his pace until he arrived with a great slithering rush before the tent door. a couple of grooms sprang forward, but the last spurt had been his final effort and he made no attempt to evade them, standing with down-drooping head and widely planted feet, breathing heavily and trembling with exhaustion.

gathering the girl closer in his arms carew slipped to the ground. to hosein, imperturbable even in the face of this unprecedented spectacle, he vouchsafed only the curt explanation “abdul el dhib” and ordering coffee to be brought to him carried his slight burden into the tent.

prejudiced and angry he scowled down at her with fierce resentment as he laid her among the silk cushions on the divan. that he had himself been compelled to bring her here did not in any way lessen his anger or make his task easier. but since she was here, helpless and dependent on him, common humanity demanded that he should do all in his power to aid her. striving to sink the man in the doctor he endeavoured to regard her only as a case and set to work to combat the prolonged fainting fit that seemed to argue something more than a mere collapse from fear and fatigue. and as his sombre eyes dwelt on her he found himself reluctantly admitting the uncommon beauty of her face and form. but her beauty made him no more kindly disposed towards her. a woman’s beauty—the transient snare that lured trusting fools to their undoing—what was it to him who had learned the vileness and hypocrisy that lay beneath seeming outward loveliness? with a shrug of disdain he raised her higher on the cushions.

and at last she stirred, the long, dark lashes that lay like a dusky fringe on her pale cheek fluttering tremulously. and, as he bent over her, two deep blue eyes looked suddenly into his, blankly at first, then with quick apprehension that in turn gave place to dawning recognition.

the colour crept back slowly into her face and with a whispered enquiry she struggled to sit up. but he pressed her back, slipping another cushion under her head. “lie still for a little while,” he said slowly, “you fainted. i had to bring you to my camp. you are quite safe.”

the curious trust she had shown earlier was manifested again for she obeyed him without protest, her rigid limbs relaxing against the soft cushions. but the colour in her cheeks deepened as she glanced wonderingly about the room and then at her own disordered appearance.

“i’ve never fainted before in my life,” she murmured, “i’m sorry to have been so stupid—to have given so much trouble.” then, all at once, her lips quivered and with a sharp, dry sob she flung her arm across her face. but the natural outburst of womanly weeping that carew expected did not follow, only, watching her, he saw from time to time spasms of terrible shuddering shake her from head to foot.

the coffee that hosein brought a few minutes later steadied her, and when carew turned to her again after giving his servant further orders she staggered unsteadily to her feet with a half shy, half nervous glance about the tent.

“you have been very kind—i don’t know how to thank you,” she said hurriedly, “but i can’t trespass on your hospitality any longer. i—my husband—oh, i must get back—if—if you could lend me a horse—” but even as she spoke she swayed giddily and caught at the divan for support. carew looked at her narrowly. “when did you eat last?” he asked abruptly, ignoring her request. her eyes closed wearily. “i don’t know,” she faltered, “this morning, i think. a cup of coffee—before i left home. oh, it seems ten years ago!” she burst out shuddering.

it was a simple explanation of her exhaustion that had already occurred to him, and for which he had provided. want of food, combined with reaction following a nerve-racking experience—small wonder she had collapsed, he reflected.

“algiers is thirty miles away,” he explained gravely, “you are not fit to ride now. you must eat, and rest for a few hours before you attempt to return.”

but she shook her head vehemently. “i couldn’t eat,” she panted, a desperate urgency in her voice, “i couldn’t rest, i mustn’t rest. i’ve got to get back home. oh, you don’t understand—but i must get back to algiers.” she was shaking with nervousness but carew felt instinctively that it was not of him she was afraid. and consequently who or what inspired her fear was no business of his, though as he watched her restlessly twisting the golden circlet that gleamed so incongruously on her slim, boyish hand he made a shrewd guess at the cause of her agitation. but that was her affair. he was concerned only with the need of the moment.

“be reasonable, madame,” he said sharply, “i do not keep you to amuse myself, but because you are not in a fit state at the moment to ride thirty miles. eat what my servant is bringing, rest for a couple of hours, and then i will take you back to algiers. if your—your friends are anxious about you they must be anxious for a few hours longer.”

he spoke almost brutally and though she flinched from his tone she seemed to realise the necessity of submitting to his decision. but her distress was still obvious and he could see that she was fighting hard to maintain the restraint she imposed upon herself. and grudgingly he conceded admiration he was loath to accord. usually courage of any kind appealed to him, but, morbidly prejudiced, he was irritated now by the unexpected moral courage she displayed. he did not want to admit it, did not want to be forced to admire where he preferred to condemn, and he turned away with a sudden rush of unreasonable anger. the entrance of hosein with the food he had ordered put a period to an awkward silence. and when the man withdrew, carew followed him out under the awning leaving the girl alone, for it seemed to him that his presence must be as distasteful to her as her own was to him. he detained the arab for a few moments to explain his further requirements, and then subsided into the deck chair with a stifled yawn. like suliman, he had already put in a hard day’s work and there were still thirty miles to ride before sunrise. but he was used to turning night into day and inured to fatigue, and it was mental rather than physical weariness that made him relax in his chair with a heavy sigh. in spite of his efforts to control his thoughts, his mind was in a ferment, and brain and body alike were in a state of nervous tension that sapped his strength and left him at the mercy of an overwhelming tide of long forgotten emotions. the strain of the meeting with micky meredith had weakened him for the further developments of the evening. he could still feel the soft weight of the girl’s limp body in his arms, he brushed his hand across his face as though the thick strand of hair was again smothering him with its soft fragrance. angry with himself, angry with her, he tried to forget her—and found himself suddenly wondering who she was. good lord, as if it mattered! cursing under his breath he pitched his cigarette away and went back into the tent.

the girl met his glance with a shy smile. “i was hungry, after all,” she said, pointing to the empty tray, “and i’m so sleepy i can hardly keep my eyes open.”

but determined to go no further than bare courtesy demanded he vouchsafed only a brief nod to her tentative advance and led the way to the inner room. she paused on the threshold, looking curiously at the little sleeping apartment, then turned to him with a swift imploring glance. “you won’t let me sleep too long?”

for a moment carew’s gloomy eyes looked deeply into the troubled depths of the blue ones fixed so earnestly on his, then: “the horses will be ready in two hours,” he said curtly, and dropped the portiere into place. for some time he paced the big tent restlessly, a prey to violent agitation. he swore at himself angrily. what in god’s name was the matter with him! why did his thoughts, despite himself, keep turning to the woman in the adjoining room? woman! she was only a girl, little more than a child in spite of the wedding ring that seemed to lie so uneasily on her slim finger. any woman or child, what did she matter to him. once safely back in algiers she could go to the devil for all he cared.

swinging on his heel he crossed the room and taking a medical book from a small case by the door, flung himself on the divan to read until the waiting time was over.

he was still reading when hosein came back two hours later.

laying the book aside with no particular haste he took a white burnous his servant tendered him and went slowly towards the inner room, scowling with annoyance and disinclination. yet somebody had to wake the girl and he could hardly relegate the job to hosein. he swept the curtains aside with an impatient jerk. she was still asleep, lying in an attitude of unconscious grace, her face hidden in the mass of tangled curls spread over the pillow. and from her his frowning gaze went swiftly round the room as if the alien presence made him see it with new eyes. his stern lips set more rigidly as he touched her shoulder. she woke with a start and leaped to her feet with a sharp cry that changed quickly to a nervous little laugh of embarrassment. “i was dreaming—i—is it time?” she stammered, stifling a yawn and blinking like a sleepy child. sparing of speech he held out the white cloak. “the night is cool,” he said briefly, and turned away too quickly to notice the vivid blush that suffused her face.

at the door of the tent, under the awning, he found hosein, who was to accompany them, waiting for him and together they watched the three black horses carew had selected for the journey being walked to and fro in the moonlight by the grooms.

and in an incredibly short space of time the girl joined them. the enveloping burnous was clasped securely, hiding her tattered clothing, and she seemed to have regained her self-possession for she was quite at ease and looked about with eager curiosity at the scattered camp, and then with even greater interest at the waiting horses. the stallion carew was to ride was almost unapproachable, wild-eyed and savage, held with difficulty by the two men who clung to his head. but the mount he had chosen for his unwelcome guest was a steadier, friendly beast that nozzled her inquisitively as she went to him. she caught at his velvety nose with a little cry of delight, “oh, what a darling!” and rubbed her cheek against his muzzle, crooning to him softly. then before carew could aid her she was in the saddle, backing to make room for the screaming fury that was demonstrating his own reluctance to be mounted by every device known to his equine intelligence. but his rage was futile and carew was up in a flash. and for five minutes marny geradine, who had ridden from babyhood, watched with breathless interest the sharpest tussle she had ever seen between a horse and its rider, and marvelled at the infinite patience of the man who sat the plunging, frenzied brute like a centaur, handling him perfectly without exhibiting the smallest trace of annoyance. his methods were not the cruel ones which, for five miserable years, she had been compelled to witness, she thought with sudden bitterness. and yet this man was an arab in whom cruelty might be excused.

then as carew wheeled alongside of her she put away the painful thoughts that had risen in her mind and gave herself up to the delights of this strange ride with this equally strange companion.

it was all like a dream, fantastic and unreal, but a dream that gave her more happiness than she had known for years. the swift gallop through the night, the cool wind blowing against her face, the easy movements of the horse between her knees, were all sheer joy to her. she had no wish to talk, even if the taciturn manner of the man beside her had not made speech difficult. she wanted nothing but the pleasure of the moment, the beauty of the moonlit scene and the charm of the wonderful solitude. for her algeria had been algiers, she had not been asked to accompany her husband on his occasional shooting expeditions, and she had wearied of the town and its immediate surroundings. she had longed to go further afield, to get right out into the desert, but she had been given no opportunity and she had long since learned to suppress inclinations that were ridiculed and never gratified. she craved for open spaces and the lonely places of the earth, and she had been chained to towns or crowded country houses and forced into a company whose society nauseated her; she had dreamt of nights like this, of the silence and peace of the wilderness, of solitary camps where she would sleep in happy dreamlessness under the radiant stars—and the nights that were her portion had been her chiefest torment. but this one night she could revel in her dream come true and rejoice in the freedom that might never again be hers. that she might have to pay, and perhaps pay hideously, for what had occurred did not matter, almost she did not care. she had suffered so much already that further suffering seemed almost inevitable and she would not spoil the rare joy of this wonderful ride by anticipating trouble. but even as she argued bravely with herself, she blanched at the possible consequences of the terrible adventure that had been no fault of her own. if when she reached the villa at mustapha, clyde had already returned! she clenched her teeth on her quivering lip. he had gone for a fortnight’s shooting and the fortnight would be up tomorrow—today, she remembered with a sudden glance of apprehension at the sky, where the pinky flush of dawn was already showing. he might be back now! and if he were—what would her punishment be, what would she have to endure from one who knew his strength and used it brutally, who was cruel and merciless by nature as if he, too, were an arab. her mind leapt to the man who had abducted her. when, at the close of an appalling day, she had been brought to the hut in the deserted village, when she had finally realised the sinister purpose intended against her, the ghastly fear that had come to her, the paralysing sense of helplessness she had felt as she struggled against the crushing arms that held her, the horror of the relentless face thrust close to hers quivering with lust and desire, was no new thing. so did clyde look at her, so did she shrink and sicken when he touched her. were all men alike—sensual brutes with no consideration or pity? one, at least, had shown himself to be different—and he was an arab! she turned and looked at him curiously. by the light of the brilliant moon she studied the lean, tanned face, wondering at its grave austerity. and as her gaze lingered on the white seam of an old scar that ran diagonally across his cheek above the curve of his square-cut jaw, she remembered suddenly that the stern, sombre eyes that had looked into hers were blue. were there, then, blue-eyed arabs, as there were blue-eyed afghans? who was he? a personage of importance, obviously—the rich appointments of the camp to which he had taken her, proved it. the embroidered cloth burnous, the wide silk scarf swathed about the haick that shaded his face, the scarlet leather boots he wore was the dress of a chief. one of the wealthy sheiks from the far south, perhaps, coming into algiers for the governor’s annual ball. whoever he was, he had saved her honour, had saved her from worse than death. and a sudden inexplicable desire came to her to explain to this strange, taciturn arab the situation in which he had found her. she swung her horse nearer. “i oughtn’t to have ridden alone,” she began jerkily. “i know that, but i was quite close to algiers—it seemed safe enough—and i had a reason for what i did. one has to—be alone—sometimes. i didn’t think there could be any danger. it all happened so suddenly—” she broke off, chilled with his silence, wondering how she had found courage to speak to him at all, for his frigid manner did not invite confidence. and his brief answer did not tend to put her more at ease.

“it is always dangerous for a woman to ride alone in algeria,” he said gravely. it was his tone rather than the actual words that sent the hot blood rushing to her face and reduced her to a silence that lasted until they sighted the outskirts of algiers. the dawn was brightening, already the stars were paling and dying, one by one, and the red glow of the rising sun was warming in the east.

with a sign to hosein, carew drew rein. “my servant will attend you, madame. i can go no further,” he said, abruptly, his eyes fixed on the distant city. she sat for a moment without answering, then she looked up quickly, her lips quivering, uncontrollably. “i don’t know what to say—how to thank you—” he cut her short almost rudely. “i need no thanks, madame. put the one deed against the other—and do not judge the arabs too harshly. they are as other men—no better, and perhaps no worse.” she shook her head with a tremulous little smile, and for a time she seemed to be struggling with herself. then she flung her hand out with an odd gesture of appeal. “if you won’t let me thank you, will you let me be still further in your debt?” she said, unsteadily.

“as how?”

“the horse i rode,” she faltered, “i—i——my husband values him. can you help me get him back—and soon?”

surprised that she should seek his aid in what was clearly a police matter, carew glanced at her with a gathering frown, but what he saw in her eyes made him look away quickly.

“you shall have your horse, madame. i pledge you my word,” he said, shortly. a look of curious relief swept over her tense face.

“then i shan’t worry about him—any more,” she said, with a shaky laugh. and reigning her horse nearer, again she held out her hand. “won’t you tell me your name? i should like to know it, to remember it in—in—” she choked back a rising sob. “please,” she whispered.

he turned to her slowly, his eyes almost black in their sombre intensity. “i have many names,” he replied, unwillingly, as though he were forcing himself to speak.

“then tell me one,” she pleaded, wistfully.

still he hesitated, his square chin thrust out obstinately.

“i am called—el hakim,” he said at last, reluctantly. and touching his forehead in a perfunctory salaam, he wheeled his impatient horse and spurred him into a headlong gallop.