the first pale streaks of dawn were stealing across the sky before carew stirred from the chair into which he had dropped two hours before to face the knowledge that had come to him in that tense moment of self-understanding in the little winter garden at the palace. stunned by the realisation of his own feelings, racked by the painful scene following his return to the villa, at first concrete thought had been impossible. his whole ability to will and do, his whole mental and physical being seemed crushed under a weight of sorrow that for the time was paralysing. he felt numbed, conscious only of the suffering that, clogging his brain, reacted on his body leaving him inert and lifeless.

but gradually his mind cleared and he was able to think more calmly. he loved. for the second time in his life he loved. and yet it seemed to him that only now did he know the depths of his own heart, only now did he comprehend what true devotion could really mean. the love of his early manhood, the love he had given the woman who had been his wife, was not comparable with this overmastering passion that had come to him in his maturity. if he had loved then as he loved now not even the tragedy of twelve years ago could kill that love. and the greater, deeper, more wonderful emotion he had only just realised was as the dust of ashes in his mouth. there was no joy, no hope in this new love. there was only the pain of renunciation and the bitter knowledge that he had brought sorrow to her for whose sake he would gladly die rather than even a shadow should cross her path. for that she also loved him he knew beyond all doubt. he had read it in her eyes, he had heard it in the anguished tones of her voice when the thought of his peril had driven her to self betrayal as she listened to his story of the finish of abdul el dhib. the pain that was his was hers also. the thought was torment. had she not already enough to bear without this additional burden of a love that could never be satisfied, that would bring her only grief and the torturing remembrance of what might have been? what did his own suffering matter compared with the fact that because of him she too must suffer? it would have been better, a thousand times better, if he had never returned from that last hazardous expedition that had ended in the meeting in the deserted village by blidah. and yet, to his fatalistic reasoning, that same meeting had seemed a thing ordained; but for his coming she must have experienced a fate too horrible even to contemplate. it was almost as if he had been deliberately guided in the choice of road he had taken, as if he had been led to her by some inscrutable ruling of providence. and though at the time he had raged at the necessity that had forced him to help her, though his whole soul had revolted from his self-imposed task, he knew now that love had leaped into being when he had carried her to his camp, and that it was love struggling for recognition that had caused the misery and mental upheaval of the succeeding weeks. but only tonight had he realised it, only tonight had he awakened to a full understanding of the almost unbelievable thing that had happened to him. and how or when during their brief meetings she had come to care for him he did not know, nor would he ever know. he only knew that for some strange inexplicable reason she had given him her love, that though she would never be his he would carry through life the knowledge that her heart was in his keeping. and the knowledge humbled him. how could she care! what could she see in him, a man nearly twice her age who, until tonight, had treated her with scant civility, that she should stoop to bestow on him the priceless treasure of her love. but what did it matter—enough that she did care and that he would have to be content with just the fact of her caring. content! good god, was the intolerable ache that filled him, the mad longing that possessed him, contentment! he would never be content. the mere knowledge of their love was not enough. he wanted her, above his very hope of heaven he wanted her. the barriers of defense he had raised about himself were torn away at last. the dead heart that had lain cold and lifeless within him was alive once more. passion swept, and seething with jealousy he made no effort to stem the elemental impulses that seemed suddenly let loose and for a time only the primitive man in him existed urging his desperate need until even murder seemed justifiable to obtain her—the murder of the one who stood between him and what he wanted. geradine! his fingers curled and tightened as though they were about the throat of the man he hated with all the force of his being. that strange hatred was no longer incomprehensible, and the thought that had so appalled him the night at the opera he viewed now with cold dispassion. what was the life of such a brute compared with her happiness and well-being! was it murder to rid the earth of such scum, to free her from the tyranny that was killing her, body and soul? murder! a terrible smile flitted across his face. for her sake he could do even that. nothing mattered but her necessity. beside that justice, honour, the man-made laws of society seemed to fade into utter insignificance. and the laws of god—was he to trample them under foot as well? if it must be. he was willing to risk even his soul to save her from further suffering. but was there need for such a drastic measure—was there no easier way to follow? was there not the way that others had taken—the way that would free her from a life of bondage, that would give him his heart’s desire? what was scruple to stand between them? they had only one life to live—and she loved him. she would come to him—if he made her. and for her own sake he would make her—for her sake, or for the sake of his own lust?

“but i say unto you that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart!”

he started to his feet with a smothered groan. it was as if he saw the words in letters of fire, blazing accusingly before his tired eyes. a shudder passed over him and something seemed to snap suddenly in his brain dispelling the madness of the last few moments and leaving him aghast at the horror of his own thoughts. she was not for him to covet. he had no right to love her, no right to think of her as he was thinking now—yearning for her, desiring her with all the strength of his manhood. strength! what strength was left to him who had foresworn himself, who had turned from his lofty ideals and yielded to a passion that was ignoble! conscience-smitten he saw himself as he was, fallen from his high estate, crashed from his pinnacle of self-righteous exaltation. it was repetition of history wherein his r?le was horribly reversed. he was no better in intention than the man he had reviled twelve years ago. the sin he had condemned was now his sin. he craved another man’s wife, craved her with an intensity that had almost swamped his sense of right and wrong. and she? a dull flush crept over his tanned face. in his mind he had degraded and abased her, had dragged her down to the sordid level of his own carnal desires. was his love so vile that he must think only of his bodily need? was physical possession merely the dominating factor of that love? had the years spent in the desert, the years of self-imposed abstinence, brutalised him so completely that he was incapable of higher, purer sentiment? did she mean so little to him? deep down in his heart he knew that she did not, knew that his love was a greater, finer thing than that. it was only the passionate impulse of the moment, the crushing sense of abnegation that made him weak, that made him want her as he was wanting her now—for his own, for that wonderful mating of soul and body that might have been theirs. to take her from the life she loathed to the freer, wilder life he had made his own; to know her safe and happy in his love; to watch the awakening of new hope and peace that would chase the sorrow from her tragic eyes; to be to her what she would be to him—comrade and helper, lover and friend, a partnership made perfect by their mutual love. it was what might have been. but now only a dream of joy that was unattainable, a vision of heaven that made the bitter certainty of its unfulfilment a foretaste of hell. god, how he longed for her! marny, marny! with a strangled sob he buried his face in his hands. . . .

it was long before he stirred to move slowly with cramped limbs and aching head to the edge of the verandah where he leant wearily against the pillar that supported the green tiled roof, staring with haggard eyes across the garden at the brightening dawn—a dawn that for once gave him no pleasure.

it was over and done with—the wonderful glimpse of happiness that could never be. there was only one road to follow, the lonely road that had been his for so many years, but lonelier, more desolate now than it ever had been. for her sake and for the sake of what honour was left to him he must go, and go at once. back to the desert, back to the work he had chosen. alone—and he must go without seeing her again. he dared not see her. his confidence in himself was gone. and yet how could he go, how could he leave her knowing what her life would be, knowing what she must still endure and suffer at the hands of the drunken bully who possessed her. geradine, whose name was a by-word, whose brutality and viciousness was discussed by all algiers, whose behaviour to his girl wife was openly hinted at! was he to leave her at the mercy of such a man? even that he must do. she was not his—she was geradine’s wife. geradine’s wife—god help her. and his daily, hourly torment would be to know her so. far from her, powerless to help her, he would have to live with the thought of her continual agony and sorrow. merciful god, would he be able to bear it!

made almost tangible by his longing she seemed to come to him where he stood, as once before he had seemed to see her in a strip of brilliant moonlight, and he stretched out his arms hungrily, whispering her name with shaking lips till the mental picture faded and, muffling his face in this thick burnous, he yielded to an agony that was greater than he had ever known. the sky was aflame, the garden resounding with the early songs of birds when he at last regained self-control. but he was blind and deaf to the beauty and harmony about him as he lingered for a few moments striving to bring something like order into the chaos of his thoughts. he was going back to the camp near blidah, a camp that would be poignantly painful to him with the recollections it would induce. he would see her at every turn, the big tent that had sheltered her would be a perpetual reminder, dominated by the memory of her presence. even the locality would be hateful to him, but to go further was impossible while sanois’ arrangements were still incomplete. there was no other course for him to take, no other way by which he could effectually prevent any further meeting between them. with a little shiver he turned and went heavily into the house. the study was rank with the fumes of the lamps that had burnt out during the night, and he passed quickly through to his bedroom beyond.

as he entered it the door on the further side of the room opened and hosein came in with his usual noiseless tread. he offered no explanation for his appearance at an unusual hour and carew asked for none, but knowing the man he was positive that the big arab, on his return to the villa, had spent the remainder of the night in the adjoining dressing room watching and waiting for his master’s coming. though his gloomy face was, if possible, more gloomy than usual, his mere presence was a relief, and the customary stolidity with which he received his unexpected orders made the giving of them easier. only a quicker service, a gentler handling of the garments tossed to him denoted an understanding that was more profound than carew even guessed at. he was packing suit cases and holdalls with methodical deftness when carew came back from his bath. taught by years of experience, he knew even better than his master what was required for the protracted journeys in the desert which were to him infinitely preferable to the life in algiers, and he took a certain pride in his work which was this morning especially noticeable. his face had lightened somewhat and he was patently pleased to be preparing for the road again. of necessity hosein was fully aware of the political significance of the forthcoming expedition, he knew also that it was the general sanois who was responsible for the delay that had kept them so long in algiers, and watching him as he moved swiftly and silently about the room carew wondered in what degree his servant connected his hasty departure with the episode of last night. distasteful as was the thought it was better so than that even hosein should have an inkling of the real truth.

the valet had already acquainted the household with the altered arrangements and in the study, besides the coffee and rolls that were waiting for him, carew found derar full of importance and weighed down with account books and the necessary business devolving on himself that his master’s absence would entail. and while he ate, carew wrestled with his elderly servitor’s endless questions and reiterated demands for instructions with the patience he had learned in dealing with the native mind. it was useless to remind derar that the orders he gave were in every particular similar to those given many times before, that there was to be no departure from established precedent but that the villa was to be run on the same lines that always prevailed while he was away.

pessimistically inclined, derar, as always, prepared for the worst. and carew, by this time writing cheques and orders at his desk, found himself constrained to smile more than once at the gloomy anticipations that were pronounced with melancholy fervour and interlarded with lengthy passages from the koran. he listened quietly to the old man’s garrulous outpourings in which lamentations on his departure and pious invocations for his welfare were inextricably jumbled with household needs and requirements.

but the strain on his already overstrained nerves was greater than he expected and when at last derar, still somewhat tearful but armed with plenary powers that made him swell with pride, finally salaamed himself out of the room, carew scribbled a few lines to general sanois and then leant back in his chair with a feeling of mental exhaustion. his mind made up to leave algiers the time that must elapse before his actual departure hung heavily upon him. he glanced at the clock on his desk. it would be half-an-hour or more before his men would be ready and, depressed and restless as he was, the minutes seemed to drag with maddening slowness.

to relieve the tedium of waiting he went out into the garden. some little distance from the house, amongst a grove of orange trees, he found saba. squatting on the ground, his nervous little body clad only in a gay striped gandhera, a fez perched rakishly on his small sleek head, the boy was chattering eagerly to a tiny monkey that was clinging to his shoulder. he was too absorbed in his newly acquired pet to notice carew’s almost noiseless approach and it was the monkey that twittering shrilly with alarm made him realise he was no longer alone. he scrambled to his feet, his blind eyes turning uncertainly from side to side until carew called to him when he darted forward, loosening his hold on the monkey which fled dismayed up into the branches of the nearest tree.

the confidant of all the servants, saba was already in full possession of the new orders given to the household, and before carew could speak he was assailed with a torrent of excited questions that were hurled at him to an accompaniment of joyous squeaks and prancings. the child’s pleasure was so obvious that carew almost wavered in his decision to leave him at the villa with hosein who was remaining a few days longer in algiers to finish the preparations for the journey into the desert. but his crying need for solitude made the thought of even saba’s companionship unendurable, and very gently he explained his wishes. the boy’s radiant little face clouded as he listened, but trained to obedience he did not voice his disappointment and very soon he was laughing again, childishly eager at the prospect of the journey and speculating on the probable number of days hosein would require to complete his arrangements. and at the end of half-an-hour carew left him playing contentedly with his recovered monkey and happy in the assurance that the separation should be a brief one.

the score of men who had come into algiers from the camp were already collected when carew returned to the house, and the narrow road that ran past the villa was blocked with horses whose riders, still dismounted, were exchanging raucous and voluble badinage with the small army of household servants assembled to watch the departure. standing a little apart from the noisy throng, reserved and taciturn as was his wont, hosein was holding suliman, restraining with difficulty the spirited animal’s manifest impatience.

carew’s appearance occasioned a sudden silence among his followers and the escort leapt to their horses while he himself mounted with less haste and lingered for a few moments to give hosein some final directions. the actual moment come he would have given all he possessed to be able to remain in the town he had been longing weeks to leave. it took all his resolution to persevere in the course he had determined and give the men the signal for which they were waiting. at the head of his little troop he rode away with unaccustomed slowness and with a feeling of reluctance that grew momentarily greater as each stride of the big bay carried him further from the villa. he knew now what the house wanted, why it had seemed so empty and desolate, and the knowledge was an added pang to the bitterness that filled him. if his dream had been possible; if he could have seen her in reality, as he visualised her in his mind, the mistress of his home bringing life and happiness to the chill and formal rooms her presence would enrich and beautify; if the end of the journey he contemplated could have meant a return to her—was it strength or weakness that was driving him from her now? again he wrestled with the temptation of a few hours ago, a temptation that was fiercer, more gripping even that it had been before. her pitiful helplessness seemed to make his flight the act of a craven. of what use were the physical powers with which he was endowed if his strength could not save her from the life of misery to which she was condemned. geradine’s lack of control, the almost demoniacal rages that resulted from his intemperance, was common talk. thick drops of moisture gathered on his face as he remembered the man’s huge bulk and pictured her in the grip of those coarse, ape-like hands. to what lengths had he gone in the past—what devilish torture would he yet inflict on the tender little body carew yearned to hold in his arms. his face was drawn with agony as he swept the cold sweat from his forehead.

the road he was following led past de granier’s villa and ran parallel with the densely wooded hillside that shadowed its grounds. a sudden impulse came to him to look on the house that held the woman he loved—an impulse that was a species of subtle self-torture which even to himself seemed incomprehensible and to which tie yielded with a feeling of contempt. pulling suliman up sharply he swung to the ground and flinging the reins to the arab he beckoned forward bade his escort ride on and wait for him beyond the villa. standing where he had dismounted he watched them pass, and the last couple were some distance from him before he turned to the hillside where a tiny path wound upward between the close growing trees. a few minutes’ stiff climb and then the path curved abruptly to the left from whence it extended more or less levelly in the same direction as the road that lay some fifty or sixty feet below. his pace slackened as he neared the crossway track that led down to the garden entrance of the villa des ombres, and in a revulsion of feeling he cursed the weakness that had brought him there. but having come thus far he was unwilling to retrace his steps and, jerking his shoulders back with a characteristic gesture of impatience, he moved slowly forward with noiseless tread along the winding path that curved and twisted round the boles of the big trees. their great girth obstructed anything but a limited view beyond them and made only a few yards of the way visible at a time.

it was still very early. save for the birds twittering amongst the trees and the long strings of woolly caterpillars joined one behind the other pursuing their patient and meandering course over the rough ground, the hillside appeared to be deserted. but as carew rounded the trunk of an exceptionally large tree, the jutting roots of which made necessary a more than usually wide detour, he came to a sudden halt with a quick intake of the breath that was almost a groan. with clenching hands and madly racing heart he stared at the girlish figure lying huddled amongst the undergrowth almost at his feet. her face was hidden and she lay very still, so still that a terrible thought came to him parching his mouth and blanching his face under the deep tan. he tried to whisper her name but no sound issued from his stiff lips and unable to speak, unable to move, time was a thing forgotten while he struggled with the paralysing fear that held him motionless.

he never knew how long it was before she stirred, before the faint echo of a smothered sob allayed the dread that had taken hold of him and lessened the strangling grip that seemed clutching at his throat. but still he did not move. he would not go. he had tried to play the game—and the game had turned against him. he had wrestled with himself to no purpose. fate had played into his hand and the meeting he had sought to escape was now unavoidable. the sight of her prostrate in an abandonment of grief had shattered all his strength—he could not leave her like this. not trusting himself to touch her he waited with an almost bursting heart for her to realise his presence—and as once before in the opera house, so now did she seem gradually to become aware of the steady stare fixed on her. with a shuddering sigh she sat up slowly, turning her head towards him. and the deathly pallor of her face, the look of frozen misery in her tragic black-rimmed eyes sent a rush of savage rage through him that almost choked him. god, what must she have suffered to look like that! he sought for words but his own suffering held him speechless.

it was she who spoke first. she had looked at him almost unknowingly, then a wave of colour rushed into her pale cheeks to recede as quickly leaving them whiter than before. stumbling to her feet she stood before him, swaying like a reed, struggling to regain her composure, striving to formulate the conventional greeting her trembling lips could scarcely utter. “sir gervas—” he guessed rather than heard the fluttering whisper. but before he could answer, before he could wrench his gaze from the pain-filled eyes that were wavering under his, he saw her stiffen suddenly and shrink from him with a backward glance of fearful apprehension. “what—who—” she muttered hoarsely. and, listening, he too heard the sound that had startled her—the deep murmur of men’s voices raised in heated altercation that came echoing up the hillside from the roadway beneath them. the voices of his own men, as he knew. but what did she think? and the anger and hatred that was seething within him flamed anew into all but uncontrollable fury as he watched her leaning white-lipped and shivering against the trunk of the giant cork tree and wondered how long it would be before that delicate organism and highly strung nervous system finally succumbed to the brutal treatment that was slowly but steadily reducing her to a physical and mental wreck. his hands clenched with the horrible pain of his own helplessness. but with a supreme effort he mastered himself, stifling the words that sprang to his lips and forcing his voice to naturalness as he answered her reassuringly. “it’s only my men—arguing as usual, the noisy devils.”

she looked at him strangely.

“your men—” she repeated dully. and pulling herself erect she turned abruptly and walked unsteadily to the edge of the steep descent. through the intervening trees she could see them clustered at the foot of the hill. his men—the lucky ones who were fortunate enough to share his life! a feeling of bitter envy came to her and she watched them through a mist of tears. picked men, men chosen for their loyalty and endurance. fierce sons of the desert these—differing altogether, even to her unpractised eyes, from the arabs she had seen lounging about algiers—and mounted on magnificent horses which they sat superbly. a fit escort for the man who would lead them. what did this unusual following portend? in algiers, for she had seen him many more times than he knew, he always rode alone. was this the end at last, the time she had looked forward to with dread—the time when he would ride out of her life forever? her lips quivered. never to see him again, never to hear the beloved voice whose low, soft intonations would ring in her ears while life lasted, never to know again the restfulness and strength his presence brought her! how could she bear it, oh, dear god, how could she bear the desolation and misery that would be hers! her trembling hands crept upward to her breast, clenching convulsively over the heart that was aching and throbbing with a pain that was intolerable. she must know, though knowledge meant the agony of death.

shuddering she turned and went slowly back to him. a cigarette between his lips, he was leaning against the tree where she had leant, his face an impassive mask that baffled her. was the fleeting glimpse of a totally different expression she had seemed to see in his eyes a few minutes ago only the effect of her own overstrained imagination? was she such a fool that she could have thought for one moment of wild sweet happiness, that her love and longing could have begotten his love? his indifference seemed complete—the parting was nothing to him. how could it be otherwise—it was only she who cared, only she whose heart was breaking, only she who would be left comfortless and alone.

the restraint she imposed on herself made her voice cold and hard as she uttered the question she nerved herself to ask.

“you are going away?”

“yes.”

despite herself she winced at the brief syllable of assent that was voiced in a tone as cold and as hard as her own.

“back to the desert?”

“yes.”

“for good?”

“for good,” he answered firmly. she turned from him quickly to hide the tears that blinded her. but a strangled sob she had not the strength to restrain betrayed her. almost inaudible it was but he heard it.

“marny!” the cry was wrung from him. and the next moment she was in his arms, clinging to him despairingly, weeping as he had not believed it possible for a woman to weep. unmanned by her sudden breakdown, aghast at the terrible sobs that seemed to be tearing the slender little body to pieces, he strained her to him with passionate strength. “marny, marny, for god’s sake—don’t cry like that. your tears are torturing me.” but conscious only of the shelter of his arms, too weak to struggle against the feelings she had so long suppressed, she was powerless to check the storm of emotion that overwhelmed her. lying inert against him, her face hidden in his robes, she sobbed her heart out on his till the violence of her grief terrified him and he caught her closer, bending his tall head till his cheek was resting on her tumbled hair, whispering words of love and entreaty.

“have pity on me, child, you are breaking my heart. do you think i can bear to see you weep—marny, my love, my love.”

her arm slid up and round his neck. “oh, let me cry,” she moaned, “for five years i’ve had to be a thing of stone. if i don’t cry now i shall go mad.” a spasm swept across his face and his own eyes were dim as he ceased to urge her, waiting patiently till the tempest of her tears should pass. and gradually the tearing sobs ceased and she regained control of herself. exhausted and ashamed, not daring to meet his eyes, almost dreading the sound of his voice, she clung to him in silence, wishing passionately that her life could end, thus, in his arms.

and to carew the close contact of her trembling limbs was a mingled rapture and pain that was agony. his face buried in her fragrant hair, he prayed desperately for strength to leave her, for strength to meet the parting that must come.

still holding her he raised her head with gentle force. her eyes were closed, the thick, dark lashes lying wet on her tear-stained cheek, and the hungry longing to touch them with his lips was almost more than he could withstand.

“won’t you look at me, marny? am i never to see your dear eyes again?” he murmured huskily.

a tremor passed through her and for a moment she did not respond. then the dusky lashes fluttered faintly and slowly the heavy lids unclosed. for long they looked, staring as though into each other’s souls, and against her tender breasts she felt the violent beating of his heart.

a quivering sigh escaped her. “gervas—oh, gervas, gervas,” she whispered, and lifted her face to his. the sadness in his eyes deepened into anguish and his firm mouth trembled as he shook his head.

“i mustn’t kiss you, dear. your lips are his—not mine, god help me. i haven’t even the right to touch you. i’m a cur to hold you in my arms like this, but i can’t let you go—not yet, not yet, my darling.” his voice broke, and insensibly his arm tightened round her, crushing her to him with a force of which he was unaware. she turned her head with a little sob. “how could we know that this would come to us—how could we know that we would care,” she cried. “i never thought you loved me. i thought it was only i who—who—” she clenched her teeth on her lip, fighting the sobs that were rising in her throat. “oh, why was it you that came that night near blidah!” she burst out passionately. “what did my life matter? and i—i who would die for you, i’ve brought you unhappiness. gervas, why don’t you hate me!”

“i thought i did—once,” he answered with a twisted smile, and brushed the shining hair tenderly from off her forehead.

physical pain had been forgotten in the mental agony that swamped her but now, remembering, too late she tried to stop him and he had seen the ugly wound on her white brow before her flying hand reached his. a sharp exclamation broke from him. “what have you done to yourself? my god, has he dared—” his face was ghastly and the look in his blazing eyes terrified her. fearful of the consequences of his anger, fearful of she knew not what, she lied to shield the husband who had struck her.

“no—no—” she panted. “i slipped—i slipped in my room last night.”

love and intuition told him that she was lying and he put her from him with a groan of helpless misery. and free of his supporting arm she slid to the ground for her limbs were trembling under her. he sat down near her, staring gloomily before him, wondering how he could bring himself to leave her, tortured with what he had seen and cursing the man whom, more than ever, he longed to kill.

her sorrowful eyes never left his stern, set face and at last she could bear the silence no longer. her hand stole out timidly and touched his. “what are we going to do?” she waited long for his answer, so long that she wondered if he had heard the faint whisper, and her trembling fingers tightened on his arm. “gervas, speak to me,” she entreated.

“what is there for me to say,” he answered, and his voice was harsh with the effort speech cost him. “there is nothing to do but the one hard thing that is left to us. we have got to forget that this morning has ever been. we have got to forget everything but the fact that you are bound, that you are not free to come to me. if there was some other way, if i could have taken you—” he tore his eyes from her face and leaped to his feet. “but there is no other way,” he cried with sudden violence. “i can’t take you. you’ve got to forget, and forgive me—if you can.”

she buried her face in her hands.

“forget!” she wailed. “will you forget?”

“not in this life nor in the life to come,” he whispered swiftly.

with a sob that wrung his heart she flung out her arms appealing. “i can’t bear it, gervas, i can’t live without you.”

he caught the outstretched hands in his and drew her to her feet.

“don’t make it harder for me, dear. god knows it’s hard enough,” he said unsteadily. “i love you. i want you—more than anything in heaven and earth i want you—but i’ve got to leave you. help me to do the right thing, marny. help me to go, now, while i have the strength.” but with a broken little cry she clung to him, her eyes beseeching.

“i can’t, i can’t! i’m not strong like you. i can’t let you go yet—not altogether—not back to the desert. stay—only stay till we leave,” she pleaded, “it won’t be long, only a few weeks—”

“my dear, what help will it be if i do stay?” he said wearily. “it will only make it harder for both of us.” but frantically she urged him. “please, please,” she entreated. “oh, i can’t explain—i don’t know what i feel myself—but there seems to be something awful coming nearer and nearer to me and i’m frightened—i’m frightened. if i could know you were in algiers it would make it easier—i shouldn’t feel so—alone. gervas, if you love me stay till we go.”

if he loved her! he clenched his hands to keep them from her and turned away with a heavy sigh. “must i prove my love?” he said sadly. a sob broke from her. did he think she doubted? why was she such a coward as to ask this thing of him! humbly she went to him begging his forgiveness but with a quick gesture of distress he stopped her.

“there is nothing to forgive,” he said gently, “there can be no misunderstanding possible between us, dear. if it will help you, if my being in algiers will make it easier for you, i will stay until you go. but more i cannot do. this has got to be the end, marny. we’ve got to say goodbye to each other. i mustn’t see you again—i daren’t see you again.”

a deadly faintness came over her. numbly she felt him take her hands and hold them crushed against his face. and through the surging in her ears she heard his voice, far off and muffled as though coming from some great distance.

“my dear, my dear—god keep you, now and always.”

and then she knew that he was gone. she struggled to move, to conquer the inertia that seemed rooting her to the ground. only to see him again—to catch one last glimpse—

tears were raining down her face as she stumbled to the edge of the little path and, screened by the trees, looked down on the roadway beneath. with her hands pressed over her lips to stifle the sobs that were choking her she watched him standing beside his men till the little troop vanished in a cloud of dust along the blidah road and, left alone, he leaped on to his own horse and sent him at a reckless gallop in the opposite direction. then a merciful blackness came over her and she fell senseless amongst the tangled ferns.

there followed a week that for carew was a period of uninterrupted suffering, suffering that seemed to grow more acute, more unbearable with each succeeding day. with nothing to look forward to, with no hope to ease the burden of his loneliness and longing, with the bitter knowledge burning into him that barely half-a-mile away in her prison house of misery she too was suffering, he struggled through days that seemed endless and nights that were torment.

seeking for distraction, for anything that would occupy his enforced leisure and turn the trend of his thoughts, he offered his services to morel and toiled in the scientist’s laboratory from early morning till late in the evening, endeavouring by hard work to deaden the pain that never left him. during the long hours of self-imposed labour he strove to banish her from his mind, to concentrate solely on the experiments that at any other time would have claimed his whole attention. but the remembrance of her was with him continually. while he carried out morel’s instructions with mechanical precision he seemed to feel her presence close beside him, to see clearly before his eyes the piteous tear-stained face that would always haunt him, and through the stillness of the silent workroom he could almost hear the sobbing tones of her anguished voice. “gervas, i can’t live without you!” and he had left her, left her to geradine’s mercy. if, in the grip of this tremendous passion that had come to him so strangely, he had sought to entice her from a husband who cared, or from one who—though indifferent—still treated her with ordinary decency and respect, he would have known his offence to be unforgivable. but chained as she was to a beast like geradine, the marks of whose brutality he had himself seen on her delicate face, was there not excuse for his love, for the raging temptation that still assailed him to take her from a life of martyrdom and give her the happiness that was her youth’s prerogative? how had she come to be the wife of that drunken, hectoring bully—what unthinkable ordering could have linked her life with his? impossible that she could ever have loved him. surely the mere brute strength of the man could not have attracted her, inducing her to a step she had lived to rue. five years, she had said. five years ago she must have been only a child—she was little more now. what circumstances or what tragedy had thrust an immature girl into the keeping of such a profligate! and what had those five years meant to her! as the days dragged slowly by and he applied himself to the work to which he forced his wandering attention he wrestled with a problem he could not hope to solve, racking himself with the thought of what she must have endured and would still have to endure.

but it was the nights he dreaded most. the nights when, waking from fitful sleep that, dream-haunted, gave him no rest, he stared wide-eyed into the darkness murmuring her name, aching for her, till the pain of it drove him out into the garden there to tramp the dark tree-bordered alleys and star-lit stretches of grass until bodily fatigue brought him back to the house to toss wakefully and watch for the dawn when he could start for the early morning rides that were his only alleviation. it was in the lonely hours of the night that the thought of her suffering was strongest with him. it was then that his fevered mind, unchecked in his solitude, became the prey of ghastly imaginings until, half mad with his own thoughts, he almost yielded to the temptings of the insidious inward voice that bade him forego honor and take the happiness he had sacrificed. was he to stand aside while her youth and health were wrecked? was she to be offered up on the altar of his conscience? must she be the victim of his scruple? “she would have gone with you—she would have gone with you that morning—” night after night the mocking voice rang in his ears, and night after night he fought the same fight in anguish of soul, battling with the promptings of his heart.

then came a day when a telephone message from morel, who had received an urgent summons to paris, put a stop to the work at the laboratory and left him to face inactivity he viewed with dismay. in no mood for the society of either general sanois or the officers at the barracks, resolved to run no chance of a further meeting with the woman he had determined never to see again, he passed the long hours of the morning, sitting on the verandah with a medical book in his hand which he did not read, and in restless wandering about the lovely garden whose loveliness was lost on him.

utterly weary of himself, for the first time in days, he would have welcomed the companionship of saba. but the blind boy was at the camp near blidah whither he had been despatched when carew had decided to remain on in algiers. the day seemed interminable.

worn out with sleepless nights he slept heavily for the greater part of the afternoon and was awakened with difficulty by hosein in time for the solitary dinner he thought would never end. afterwards, ordering coffee to be brought to him, he strolled through the silent halls and empty rooms back to the verandah where he had spent most of the day.

the night was singularly dark but the darkness agreed with his own gloomy thoughts and after he had finished his coffee he extinguished the reading lamp on the table near him and sat for a long time staring fixedly into blackness.

inaction became at last impossible. he had sat for two hours and his limbs were cramped and his head throbbing for need of physical exercise. two more hours and he would be ready to blow his brains out, he reflected with a dreary laugh. going to his bedroom he changed quickly into arab dress and left the house unseen.

beyond the door in the wall he hesitated frowning. then with a shrug and a muttered oath he turned in the direction of de granier’s villa. to torture himself by gazing on the house was not to see her, he argued. by no reasoning could he be said to be breaking the resolution he had made. the road was free to him as to any other. and what chance was there of seeing her at this time of night! jerking his heavy cloak back he stopped to light a cigarette and then strode on with the slow step to which flowing robes had accustomed him.

for a time it appeared as if no other midnight wanderers were abroad, but as he neared the high enclosing wall of the villa des ombres his quick ears caught the sound of hurrying, stumbling feet and the raucous intonations of a voice he recognised. instinctively he shrank into the deeper shadow of the wall as tanner, the english groom, reeled past him with words that seemed to turn the blood in his veins to ice. “the swine, the swine—the blasted swine! ’e’ll do ’er in, by gawd, ’e will! christ, ’ow she screamed—and the damned door locked so as i couldn’t get in! and ’im mad drunk—the beast! my gawd, my gawd, what’ll i do? i’ll ’ear them screams till i die!” and sobbing and blaspheming in impotent rage the little man tore on and vanished into the night.

but towards the house from which the groom had fled, carew was racing with a deadly fear knocking at his heart. the gates were open and, panic-driven, he dashed along the carriage drive and up the steps of the villa hurling himself against the door which, unbarred, gave way before him. in the dimly-lit entrance hall he stumbled and almost fell headlong over the prostrate figure of an arab who moaned and writhed on the marble floor. callous to everything but the one ghastly fear that gripped him, carew kicked his feet clear of the man’s robes and shook him roughly. but the fiercely uttered question died on his lips as a piercing shriek rang through the silent house. a shriek that was followed by others so terrible, so frenzied, that for a moment he reeled under the horror of them. and with the agonizing screams was mingled the sound of a man’s raving and other more pregnant sounds that drove carew to the verge of madness. with a groan he leaped to the door of the room where was the woman he loved, but, locked from within, it resisted his furious onslaught and, as well acquainted with the villa as he was with his own, he knew that to force in was impossible. desperately he wrenched at the handle, then a sudden thought came that sent him flying down the corridor. there was another door leading into the drawing room, a secret door that, flush with the wall and hidden by curtains, was possibly unknown to the tenants who had rented the house. reaching the ante-room with which it communicated and tearing aside the embroidered hangings he flung his whole weight against the fragile panels, crashing through into the room beyond. one sweeping glance sufficed him. dragging his eyes from the battered little body stretched almost at his feet he crouched for an instant, stiffening like a wild beast preparing to spring, his face the face of a madman.

and startled by his sudden appearance, too blind with passion to recognise the man who had gone through the sandstorm with him, geradine saw in the tall, robed figure facing him only an unknown arab who had dared to force a violent entrance into his house and he flung forward with a savage snarl, brandishing the heavy hunting crop with which he had flogged his wife into insensibility.

“you damned nigger,” he bellowed. “what the hell—”

but with the sound of his voice carew sprang, his clenched fist driving straight at the other’s mouth. for a second geradine staggered, then with a roar of mingled pain and fury he slashed with the crop at carew’s face. but the blow fell short and the next moment two powerful arms closed round him. though strong above the average, his life of intemperance had unfitted him for any protracted struggle and tonight, wearied already by his outburst of savagery and not sober enough to use with advantage what strength he had, he was helpless in the grip of the muscular hands that seemed to be crushing the life out of him. choked with the strangling hold on his throat he was almost unconscious when the clutching fingers slid suddenly to his arm and he was forced to his knees.

and with the whip that was still wet with her blood carew avenged the woman who lay so deathly still beside him. maddened with the thought of her suffering, he wielded the heavy weapon till geradine’s coat and shirt were torn to ribbons, crimson stained and sticky, till his moans became fainter and finally died away, till his own arm grew tired with the punishment he inflicted. only then did he fling the whip from him. scarcely glancing at the inert figure sprawled face downwards on the floor, indifferent whether he had killed him or not, he turned slowly to that other pitiful little figure and, hardly conscious of what he did, tore the burnous from his shoulders, and wrapping it round her lifted her into his arms and carried her away.

the hall was empty as he passed through it. but he was oblivious of the apparently deserted house, oblivious of everything but the slight burden he held. as if in a dream, his mind almost a blank, he followed mechanically the road by which he had come half an hour before. and not until he had reached his own villa, until, led by instinct rather than definite reasoning, he found himself in his own bedroom, did the dream-like feelings pass and he awoke to realize what he had done. but that could wait. at the moment only she mattered.

laying her on the bed he stripped the blood-wet silken rags from her lacerated shoulders, wincing in agony as they clung to the delicate broken flesh his trembling lips covered with passionate kisses. but he was doctor as well as lover and, forcing his shaking fingers to steadiness, he bathed the cruel wounds with tender skill, doing all that was possible for her comfort before he dropped to his knees to wait till she should regain consciousness. and when at last she stirred it was some time before recognition dawned in the dazed eyes that were gazing blankly into his. but the sudden joy that filled them faded swiftly into a look of terrible fear.

with a cry that greyed his face she flung herself into his arms.

“don’t let him get me! don’t—let—him—get me,” she shrieked, again and again, till the horror of it was more than he could bear and he crushed her face against him to stifle the sounds he knew would ring in his ears while life lasted.

“hush, hush,” he whispered, almost fiercely. “it’s done—it’s finished. he will never touch you again. you need never see him again. lie still and rest. there’s not a soul who knows where you are but me.” and even in the extremity of her terror his voice had power to soothe her and she relaxed in his arms with a shuddering sob. for a long time he held her silently, fighting the biggest battle of his life, striving to subdue self, to think only for her. but her nearness made thought impossible and at last, in despair, he sought to rise. she clung to him with a murmur of entreaty.

“let me go, dear,” he muttered. “i’ve got to think—i’ve got to think what is best to do.” and tenderly he put aside her trembling hands.

fear fled back into her eyes as she watched him cross the room to the open window, and slipping from the bed she waited for what seemed an eternity, shaking with weakness, afraid to question him, afraid for the moment of the man himself.

and when at length he spoke, in a voice that was almost unrecognisable, he did not look at her. “i can get you out of algiers—that is easy. but to whom shall i take you? where are your people?”

for a moment she stared in dazed unbelief, then with a pitiful sob, she staggered nearer to him. “gervas, don’t you love me—don’t you want me?”

his face was anguished as he flung towards her. “want you? my god!” he groaned, “but it’s not what i want that matters. it is you i am thinking of. you are geradine’s wife—i can’t take you. i can’t dishonour you. i can’t drag you through the mud—”

“mud!” she echoed, with a terrible laugh, “what mud could you drag me through that would be worse than the mud that has choked me for five ghastly years? gervas, gervas, i’ve come to the end. i can’t fight any more. i can’t bear any more. i’ve no one to turn to—no people—no friends. there’s nobody in all the world who can help me—but you. if you won’t save me i will kill myself. i swear it. oh, gervas, have pity! take me away. i’m safe only with you. i’ll be your servant—your slave—anything you will—only save me, save me! if i see him again i shall go mad—mad—” she was at his feet, clasping his knees, her upturned face wild and distorted with terror. and as he swept her up into his arms with a gasp of horrified protest and looked into her frenzied eyes, he knew that she was very near to madness now. but still he hesitated.

“you know what it will mean if i take you with me into the desert?”

“i know, i know,” she sobbed, “it will mean heaven and rest and joy unspeakable. and i—who have lived in hell! oh, gervas, give me the chance of happiness!”

it was not what he meant, but he saw that she was past understanding. only by keeping her could he avert the mental breakdown which was imminent. to save her reason he must do that for which his heart was clamouring, that which he had determined never to do.

and in the light that leaped involuntarily to his eyes she read his answer even before he stooped his lips to her trembling mouth.