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Title: A Soldier of the Legion

Author: C. N. WilliamsonA. M. Williamson

Release Date: March 14, 2007 [EBook#20815]

Language: English

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cover

A Soldier of theLegion

BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHORS

A Soldier of theLegion

BY

C.N. & A.M.Williamson

GARDEN CITY NEW YORKDOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.

1914

Copyright, 1914, byC.N. & A.M. Williamson

All rights reserved, including that of translation into

foreign languages, including the Scandinavian

TOTHE LEGION

CONTENTS

I. TheTelegram

II. The BlowIII. The Last

Act of"Girls'Love"

IV. The Upper

BerthV. The Night

of StormsVI. The News

VII. Sir KnightVIII. On the

StationPlatform

IX. TheColonel ofthe Legion

X. The Voiceof theLegion

XI. Four Eyes

XII. No. 1033XIII. The Agha's

RoseXIV. Two on the

RoofXV. The Secret

LinkXVI. The Beetle

XVII. TheMission

XVIII. GoneXIX. What

Happenedat Dawn

XX. The BeautyDoctor

XXI. TheEleventhHour

XXII. The Heartof Max

XXIII. "Where theStrangeRoads GoDown"

XXIV. The MadMusic

XXV. Corporal

St. George,Deserter

XXVI. Sanda'sWeddingNight

XXVII. The OnlyFriend

XXVIII. SandaSpeaks

XXIX. Out of theDream, aPlan

XXX. The Play ofCrossPurposes

XXXI. The Gift

A Soldier of the Legion

CHAPTER ITHE TELEGRAM

It was the great ball of the season at FortEllsworth. For a special reason it hadbegun unusually late; but, though the eighthdance was on, the great event of theevening had not happened yet. Until thatshould happen, the rest, charming though itmight be, was a mere curtain-raiser tokeep men amused before the first act of theplay.

The band of the —th was playing the"Merry Widow" waltz, still a favourite atthe fort, and only one of the officers was

not dancing. All the others—young,middle-aged, and even elderly—weregliding more or less gracefully, more orless happily, over the waxed floor of thebig, white-walled, flag-draped hall whereFort Ellsworth had its concerts,theatricals, small hops, and big balls.Encircled by their uniformed arms werethe wives and sisters of brother officers,ladies whom they saw every day, or girlsfrom the adjacent town of Omallaha,whom they could see nearly every day ifthey took the trouble. Some of the girlswere pretty and pleasant. They all dancedwell, and wore their newest frocks fromChicago, New York, and even, in certainbrilliant cases, from Paris. But—therewas a heart-breaking "but". Each armywoman, each visiting girl from Omallaha

knew that at any minute her star might beeclipsed, put out, as the stars at dawn areextinguished by the rising sun. Each oneknew, too, that the sun must be at the brinkof the horizon, because it was half-pasteleven, and it took more than twentyminutes to motor to Ellsworth fromOmallaha. Besides, Max Doran, who usedto love the "Merry Widow" waltz, was notdancing. He stood near the doorpretending to talk to an old man who hadchaperoned a daughter from town to theball; but in reality he was lying in wait,ready to pounce.

It was a wonder that he hadn't gone tomeet her; but perhaps she had refused hisescort. A more effective entrance might bemade by a dazzling vision alone (the

"stage aunt" did not count) than with aman, even the show young man of thegarrison.

The show young man talked jerkily aboutthe weather, with his eyes on the door.They were laughing eyes of a brilliantblue, and accounted for a good deal wheregirls were concerned; but not all. Therewere other things—other advantages hehad, which made it seem quite remarkablethat a rather dull Western fort likeEllsworth should possess him. His familywas high up in the "Four Hundred" in NewYork. He had as much money as, with allhis boyish extravagances and wildgenerosity, he knew what to do with. Hewas exceedingly good to look at, in thedark, thin, curiously Latin style to which

he seemed to have no right. He was arather popular hero in the —th, for hispolo, a sport which he had introduced andmade possible at Fort Ellsworth, and forhis boxing, his fencing, and hismarksmanship. He had been graduatedfourth in his class at West Point threeyears before, so that he might have chosenthe engineers or artillery; but the cavalrywas what he preferred; and here he was atold Fort Ellsworth, enjoying life hugelyand so well helping others to enjoy lifethat every one liked him, no one wasjealous or grudged him what he had.

There he stood, this "show young man,"well-groomed and smart in his full-dressuniform of second lieutenant of cavalry,the stripes and splashes of yellow suiting

his dark skin: a slim, erect figure, not verytall, but a soldier every inch of him,though the wide-apart blue eyes gave thesquare-chinned face a boyish air ofwistfulness, even when he smiled hisdelightfully childlike, charming smile.Girls glanced at him as they swung past intheir partners' arms, noticing how tensewas the look on the brown face, and howthe straight eyebrows—even blacker thanthe smooth dark hair—were drawntogether in expectant concentration.

Suddenly the door opened. The curtain-raiser was over. The drama of the eveningwas about to begin.

It seemed wonderful that the band couldkeep presence of mind to go on playing the"Merry Widow," instead of stopping short

with a gasp and crash of instruments, tostart again with the "Tango Trance," herdance in "Girls' Love."

She flashed into the ballroom like adazzling fairy thing, all white and gold andglitter. Because she knew that—so tospeak—the curtain would ring up for herentrance, and not an instant before, in thefondness of her heart for young officersshe had not even delayed long enough tochange the dress she wore as the ContessaGaëta in the third act of "Girls' Love." Themusical comedy had been written for her.In it she had made her first almost startlingsuccess two years ago in London, where,according to the newspapers, all youngmen worth their salt, from dukes down todraymen, had fallen in love with her. She

had captured New York, too, and now sheand her company were rousing enthusiasmand coining money on their tour of thelarger Western cities.

The Gaëta dress looked as if it were madeof a million dewdrops turned to diamondsand sprinkled over a lacy spider-web; theweb swathing the tall and wandlike figureof Miss Billie Brookton in a way to showthat she had all the delicate perfections ofa Tanagra statuette.

Despite the distraction of her entrance,followed by that of the little gray ladyengaged as her aunt, the musicians had theself-control to go on with their "MerryWidowing," irrelevant as it now seemed.The dancers went on dancing, also, thoughthe dreaded dimness of extinction had

fallen upon even the brightest, prettiestgirls, who tried to look particularlyrapturous in order to prove that nothinghad happened. They felt their partners'interest suddenly withdrawn from themand focussed upon the radiance at thedoor. No use ignoring that Radiance, evenif one had in self-defence to pretend that itdidn't matter much, and wasn't somarvellously dazzling after all!

"There goes Mr. Doran to welcome her—of course!" said an Omallaha girl latelyback from New York. "I wonder if theyreally are engaged?"

"Why shouldn't they be?" her partnergenerously wanted to know. (He wasmarried.)

"Well, for one thing, she doesn't seem thesort of woman who'd care to give up hercareer. She's so self-conscious that shemust be selfish, and then—she's older thanhe is."

"Good heavens, no! She doesn't looknineteen!"

"On the stage."

"Or off, either."

"Anyhow, some people in New York whoknow her awfully well told me that she'dnever see twenty-nine again. An actress oftwenty-nine who can't look nineteen hadbetter go into a convent! Though, whenyou notice, her mouth and eyes are hard,aren't they? What would Max Doran's

wonderful mother say if her son marriedBillie Brookton?"

"Miss Brookton's father was a clergymanin Virginia. She told me so herself," saidthe married partner.

"She would—— Oh, I don't mean to becatty. But she must have a backgroundthat's a contrast—like that aunt of hers. Idon't believe she'd want to marry for yearsyet—a man who'd make her leave thestage. She has the air of expecting thelimelight to follow her everywherethrough life, and I'm sure Max Doran'sgorgeous mother wouldn't let herdaughter-in-law go on acting, even if Maxdidn't mind."

"Max would mind. He'd never stand it,"

Max's brother officer informed the girlwho had been to New York. "Though he'sso simple in his manner, he's proud, Iguess. But whether she's nineteen ortwenty-nine, I don't see how Billie coulddo better than take Max Doran, unless shecould snap up an English duke. And theysay there aren't any unmarried ones goingat present. She'd be an addition to thispost as a bride, wouldn't she?"

"Ye-es," answered the girl, givingwonderful dramatic value to her pause.

Just then the reign of the "Merry Widow"came to an end, and as soon after as couldbe, the "Tango Trance" began. The bandhad practised it in Miss Brookton'shonour; and it had been ordered as thefirst dance after her arrival. The aunt sat

down, and Billie Brookton began"tangoing" with Max Doran. They were abeautiful couple to watch; but of coursepeople had to keep up the farce ofdancing, too. This was not, after all, atheatre. One was supposed to have comefor something else than to stare at BillieBrookton without paying for a place.

"Your pearls," she whispered, as she andDoran danced the tango together, takinggraceful steps which she had taught himduring the fortnight they had known eachother. "How do they look?"

"Glorious on you!" he answered. "And thering has come. I telegraphed, you know.It's what you wanted. I was able to get it,I'm happy to say. Oh, Billie, can it bepossible that I shall have you for mine—

all mine? It seems too wonderful to betrue."

"I've promised, haven't I?" She laughedhalf under her breath, a pretty, tinklinglaugh. "Honour bright, Max dear, you'rethe first man I ever said 'yes' to. I hope Ishan't be sorry!"

"I won't let you be sorry," whispered Max."I'll do everything to make you so happyyou'll forget the theatre."

"If anything or anybody could make me dothat, it would be you," she answered,under cover of the music. "I believe youmust be very fascinating, or else I—butnever mind—— Now let's stop dancingand you'll show me the ring. I'm engagedfor the next—and I can't wait till you and I

have another together."

Max took her to sit down at an end of theroom uninfested by chaperons. No one atall was there. He had the ring in somepocket, and, by dint of sitting with his"back to the audience," hoped to gothrough the sacred ceremony without beingspied upon. The ring Billie had asked forwas a famous blue diamond, of almost asdeep a violet as a star-sapphire, and fullof strange, rainbow gleams. It hadbelonged to a celebrated actress who hadmarried an Englishman of title, and on herdeath it had been advertised for sale.Billie Brookton, who "adored" jewels,and whose birthstone conveniently wasthe diamond, had been "dying for it." "Shewas not superstitious," she said, "about

dead people's things." Now the bluediamond, with a square emerald on eitherside, and set in a band of platinum, washers. She took it between thumb and fingerto watch the sparks that came and went,deep under the sea-like surface of blue.As she looked at the ring, Doran looked ather eyelashes.

Never, he thought, could any other womansince the world began have had sucheyelashes. They were extraordinarily longand thick, golden brown, and black at thetips. The Omallaha girl who had been toNew York thought that Billie Brooktonherself had had more to do than heaven inthe painting of those curled-up tips. Butsuch a suggestion would have beenreceived with contempt by Max Doran,

who at the threshold of twenty-fiveconsidered himself a judge of eyelashes.(He was not; nor of a woman'scomplexion; but believing in himself andin Billie, he was happy.) Miss Brooktonhad a complexion nearly as white, and itseemed to him—more luminous, moreethereal, than the string of pearls he hadgiven her a month in advance of herbirthday. She said it would be her twenty-third, and Max had been incredulous in thenicest way. He would have supposed herto be nineteen at the most, if she had notbeen so frank.

"Now, if you've looked at the ring enoughoff your finger, will you let me put it on?"he begged. "I'll make a wish—a goodwish: that you shall never grow tired of

your bargain. For it is a bargain, isn't it?From the minute this ring is on your fingeryou're engaged to me."

"What will your beautiful mother say?"asked Billie, hanging back daintily, anddoing charming things with her eyelashes.

"Oh, she'll be surprised at first," Max hadto admit. "You see, she's so young herselfand such a great beauty, it must be hard forher to realize she's got a son who hasgrown up to be a man. I used to think shewas the most exquisite creature on earth,but now——"

His words broke off, and he looked upfrom the gleaming line of gold-and-blacklashes. An orderly had come quickly andalmost noiselessly to him. "For you,

Lieutenant," the man announced with asalute, holding out a telegram.

"May I?" murmured Doran, andperfunctorily opened the envelope.

Billie went on gazing at the ring. She wasfaintly annoyed at the delay, for she wasanxious to see how the blue diamondwould look on her finger, and Max hadasked to wish it on. The lights in the stonewere so fascinating, however, that for aninstant she forgot the interruption. Then,sensitive to all that was dramatic,something in the quality of Max Doran'ssilence struck her. She felt suddenlysurrounded by a chilling atmospherewhich seemed to shut her and Max awayfrom the dancers, away from music andlife, as if a thick glass case had been let

down over them both. She glanced upquickly. No wonder she had felt so cold.Doran's face looked frozen. His eyes werestill fixed on the telegram, though therehad been time for him to read it over andover again. He was so lost in the news ithad brought that he had forgotten even her—forgotten her in the moment when shehad been consenting to a formalengagement, she, the illusive, the vainlydesired one, run after just to the foot of herunclimbable mountain by the nimblest, therichest, everywhere!

Her small soul was stirred to resentment.She wanted to punish Max Doran fordaring to neglect her at such a time, evenfor a few seconds; but a half-angry, half-frightened study of the dark, absorbed face

changed her mood. No man could looklike that unless something awful hadhappened.

What, that was awful, could happen toMax Doran? Why, he could lose all hismoney!

Billie's heart leaped, and then seemed tofall back heavily in the lovely bosomsheathed like a lily with a film ofsparkling dew. Would he ever speak? Shecould not wait. Besides, it was right to besympathetic. "Max, what is it—dearMax?" she whispered in the honey-sweetvoice of Gaëta in "Girls' Love."

He started, and waked up. "It's my mother.She's been hurt," he said. "My God, I mustgo at once!"

Almost, Billie sighed out her intense reliefin words; but she had just presence ofmind and self-control enough to hold themback. Gently she took the telegram fromhim, and he let her do it. Meanwhile,however, she had slipped the ring on toher own finger—but not the engagedfinger. Evidently this was no time for anannouncement, or congratulations andsensations. But it was just as well to havethe blue diamond safe on one's hand, evenif it were the right hand instead of the left.

"'Your mother dangerously injured inmotor accident,'" she read. "'Asking to seeyou. Come without delay. Reeves.'"

"Oh, how very sad!" breathed Billie."How awful if she should be disfigured!But I do hope not."

Doran did not remember to thank his lovefor her solicitude. He got up, not frozennow, but a little dazed. It occurred toBillie that he had never looked sohandsome, so much a man. She felt that hewas gathering himself together. "I'lltelephone to Omallaha for a special trainto connect with the limited at Chicago," hesaid. "By the time I can see the Coloneland get off it ought to be ready. Yes, Iought to catch the limited that way. It'sawful to leave you like this, but I must. I'lltake you to your aunt, and—who's got the

next dance with you?"

"Major Naylor," she answered, slightlyinjured, for not ten minutes ago he hadbeen looking at her card. He ought to haveremembered every name on it and in theright order.

"Well, he'll come to you in a minute. Trusthim not to lose a second! And—you'llwrite to me?"

"Of course; you'll wire as soon as youcan, how your mother is—and everything?On Monday I shall be back in Chicago."

"I'll wire the moment I can," Max assuredher. "You know the address in NewYork?"

"Oh, yes, everybody knows the beautiful

Mrs. Doran's address. I'll write ortelegraph every day. My heart will bewith you."

He squeezed her hand so desperately thatshe could have screamed with pain fromthe pressure of the blue diamond. But withtouching self-control she only smiled astrained, sympathetic little smile. AndMax had forgotten all about the ring!

"Thank you, my beautiful one, my angel,"he said. And Billie's large brown eyes (soeffective with her delicate dark brows andrippling yellow hair) gave him a lovelylook. She had been called many things bymany adoring men, but perhaps neverbefore an "angel." Max Doran was veryyoung, in some ways even younger thanhis years. "Good-bye," she murmured.

"But no—not 'good-bye.' That's a terribleword. Au revoir. You'll come to me whenyou can, I know. I shall be in Chicago afortnight. But if you can't leave Mrs.Doran, why, in six weeks I shall be inNew York."

"Don't speak of six weeks!" he exclaimed."It's like six years. I must see you beforethat. But—my mother is before everythingjust now."

They bade each other farewell with theireyes. Then he took her to Mrs. Liddell, thesmall gray aunt, and hardly was Billieseated when Major Naylor dashed up toclaim her for Gaëta's waltz in the first actof "Girls' Love."

After that, things happened quickly with

Max Doran. He seemed to dream them,and was still in the dream, tearing towardChicago in a special train whose wheelsrushed through the night in tune with thatfirst-act music from "Girls' Love."

CHAPTER IITHE BLOW

The name that signed the telegram was thatof Mrs. Doran's lawyer and man ofbusiness. It was that also of Max Doran'sold-time chum, Grant Reeves, EdwinReeves' son. And when Max stepped outof the limited in the Grand Central Stationof New York, among the first faces he sawwere those of the two Reeveses, who hadcome to meet him. He shook hands withboth, warmly and gratefully with Grant.He had never been able really to like hisfriend's father. But it was to him he turnedwith the question: "How is she?"

The elder, tall, thin, clean-shaven, withcarrot-red hair turning gray, had prominentred eyebrows over pale, intelligent eyesthat winked often, owing to someweakness of the lids, which had lost mostof their lashes. This disfigurement heconcealed as well as he could withrimless pince-nez, which some peoplesaid were not necessary as an aid toeyesight. They were an aid to vanity,however; and the care Edwin Reevesbestowed on his clothes suggested that hewas a vain as well as a clever man.

The son was a young and notably good-looking copy of his father, whose partnerin business he had lately become. Theywere singularly alike except in colouring,for Grant was brown-haired and brown-

eyed, with plenty of curled-back lasheswhich gave him an alert look.

Both men started forward at the sight ofMax, Grant striding ahead of Edwin andgrasping Max's hand, "I had to come, oldchap," he said, with a pleasant thoughslightly affected accent meant to beEnglish. "I wanted just to shake hands andtell you how I felt."

"Thank you, Grant," said Max. "Is she—isthere hope?"

"Oh, there's always hope, you know; isn'tthere, governor?"

Grant Reeves appealed to his father, whohad joined them. "Who can tell? She'swonderful."

Edwin Reeves took the hand Max heldout, and then did nothing with it, in thealoof, impersonal way that had alwaysirritated Max, and made him want to flingaway the unresponsive fingers. Now,however, for the first time in his life hedid not notice. He was lost in his desirefor and fear of the verdict.

"It would only be cruel to raise hishopes," the father answered the son. "Thedoctors (there are four) say it's a miracleshe's kept alive till now. Sheer will-power. She's living to see you."

Max was dumb, his throat constricted.And then, there was nothing to say.Something deep down in him—somethinghe could not bear to hear—was askingwhy she should suddenly care so much?

She had never cared before, never reallycared, though in his intense admiration ofher, almost amounting to worship, he hadfought to make himself believe that she didlove him as other mothers loved theirsons. Yet his heart knew the truth: that shehad become more and more indifferent ashe grew up from a small boy into a youngman. Since he went to West Point they hadspent very little time together, though theywere always on affectionate terms. Shehad never spoken a disagreeable word tohim, never given him a cross look. Only—there had been nothing of the mother abouther. She had treated him like a nicevisiting boy who must be entertained, evenfascinated, and then gently got rid of whenhe began to be a bore. In his first term atWest Point she had sailed for Europe, and

stopped there for two years. When he wasgraduated she had gone again, and stayedanother year. They had met only oncesince he had been stationed at FortEllsworth: last Christmas, when he hadrun on to New York and surprised her.She had been in great beauty, looking not aday over thirty. And now—Max could notmake it seem true. But, at least, shewanted him. Max clutched at the thoughtwith passion, and scarcely heard Grantsaying that he must hurry on to the office;he had come only for a word and ahandshake: it was better that the governoralone should go with dear old Max to thehouse.

Mrs. Doran's town automobile waswaiting with a solemn chauffeur and

footman who bent their eyes reverently,not to look the stricken young soldier inthe face. Max had a sick thrill as he sawthe smart blue monster, with its row ofglittering glass eyes; it had been hisChristmas present to his mother byrequest. When the telegram told himbriefly that she had been hurt in a motoraccident, he had thought with agony that itmight have been in the car he had given.He was thankful that it had not been so.That would have seemed too horrible—asif he had killed her. Now he would hearhow it had really happened. Every nervewas tense as if he were awaiting anoperation without anesthetics.

There were not many blocks to go fromthe Grand Central to the Fifth Avenue

home of the Dorans, an old house whichhad been remodelled and mademagnificent by Max's father to receive hisbride. In less than ten minutes the blueautomobile had slipped through all thetraffic and reached its destination; butmany questions can be asked andanswered in eight minutes. Between themoment of starting, and the moment whenMax's one hastily packed suitcase wasbeing carried up to the door, he had heardthe whole story. The fated car had been afriend's car. There had been a collision.The two automobiles had turned over. Forhalf an hour she had lain crushed under theweight of the motor before she could begot out. Her back was broken, and she hadbeen horribly burnt. Even if she couldhave lived—which was impossible—she

would have been shockingly disfigured.Edwin Reeves had been with her once, fora few minutes: she had wanted to speak tohim about certain things, matters ofbusiness, and the doctors, who never lefther, had stopped giving her opiates onpurpose. From the first she had said thatshe must be kept alive till Max couldcome, and that no matter what she had tosuffer her mind must be clear for a talkwith him. After that, nothing mattered. Shewanted to die and be out of her misery.When Mr. Reeves had been taken into herroom her face had been covered with awhite veil, and Max must prepare himselfto be received in the same way. It wasbetter that he should know this beforehandand be spared a shock.

Never to see that beautiful face again inthis world! Max felt like one dead andgalvanized as he walked into the houseand was received by a doctor—somegreat specialist whose name he had heard,but whom he had never chanced to meet.Not once did his thoughts rush back toBillie Brookton, and the night when he hadmeant to put on her finger the bluediamond in the platinum ring. Billie wasin another world, a world a million milesaway, as following the doctor Maxwalked softly into his mother's room.

There he had once more that insistentfeeling of unreality. The gay room with itsshell-pink melting into yellow and orangelooked so unsuited to any condition butjoy that it was impossible to believe

tragedy had stalked in uninvited. Evenwith the morning light shut out by thedrawn yellow curtains, and the electricityturned on in the flower or gauze-shadedlamps, it looked a place dedicated to thejoy of life and beauty. But when, with aphysical effort, Max turned his eyes to thebed, copied from one where MarieAntoinette had slept, he saw that whichseemed to throw a pall of crape over thefantastic golden harmonies. A figure laythere, very straight, very flat and longunder the coverlet pulled high over thebreast. Even the hands were hidden: andover the face was spread a white veil ofchiffon, folded double, so that no gleam ofeye, no feature could even be guessed at.

Until that moment, Max had kept his self-

control. But at sight of that piteous form,and remembering the radiant face framedwith great bunches of red-gold hair, whichhe had kissed good-bye, in this very bednot three months ago, the dam which hadheld back the flood of anguish broke. Itwas as if his heart had turned to water.Tears sprang from his eyes, and thestrength went out of his knees. It was allhe could do not to fall at the side of thebed and to sob out his mother's name,telling her that he would give his life ahundred times for hers if that could be, orthat he would go out of the world with herrather than she should go alone. Butsomething came to his help and kept himoutwardly calm save for a slight chokingin the throat as he said softly, standing bythe bedside, "Dearest, I am here."

"At last," came a faint murmur from underthe double veil.

Max thought, with a sharp stab of pain,that he would not have recognized thevoice if he had not known that it was hismother's. It sounded like the voice of alittle, frail, very old woman; whereasRose Doran had been a creature ofglorious physique, looking and feeling atleast fifteen years younger than her age.

"I started the minute I had the telegram,"Max said, wanting to make sure that sherealized his love, his frantic haste to reachher. "It has seemed a hundred years!Darling, if I could bear this for you. If——"

"Please, don't," the little whining voice

under the veil fretfully cut him short. "Ican't see very well. Has the doctor goneout?"

"Yes, dearest. We're alone."

"I'm glad. There isn't much time, and I'vegot a story to tell you. I ought to call it aconfession."

That swept Max's forced calmness away."A confession from you to me!" he criedout, horrified. "Never! Darling One,whatever it is I don't want to hear it—Idon't need to hear it, I know—— Rest. Beat peace. Just let us love each other."

"You don't know what you are talkingabout." The veiled voice grew shrill."You only do harm trying to stop me.

You'll kill me if you do."

"Forgive me, dear." Max controlledhimself again. "I'll not say another word. I——"

"Then don't—don't! I want to go on—tothe end. I'd rather you sat down. I can seeyou standing there. It's like a blackshadow between me and the light,accusing—no, don't speak! It needn'taccuse. You wouldn't have had the lifeyou've had, if—but I mustn't begin likethat. Where are you now? Are you nearenough to hear all I say? I can't raise myvoice."

"I'm sitting down, close by the bed. I canhear the least whisper," Max assured her.He sat with his head bowed, his hands

gripping the arms of the chair. Thisseemed unbearable, to spend the lastminutes of her life hearing someconfession! It was not right, from a motherto a son. But he must yield.

"I don't know how long I can stand it—thepain, I mean," she moaned. "So I can't tryand break things gently to you, for fear—Ihave to stop in the midst. I'm not yourmother, Max, and Jack wasn't your father.But he thought he was. He never knew.And he loved you. I didn't. I never could.You see—I did know. You must havewondered sometimes. I saw youwondered; I suppose you never guessed,even though I always told you to call meRose, or anything you liked, exceptmother?"

She was waiting for him to answer; and hedid answer, though it was as if she hadthrown him over a precipice, and he werehanging by some branch which would lethim crash down in an instant to the bottomof an unknown abyss.

"No, I never guessed." Queer how quiet,how utterly expressionless his voice was!He heard it in faraway surprise.

"I used to be afraid at first that Jack wouldguess, you were so unlike either of us, sodark, so—so Latin. But he said you werea throw-back to his Celtic ancestors.There were French and Irish oneshundreds of years ago, you know. Henever suspected. Everything happened justas I hoped it would—just as I wanted it to.But I didn't realize how I should feel about

it if I were going to die. The minute I cameto myself after—the accident, it rushedover me. Not the very first thought. Thatwas about myself. I wanted to know if mylooks were gone. When they had to sayyes, I was glad—thankful—I could die. I'dhave poisoned or starved myself ratherthan live on. But no need of that. I think Icould let myself slip away any minutenow. I'm just—holding on. For somethingtold me—I have a feeling that Jack himselfcame, and has been here ever since,knowing all I had done and willing me totell the truth. I struggled a little against it,for why shouldn't you go on being happy?Nothing was your fault. But it was bornein on me that I must give you the chance tochoose for yourself, and—another. That'swhy Jack has come, perhaps. She is his

daughter."

"There was a girl, our child. But—youcan't understand unless I tell you the story.I shall have strength. I feel I shall now—toget through with it. Perhaps Jack willhelp. He was the one human being I everloved better than myself. That was reallove! What I did was partly for his sake,I'm honestly sure of that. He wouldn't havelet me do it. But it made him happy, notknowing——

"You've been told over and over how youwere born in France, when Jack and I hadthe Château de la Tour, on the Loire. Thatwas true—the one true thing. But youweren't born in the château. It wasn't fornothing that you learned French almost aseasily as you breathed—and Latin, too. I

suppose things like that are in people'sblood. You are French. If I had left youwhere you were, you would have grownup Maxime Delatour. Delatour was yourreal father's name; he came originally ofthe de la Tours, but his branch of thefamily had gone down, somehow. Eventhe name was spelled differently, in thecommon way. But they lived in the sameneighbourhood—that is how it all cameabout."

She paused, and gave a sigh like a faintmoan. But Max was silent. He could spareher nothing. She must go on to the end—ifthe end were death. For there wassomebody else, somewhere, who had tobe put in his place—the place he hadthought was his.

"It was really because I loved Jack—toomuch," the veiled woman still fretfullyexcused herself. "I should have beennobody, except for my looks. He marriedme for my looks, because I was strong andtall and fine, as a girl should be. Hethought I could give him a splendid heir.You know how things are arranged in thisfamily. The property goes from father toson, or a daughter, if there's no son. Butthey all pray for sons. The Dorans want tocarry on the name they're so proud of—just as you have been proud! The wife of aDoran's important only if she's beautiful,or if she has a son. I wanted to beimportant for both reasons. Oh, how Iwanted it!

"Jack took me to England for our

honeymoon, and then to France. We hadn'tbeen in Paris long before I knew I wasgoing to have a child. Jack was so happy!He was sure it would be a boy—the mostgorgeous boy ever born. How I rememberthe day I told him, and he said that! But allthe time I had the presentiment it would bea girl. I felt guilty, miserable, when Jacktalked about the baby.... The doctors saidit would be safer for me not to have a seavoyage, so we decided to stop in Francetill after the child came. We stayed inParis at first, and Jack and I used to go tothe Louvre to see beautiful pictures andstatues—for the 'sake of the boy.'

"When the Salon opened we went there,and I saw a painting every one was talkingabout—by a new artist. It was called

'Bella Donna,' just a woman's head andshoulders. Max, she was like me! But shewas horrible, wicked—somehowdeformed, though you couldn't see how.You only felt it. And besides being likeme, she was like a lynx. There was one inthe Zoo in London, with just herexpression. Jack and I saw it together, andhe laughed, and said now he knew who myfirst ancestress was. He didn't sayanything about my looking like 'BellaDonna,' but I knew he must have thought it.He got me away from the picture as soonas he could, but I couldn't forget. Thelynx-face, with the yellow eyes and redhair like mine, haunted me. I began todream of my child being born like that—agirl, deformed in the horrid, mysteriousway that you could only feel. I could never

go to sleep again on a night after thedream. I suppose I looked pale; and heworried, and the doctors advised thecountry. We had some friends who'd justcome back from the Loire, and they told usabout a wonderful château there that wasto be rented furnished. It belonged to anold family named de la Tour, who had losttheir money. They had a romantic, tragicsort of history that interested us,especially Jack, so we went to see theplace. There were vineyards badlycultivated, and a forest, and someshooting, too; and we took it for a fewmonths. But we hadn't been there manyweeks when a telegram came to Jack fromEdwin Reeves. Edwin acted for him eventhen. It was important, on account of somebusiness, for Jack to go home. He would

have answered that it was impossible, butI said, why not go? I was safe, and hecould be back in a month or five weeks. Ihad old Anne Wickham with me, and she'dbeen my nurse when I was a little girl, youknow, and my maid afterward, till shedied. You can remember her."

Max could. As a very tiny boy he had beenalmost afraid of old Anne Wickham,because his nurse was afraid of her: alsobecause she had glared at him critically,mercilessly, with her great eyes in darkhollows, never smiling kindly, as otherpeople did, but seeming to search forsome fault in him. Now, suddenly, heunderstood this gloomy riddle of hischildhood.

Rose Doran, beneath her veil, did not wait

for any answer, or wish for one. Shehurried on, only stopping now and then tosigh out her restlessness and pain, makingMax bite his lip and quiver as if under thelash.

"We had a Paris doctor engaged, and atrained nurse," she said. "They were tocome weeks before I expected my baby. Idon't know how much Jack was to pay forthe doctor—thousands of dollars; and Jackthought to be back in a month before, atlatest. But one day I caught my foot goingdownstairs, and fell. We had to send forthe village doctor in a hurry, and Anne hadto remember all she knew about nursing.The child was a seven months' baby—agirl. And she had a face like mine, andlike 'Bella Donna,' and like a lynx. There

was just that look of deformity I haddreamed—mysterious and dreadful. Ihated the creature. I couldn't feel she wasmine and Jack's. She was like somechangeling in an old witch tale. I couldn'tbear it! I knew that I'd rather die than haveJack see that wicked elf after all hishopes. I told the doctor so. I threatened tokill myself. I don't know if I meant it. Buthe thought I did. He was a young man. Ifrightened him. While he was trying tocomfort me an idea flashed into my head.It seemed to shoot in, like an arrow. Ibegged the doctor to find me a boy babywhose mother would take the girl and a lotof money. I said I would give him tenthousand dollars for himself, too, if hecould manage it secretly, so no one but heand Anne Wickham and I need ever know.

At first he kept exclaiming, and wouldn'tlisten. But I cried, and partly by workingon his feelings and partly with the bribethat was a fortune to such a man, Ipersuaded him. Anne helped. She wouldhave done anything for me. And she knewthe Dorans. She knew Jack could neverfeel the same to me, as the mother of thatimpish girl.

"The doctor knew about a young womanwho had just had a child—a boy. He'dhelped bring it into the world a night ortwo before. She was the wife of a privatesoldier who'd been ordered off to Algeriasomewhere. They'd been married secretly.If she had money she would havefollowed him. But they were very poor.The man was mixed up with the romance

of the de la Tours; he belonged to thebranch of the family that had gone down.They were called Delatour, but every oneknew their history. The doctor thought thegirl would do anything for the money I'doffer—and to get to Algeria. He managedthe whole thing for me, and certified thatmy child was a boy. He even went toParis and sold my pearls and a diamondtiara and necklace, and lots of otherthings, worth ever so many thousandsmore than I'd promised to pay him andMadame Delatour. You see, I hadn't anygreat sums of money by me, so I wasforced to sell things. And afterward I hadto pretend that my jewels were stolenfrom a train while we were in the dining-car; otherwise Jack would have wonderedwhy I never wore them. I was thankful the

night you were brought to me. I hadn't anyremorse then, about sending the other babyaway. I told you she didn't seem mine. Sheseemed hardly human. But I wasfrightened because you were so dark. Youhad quantities of black hair. I didn't eventry to love you. Only I felt you were veryvaluable. So did Anne. And when Jackcame hurrying back to me on the doctor'stelegram, he was pleased with you. Hecalled you in joke his 'little Frenchman.'He didn't dream it was all truth! And hedidn't mind your being called Max. You'dalready been baptized Maxime, after thesoldier; and his wife made just that onecondition: that the name should be kept.

"I told Jack I'd always loved the name ofMax, so he loved it, too; and though you

had other names given to you—the oneswe planned beforehand—nothing fitted the'little Frenchman' so well as Max. That'sall the story. At first Anne and I used to beafraid of blackmail, either from theDelatour woman (who went off at once,before she was really strong enough totravel) or from the doctor, who hurriedher away as much for his sake as for hers,lest it should be found out by someneighbour that her boy had been changedfor a girl. Luckily for us, though, peopleavoided her. They didn't believe she wasreally married. But the doctor said shewas. And he turned out to be honest. Henever tried to get more money out of me.Neither did the woman. His name wasPaul Lefebre, and the village was Latour.I've never heard anything from them or

about them since Jack and I and you andAnne left the Château de la Tour, whenyou were six weeks old. I didn't wish tohear. I wanted to forget, as if it had allbeen a bad dream. Only Anne's eyeswouldn't let me. They seemed to know toomuch. I couldn't help being glad when shewas dead, though she'd been so faithful.But when Jack died in that dreadful,sudden way, then for the first time I feltremorse—horrible remorse, for a while....I thought he was taken from me by God asa punishment—the one human being I'dever loved dearly! And I got insomnia,because his spirit seemed to be near,looking at me, knowing everything. But thefeeling passed. I suppose I'm not deepenough to feel anything for long. I liveddown the remorse. And it was fortunate

for me I had a child; otherwise all but alittle money would have gone to theReynold Dorans. You've been good to me,Max, and I've liked you very well. I'vetried not to think about the past. But whenI did think, I said to myself that you hadnothing to complain of. What a differentlife it would have been for you, with yourown people. And even as it is, you needn'tgive up anything unless you choose. IfJack were alive I'd never have told, evendying. But he's gone, and I shall be—soon.So far as I'm concerned I don't care whichway you choose: whether you write toDoctor Lefebre or not. Only for the sakeof the name—Jack's name—don't let therebe a scandal if you decide to try and findthe girl. Maybe you can't find her. She maybe dead. Then it needn't go against your

conscience to let things stay as they are.The Reynold Dorans have heaps ofmoney."

"That isn't the question exactly," said Max."Whatever happens, I haven't the right—but never mind.... I don't want to troubleyou, God knows. I can see partly how youmust have felt about the baby, and aboutfath—I mean, about the whole thing. Itisn't for me to blame—I—thank you fortelling me. Somehow I must manage—tomake things straight, without injuring fath—without injuring the name." His voicebroke a little. John Doran had died underan operation when Max was ten, but hehad adored his father, and still adored hismemory. There had been great lovebetween the big, quiet sportsman and the

mercurial, hot-headed, enthusiastic littleboy whom Jack Doran had spoiled andcalled "Frenchy" for a pet name. Aftermore than fourteen years, he could hearthe kind voice now, clearly as ever."Hullo, Frenchy! how are things with youto-day?" used to be the morning greeting.

How were things with him to-day?...

Max had heard the story with a stoliditywhich seemed to himself extraordinary;for excepting the shiver of physical painwhich shook him at each sigh of sufferingfrom under the veil, he had felt nothing,absolutely nothing, until the voice of deadJack Doran seemed to call to him out ofdarkness.

"He wasn't my father," came the stabbing

reminder; but the love which had beencould never be taken away. "I must dowhat you would want me to do," Maxanswered the call. In his heart he knewwhat that thing was. He must giveeverything up. He ought to look for the girland for his own parents, if they lived. Thedaughter of John Doran must have whatwas hers.

As he thought this, Rose spoke again,more slowly now, since the story wastold, and there was no longer any haste."Remember, nobody knows yet but youand me, Max," she said. "Not even EdwinReeves. All he knows is that I hadsomething to say to you. If he tried toguess what it was, he must have guessedsomething very different from this. Why

not find out where she is, if you can, andsomehow contrive to give her money orsend it anonymously—enough to make herrich; and let the rest go as it is? I told youjust now that I didn't care much eitherway, and I don't, for myself, because Ishall be out of it all, and because I knowyou loved Jack too well not to be carefulfor his sake, what you do. But I care morefor your sake than I thought I cared at first.You're so quiet, I know I've struck youhard. Almost—I wish I hadn't told."

"I don't," answered Max with an effort."And you mustn't. It was the only thing."

And yet, even as he spoke, he wasconscious of wishing that she had not told.Some women, having done what she haddone for the love of a man and for their

own vanity, would have gone out of theworld in silence—still for the love of theman, and for their own vanity. Vanity hadbeen the ruling passion of Rose Doran'slife. Max had realized it before. Yetsomething in the end had been strongerthan vanity, and had beaten it down. Hewondered dimly what the thing was.Perhaps fear, lest soon, on the other sideof the dark valley, she should have to meetreproach in the only eyes she had everloved. And she needed help in crossing—Jack Doran's help. Maybe this was herway of reaching out for it. She had told thetruth; and she seemed to think that wasenough. She advised Max to leave thingsas they were, after all. And he wastempted to obey.

No longer was he stunned by the blow thathad fallen. He felt the pain of it now, andfaced the future consequences. He stood tolose everything: his career, for Max hadhis vanity, too; and without the Doranname and the Doran money he could notremain in the army.

If he resolved to hand over all that was histo the girl, he must go away, must leavethe country.

He would have to think of some schemeby which the girl could get her rights, andthe world could be left in ignorance ofRose Doran's fraud. To accomplish this,he must sacrifice himself utterly. He mustdisappear and be forgotten by his friends—a penniless man, without a country. AndBillie Brookton would be lost to him.

Strange, this was his first consciousthought of her since he had stepped out ofthe train, almost his first since leaving herat Fort Ellsworth. He was half shocked athis forgetfulness of such a jewel, so nearlyhis, the jewel so many other men wanted.He wanted her, too, desperately, now thatthe clouds had parted for an instant toremind him of the bright world where shelived—the world of his past.

"You're so deadly still!" Rose murmured."Are you thinking hard things of me?"

"No, never that," Max said.

"How are you going to decide? Shall youtake my advice, keep your place in thisworld, and give her money, if you findher? And most likely you never can. It's

such a long time ago." Rose's voicedragged. It was very small and weak, verytired.

"It's your advice for me to do that?" Maxasked, almost incredulously. "And yet—she's your own child, his child."

"Not the child of our souls. You'll seewhat I mean, if you ever see her. Think itover—a few minutes, and then tell me. Ifeel—somehow I should like to know,before going. Wake me—in ten minutes. Ithink I could sleep—till then. Such a rest,since I told you! No pain."

"Oughtn't I to call the doctor?" Max halfrose from his chair by the bedside.

"No, no. I want nothing—except to sleep

—for ten minutes. Can you decide—in tenminutes?"

"Yes."

"You promise to wake me then?"

"Yes," Max said again.

For ten minutes there was silence in theroom, save for a little sound of cracklingwood in the open fire that Rose hadalways loved.

Max had decided, and the time had cometo keep his promise. He must speak, towake the sleeper. But he did not knowwhat to call her. She said that she hadnever loved him as a son. She mustalways have felt irritated when he daredto address her as "Dearest"—he, the little

French bourgeois. She would hate it now.

"Rose!" he whispered. Then a littlelouder, "Rose!"

She did not answer.

He would not have to tell her his decision.But perhaps she knew.

CHAPTER IIITHE LAST ACT OF "GIRLS' LOVE"

The wail of grief that echoed through NewYork for Rose Doran, suddenly snatchedfrom life in the prime of her beauty,sounded in the ears of Max a warningnote. Her memory must not be smirched.And then again came the temptation. Asshe lay dying he had decided what to do.But now that she was dead, now thatletters and telegrams by the hundred, andvisits of sympathy, and columns in thenewspapers, were making him realizemore and more her place in the world shehad left, and the height of the pedestal on

which the Doran family stood, thequestion repeated itself insistently: Whynot reconsider?

Max had thought from time to time that heknew what temptation was; but now hesaw that he had never known. Hissafeguard used to be in calling up hisfather's image to stand by him, in listeningfor the tones of a beloved voice which hadthe power to calm his hot temper, or holdhim back from some impetuous act ofwhich he would have been ashamed later.He had seemed to hear the voice as Roseslept her last sleep, under her white veil,but later it was silent. It left him tohimself, and sometimes he was evenpersuaded that it joined with the voice ofRose, whispering that siren word,

"Reconsider."

Jack Doran had loved Rose. Perhaps onthe other side of the valley he had forgivenher, and wished above all other things thather memory should remain bright. If Maxreconsidered, it would all be easy. No onewould be surprised if he took long leaveand went abroad. No one would think itstrange or suspicious if a girl "Cousin"should later appear on the scene: a MissDoran of whom no one had ever heard,who had been educated abroad, and who,because she had lost her parents, was totake up life in America. Or maybe itneedn't even come to that, in case he foundthe girl. She might be married. She mightprefer to remain where she was, withplenty of money from her distant relations,

the Dorans, of whose existence she wouldbe informed for the first time. Therewould be no difficulty in arranging this.The one real difficulty was that Max's soulwould be in prison. The bars would be ofgold, and he would have in his celleverything to make him and his friendsthink it a palace. But it would be a prisoncell, all the same, for ever and ever; andat night when he and his soul were alonetogether, looking into each other's eyes, hewould know that from behind the door hehad locked upon himself there was noescape.

There were moments, and whole hourstogether, when he said with a kind ofsudden rage against the responsibilitythrown on him, "I'll take Rose's advice—

the last words she ever spoke." But then,in some still depth far under the turmoil ofhis tempted spirit, he knew that his firstdecision was the only one possible forhonour or even for happiness. And the dayafter the funeral he made it irrevocable bytelling Edwin Reeves a wild story that hadcome to him in a strange moment ofsomething like exaltation. It had come ashe stood bareheaded by the grave whereRose had just been laid to sleep besideJack Doran; and in that moment a lie fortheir sakes seemed nobler than the truththat would hurt them. More and more, ashe thought of it on his way back to thehouse which had once been "home," andas the possibilities developed in his mind,with elaborations of the tale, this lieappealed to his chivalry. Everybody might

hear it without fear that Jack or Rosewould be blamed. That was the greatadvantage. There need be no whisperingsand mysteries. And once the tale was told,there would be no going back from it.

The story which fixed his imagination andinspired him to martyrdom might havemade a plot for some old-fashionedmelodrama, but Max began to realize thatthere was nothing in fiction so incredibleas the things which happen in life: thingsone reads about any day in newspapers,yet which in a novel would be laughed atby critics. He would say to Edwin Reevesthat, shortly before her death, Rose hadlearned through the dying confession of aFrenchwoman who had nursed her inchildbirth that her girl baby had been

changed for a boy, born about the sametime to a relative of the nurse; that hearingthis story she had intended to write Max,and ask him to go to France to prove ordisprove its truth, but that she had beenstruck down before summoning courage tobreak the news. Edwin Reeves would thenunderstand Rose's anxiety to see Max; andhe would keep the secret, at least until thegirl was found. As for what ought to bedone in the case of not finding her, orlearning without doubt that she was dead,Max thought he might take the lawyer'sadvice as a friend of the Dorans, as alegal man, and as a man of the world.Perhaps, if in Edwin Reeves's judgmentsilence would in that event be justified,Max might accept this verdict.

There was that one grain of hope for thefuture—if it could be called hope. Butthere was another person besides EdwinReeves and Edwin Reeves's son (Max'sbest friend of old days) who must be toldat once how little claim he had to theDoran name and fortune. That person wasBillie Brookton.

Max had dimly expected opposition fromEdwin Reeves, whose advice might bewhat Rose Doran's had been: to givemoney, and let everything remain as it hadbeen. It was somewhat to his surprise thatthe lawyer, after listening in silence,agreed that there was just one thing to do,if the girl still lived. Grant (who was withhim in their private office by Max's wish),though more demonstrative, more openly

sympathetic, held the same opinion.

Max ought to have been glad of thisencouragement, but somehow, shaminghimself for it, he felt a dull sense of injury,especially where Grant was concerned.Grant exclaimed that it was horribly hardlines, and that old Max was the splendidfellow everybody had always believedhim to be. Lots of chaps would have beenmean, and stuck to the name and money,though of course no honourable man coulddo that. Grant quite saw how Max felt, andwould have to act in the same wayhimself, no matter what it cost. If the truthhad to come out, every one would say he'dbehaved like a hero—that was onecomfort; but, as Edwin Reeves remindedthem both, Max might be rewarded for his

noble resolve by learning that there wasno need to make the sensational storypublic. If the girl had died or could not befound, it would be—in Mr. Reeves'sopinion—foolishly quixotic to rousesleeping dogs, and ruin himself, to putmoney in the pockets of the ReynoldDorans, who had more than they wantedalready.

"You'll feel like getting leave to run overto France, I suppose," said the lawyer,"though of course the search might bemade for you if you prefer."

"I prefer to go myself," Max decidedquietly.

"Why not let me go with you?" Grantsuggested, with a certain eagerness which

it seemed to Max he tried to suppress,rather than to show as a proof offriendship. "The governor could spare mefor a while, I expect, and it wouldn't bequite such a gloomy errand as if you werealone. I'd be glad to do it for you, dear oldboy, honestly I would."

Yes, he would be glad. Max saw that. Andinstead of feeling drawn nearer to GrantReeves, he felt suddenly miles away. Theyhad drifted apart since Max had joined hisregiment in the West and Grant hadbecome a partner with his father. NowMax told himself that he had never knownGrant: that as men they were so far fromone another he could really never knowhim; and he wondered at the impulsewhich had made him wish Grant to hear

the story with Edwin.

"But suppose it's all true and you find thegirl over on the other side somewhere?"Grant went on, when Max had answeredthat the search might be long, and it wouldbe better for him to make it alone. "Whatwill you do? Hadn't my mother better fetchher? Mother's over in Paris now, youknow, so it would be less trouble. Youmightn't want to bring her back yourself,unless, of course——"

"Unless—what?" Max wanted to know.

"Well, you're not related to the girl, andyou're about the same age. She'll naturallylook upon you as a hero, a deliverer, andall that, if she's a normal woman. If itwere in a book instead of real life, the end

would be——"

"Different from what it will be with us,"Max cut him short. "Don't let's speak orthink of anything like that."

"It only occurred to me," Grant excusedhimself mildly, "that if—nothing like thatdid happen, you mightn't want to comeback to this country yourself, for a while.It's a queer sort of case. And you see youwent through West Point and got yourlieutenancy as Max Doran. If you weren'tMax Doran, but somebody else, I wonderwhat they would do about——"

"I shouldn't give them the trouble of doinganything," said Max quietly. "I'd resignfrom the army. But there'll be other doorsopen, I hope. I don't mean to fade out of

existence because I'm not a Doran or afellow with money. I'll try and makesomething out of another name."

"And you'll succeed, of course," EdwinReeves assured him. "I suppose it was inGrant's mind that if this extraordinarystory proved to be true, and you shouldgive up your name and your fortune toJohn and Rose Doran's daughter, why youwould in a way be giving up your country,too. You say that the confession Mrs.Doran received was from aFrenchwoman: that this person took thechild of a relative, and exchanged it forthe Doran baby. If we are to believe that,it makes you of French blood as well asFrench birth. Grant supposed, perhaps,that this fact might change your point of

view."

Max had not thought of it, and resented thesuggestion which the two seemed to bemaking: that he would no longer have theright to consider himself an American."But I don't feel French," he exclaimed. "Idon't see how I ever can."

"Yet you speak French almost like aFrenchman," said Grant. "We used totease you about it in school. Do youremember?"

Did he remember? And Jack Doran hadcalled him "Frenchy." Always, it seemed,he had been marching blindly toward thismoment.

Nothing was settled at the end of the talk,

except that the secret was to be kept forthe present. And Max learned that Rosehad made an informal will, leaving him allher jewellery, with the request that itshould be valued by experts and sold, hetaking the money to "use as he thought fit."She had made this will years ago, itseemed, directly after Jack Doran's death,while her conscience was awake. Maxguessed what had been in her mind. Shehad wanted him to have something of hisown, in case he ever lost his supposedheritage. He was grateful to her because,not loving him, she had neverthelessthought of his welfare and tried to providefor it. Mr. Reeves knew something aboutthe value of Rose's jewels. She had nothad many, he reminded Max. Once, soonafter her marriage, and while she was still

abroad, all her wedding presents and giftsfrom her husband had been stolen in atrain journey. Since then, she seemed tohave picked up the idea that a beautifulwoman ought not to let herself be outshoneby her own jewels. She had cared fordress more than for jewellery, and, withthe exception of a rope of pearls, herornaments had not been worth a greatdeal. Still, they ought to sell for at leasttwelve or fifteen thousand dollars,counting everything, and two or threerather particularly fine rings which Jackhad given her.

"I think she must have meant me to exceptthose from the things to be sold," saidMax. "She would have known I'd never letthem go."

His first impulse after that interview withthe Reeveses was to dash out West andsee Billie, to tell her that something hadhappened which might make a greatdifference in his circumstances, and togive her back her freedom. But when hehad stopped to think, he said to himselfthat it wouldn't be fair to go. Face to face,it would be hard for Billie to take him athis word, and he did not want to make ithard. Instead, he wrote, telling her that hewas getting leave to go abroad onimportant business—business on whichthe whole future would depend. Perhaps(owing to circumstances which couldn't beexplained yet, till he learned more aboutthem himself) he might be a poor maninstead of a rich one. Meanwhile, shemustn't consider herself bound. Later,

when he knew what awaited him, if thingsrighted themselves he would come to heragain, and ask what he had asked before.In any case, he would explain.

It was rather a good letter, the versionwhich Max finally let stand, after havingtorn up half a dozen partly covered sheetsof paper. His love was there for the girl tosee, and he could not help feeling that,possibly—just possibly—she might writeor even telegraph, saying, "I refuse to beset free."

While he waited, he engaged his passageto Cherbourg on a ship that was to sail atthe end of the week. That would giveBillie's answer time to come. Or—justmadly supposing she cared enough to havean understudy play her part for a few days

—it would allow time for a wonderfulsurprise, and the greatest proof of love agirl could give a man.

There was no telegram, but the day beforehe was to sail an envelope with BillieBrookton's pretty scrawl on it was put intohis hand. He opened it carefully, becauseit seemed sacrilege to tear what she hadtouched, or break the purple seal, with thetwo bees on it, which she used instead ofinitials or a monogram. The perfumewhich came from the paper was her ownspecial perfume, named in honour of hersuccess and popularity—"Girls' Love."Max remembered Billie's telling him oncethat it cost "outsiders" five dollars anounce, because there were amber and lotsof wonderful, mysterious things in it; but

she got it for nothing.

"How good, how noble you are!" were herfirst words; and Max's heart leaped. Thisdivine creature, who could have her pickof men, was going to say ... but as his eyestravelled fast from line to line, the beatingof his heart slowed down.

"Come back to me when this horriblebusiness trouble is over, and ask meagain, as you say you will. You'll find mewaiting, oh, so impatiently! for I do loveyou. Whatever happens, Max—dear,handsome Max—you will be the one greatromance of my life. I can never forget you,or those blue eyes of yours, the day you

told me you cared. They will haunt mealways. Oh, how I wish I were richenough for both of us, so that we might behappy, even in case of the worst, and youlose your money! But I don't know how tokeep the wretched stuff when I have it.And though I make a lot now, I'm notstrong, and who knows how long myvogue may last? We poor actress girls,who depend on our health and the ficklepublic, have to think of these sordidthings. It is, oh, so sad for us! No womanwho hasn't known the struggle herself canrealize. Do hurry back, with good newsfor both, and save me from a dreadful manwho is persecuting me to marry him. I methim in such an odd way the last time I washere in Chicago, but I didn't tell you thestory of the adventure, because it would

only have worried you. Besides, you mademe forget every one and everything—youdid truly, Max! But he frightens me now,he is so fearfully rich, and so strong andinsisting; and somehow he's got roundauntie. She's so silly; she thinks yououghtn't to have left me as you did, thoughof course you had to. I understood, if shedoesn't. She's only a foolish old lady, butshe does fuss so about this man! If youdon't rescue me, he may be my fate. I feelit. Dear Max, I wait for you. I want you.

"P.S. Please wire when you know."

As he read the letter through for thesecond time, he could hear through theopen window of his room a woman's

voice singing one of Gaëta's songs, theone most popular: "Forever—never! Whoknows?"

The words mingled themselves with thewords of the letter: "Come back. Bringgood news. Forever—never! Whoknows?" And the song was from the lastact of "Girls' Love."

CHAPTER IVTHE UPPER BERTH

When he had learned at the village of LaTour that Doctor Lefebre had left theplace long ago, to practise in Paris, Maxwent there, and found Lefebre withoutdifficulty. He was now, at fifty, a well-known man, still young looking, but with asomewhat melancholy face, and the longeyelids that mean Jewish ancestry. Whenhe had listened to Max's story he said,with a thoughtful smile: "Do you see, it isto you I owe my success? I have neverrepented what I did for Madame. Still lessdo I repent now, having met you. I gained

advantages for myself that I could nototherwise have had; and to-day provesthat I gave them to one who Has knownhow to profit by every gift. The other—the girl—would not have known how.There was something strange about thechild, something not right, not normal. Ihave often wondered what she hasbecome. But it is better for you not to thinkof her. Fate has shut a door between youtwo. Don't open it. That is the advice,Monsieur, of the man who brought youinto this very extraordinary world."

Max thanked him, but answered that, forgood or ill, he had made up his mind.Doctor Lefebre shrugged his shoulderswith an air of resigned regret, and toldwhat little he knew of the Delatours since

he had sent the young woman off toAlgeria with the baby. The first thing hehad heard was four or five years after,when he paid a visit to La Tour, and wastold that Maxime Delatour had left thearmy and settled permanently in Algeria.Then, no more news for several years,until one day a letter had been forwardedto him in Paris from his old address at LaTour. It was from Madame Delatour,dated "Hotel Pension Delatour, Alger,"asking guardedly if he would tell herwhere she might write to the Americanlady whose child had been born at thechâteau. "The lady who had been kind toher and her baby." She would like to sendnews of little Josephine, in whom the ladymight still take an interest. MadameDelatour had added in a postscript that she

and her husband were keeping a smallhotel in Algiers, which they had takenwith "some money that had come to them,"but were not doing as well as they couldwish. Doctor Lefebre, feeling sure that shemeant to make trouble, had not answeredthe letter; but even had he answered, hecould only have said that Mrs. Doranlived in New York. He knew no morehimself, and had never tried to find out.Since then he had heard nothing of theDelatour family.

That same night Max left Paris forMarseilles, and the next morning he wason board the General Morel starting forAlgiers. For the first time in his life hehad to think of economy: for though Rose'slegacy had amounted to something over

fifteen thousand dollars, already it wasnearly disposed of. He determined neveragain to touch a Doran dollar for his ownpersonal use, unless he discovered that therightful owner was dead. He had left FortEllsworth owing a good deal here andthere; for tradesmen were slow aboutsending bills to such a valuable customer.Now, however, he felt that he must pay hisdebts with the money that was his own;and settling them would make an immensehole in his small inheritance. There, forinstance, were the pearls and the ring hehad bought for Billie Brookton. Their costalone was nine thousand dollars, and evenif Billie should offer to give them back, hemeant to ask her to keep them forremembrance. But she would not offer. Hewould never have admitted to himself that

he knew she would not; yet, sincereceiving her letter, he had known. If hehad by and by to tell Billie that he was tobe a poor man, she would make somecharming excuse for not sending back hispresents. Or else she would not refer tothem at all. Whatever the future mightbring, it seemed to Max that he had lostyouth's bright vision of romance. Therewas no such girl in the world as the girl hehad dreamed. The letter had shown himthat—the one letter he had ever had fromBillie Brookton.

After his talk with Doctor Lefebre thechange in his life became for Max moreintimately real than it had been before.The fact that he was travelling second-class, though an insignificant thing in

itself, brought it home to him in a curious,irritating way. He felt that he must be aweak, spoiled creature, not worthy to callhimself a soldier, because little,unfamiliar shabbinesses andinconveniences disgusted him. Heremembered how he had revelled in hisone trip abroad with Rose and somefriends of theirs the year before he went toWest Point. They had motored from Paristo the Riviera, and stayed in Nice. Thenthey had come back to Marseilles, and hadtaken the best cabins on board a greatliner, for Egypt. What fun he and the otherboy of the party had had! He felt now that,however things turned out, the fun of lifewas over.

If the girl, Josephine Delatour, lived, he

would have to leave the army; that wasclear. Grant Reeves had shown him why.And it would be hard, for he lovedsoldiering. He could think willingly of noother profession or even business. Yetsomewhere, somehow, he would have tobegin at the bottom and work up. Besides,there were his real parents to be thoughtof, if they were still alive. Max felt thatperhaps he was hard—or worse still,snobbish—not to feel any instinctiveaffection for them. His mother had soldhim, in order that she might have money togo to her husband, whom she loved somuch better than her child. Well, at leastshe had a heart! That was something. Andif the pair still kept a little hotel, what ofthat? Was he such a mean wretch as to beashamed because he was the son of a

small hotel-keeper? Max began spying outin himself his faults and weaknesses,which, while he was happy and fortunate,he had never suspected. And now and thenhe caught the words running through hismind: "If only she is dead, the whole thingwill be no more than a bad dream." Whata cad he was! he thought. And even if shewere dead, nothing could ever be as it hadbeen. Jack Doran was not his father, andhe would have no right to anything that hadbeen Jack's, not even his love. If he keptthe money it would not make him happy.He could never be happy again.

It was in this mood that he went on boardthe General Morel , the oldest and worst-built ship of her line. She was carrying acrowd of second-class passengers for

Algiers, and the worried stewards had notime to attend to him. He found his owncabin, by the number on his ticket, gropingthrough a long, dark corridor, which smeltof food and bilge water. The stateroomwas as gloomy as the passage leading toit, and he congratulated himself that atleast he had the lower berth.

His roommate, however, had been inbefore him, and either through ignoranceor impudence had annexed Max's bunk forhimself. On the roughly laundered coverletwas a miniature brown kitbag,conspicuously new looking. It had beencarelessly left open, or had sprung open ofitself, being too tightly packed, and asMax prepared to change its place,muttering, "Cheek of the fellow!" he could

not help seeing two photographs in silverframes lying on top of the bag's othercontents. Both portraits were of men. Onewas an officer in the uniform of the Frencharmy, with the typical soldier look whichgives likeness and kin to fighting men inall races of the world. The otherphotograph Max recognized at a glance asthat of Richard Stanton, the explorer.

Queer, Max thought, as he lifted the bag,open as it was, to the upper berth. Queer,that some little bourgeois Frenchman,journeying second-class from Marseillesto Algiers, should have as a treasure in hishand-baggage the portrait of a celebratedand extremely pugnacious Englishmanwho had got the newspapers down on himtwo or three years ago for a wild

interview he had given against the ententecordiale. Max remembered it and the talkabout it in the officers' mess at FortEllsworth, just after he joined hisregiment. However, the Frenchman'sphotographs were his own business; andMax relented not at all toward the cheekybrute because he had a portrait of the greatRichard Stanton in his bag. This was thesort of thing one had to expect when onetravelled second-class! A few weeksbefore he would have thought itimpossible as well as disgusting to bunkwith a stranger whom he had never seen;but as he said to himself, with a shrug ofthe shoulders which tried to be Spartan,"Misfortune makes strange bedfellows."Max was disciplining himself to put upwith hardships of all sorts which would

probably become a part of everyday life.His own hand-luggage, a suitcase with hisname marked on it, had been dumpeddown by some steward in the corridor,and he carried it into the stateroomhimself, pushing it far under the lowerberth with a rather vicious kick. As rainwas falling in torrents, and a bitter windblowing, he kept on his heavy overcoat,and went out of the cabin leaving no traceof his ownership there except the hiddensuitcase. Perhaps on that kick which hadsent it out of sight the shaping of MaxDoran's whole future life depended.

On the damp deck and in the dingy "salle"of the second-class Max wondered, withstifled repulsion, which among the fatGermans, hook-nosed Algerian Jews,

dignified Arab merchants, and common-looking Frenchmen, was to share hisridiculously small cabin. Most of themappeared to be half sick already, in fearfulanticipation of the rocking they weredoomed to get in the ancient tub once shesteamed out of the harbour and into theface of the gale. In the "gang," as he calledit, there was visible but one person inwhat Max Doran had been accustomed tothink of as his own "rank." That personwas a girl, and despite the gloom whichshut him into himself, he glanced at hernow and then with curiosity. It seemedunaccountable that such a girl should betravelling apparently alone, and especiallysecond-class.

The first thing that caught his attention was

the colour of her hair as she stood withher back to him, on deck. She waswrapped in a long, dark blue coat, withwell-cut lines which showed theyouthfulness of her tall, slim figure, as talland slim as Billie Brookton's, but morealertly erect, more boyish. On her headwas a small, close-fitting toque of thesame dark blue as her coat; and betweenthis cap and the turned-up collar bunchedout a thick roll of yellow hair. It was notas yellow as Billie's, yet at first glance itreminded him of hers, with a sick longingfor lost beauty and romance. Seeing thedelicate figure, cloaked in the same bluewhich Billie affected for travelling, hethought what it would be like to have thegirl with the yellow hair turn, to showBillie's face radiant with love for him, to

hear her flutey voice cry: "Max, I couldn'tbear it without you! Forget what I said inthat horrid letter. I didn't mean a word ofit. I've given up everything to be yourwife. Take me!"

Soon the girl did turn from the rainblowing into her face, and that face was ofan entirely different type from Billie's.Seeing it, after that attack upon hisimagination, was a sharp relief to Max.Still he did not lose interest. The girl'shair was not so yellow where it grew onher head and framed the rather thin oval ofher face, as in the thick-rolled massbehind, golden still with childhood's gold.Except for her tall slenderness she wasnot in the least like Billie Brookton; andshe would have no great pretension to

beauty had it not been for a pair of long,gray, thick-lashed eyes which looked outsoftly and sweetly on the world. Her nosewas too small and her mouth too large, butthe delicate cutting of the nostrils and thebow of the coral-pink upper lip hadfascination and a sensitiveness that wassomehow pathetic. She held her head high,on a long and lovely throat, which gaveher a look of courage, but a forcedcourage, not the christening gift ofgodmother nature. That sort of girl, Maxreflected, was meant to be cherished andtaken care of. And why was she not takencare of? He wondered if she had run awayfrom home, in her dainty prettiness, to bejostled by this unappreciative, second-class crowd? She was brave enough,though, despite her look of flower-

delicacy, to stop on deck long after theship had steamed out from thecomparatively quiet, rock-bound harbour,and plunged into the tossing sea. At last abig wave drove the girl away, and Maxdid not see her again until dinner time. Hecame late and reluctantly into the close-smelling dining-saloon, and found heralready seated at the long table. Her placewas nearly opposite his, and as he satdown she looked up with a quick,interested look which had girlish curiosityin it, and a complete lack of self-consciousness that was perhapscharacteristic. Evidently, as he hadseparated her in his mind from the rabble,wondering about her, so she had separatedhim and wondered also. She was too faraway for Max to speak, even if he had

dared; but a moment later a big man whosqueezed himself in between table andrevolving chair, next to the girl, made anexcuse to ask for the salt, and begin aconversation. He did this in a matter-of-fact, bourgeois way, however, which noteven a prude or a snob could thinkoffensive. And apparently the girl was farfrom being a prude or a snob. Sheanswered with a soft, girlish charm ofmanner which gave the impression that shewas generously kind of heart. Thensomething that the man said made her flushup and start with surprise.

From that moment on the two wereabsorbed in each other. Could it be, Maxasked himself, that the big, rough fellowand the daintily bred girl had found an

acquaintance in common? There seemedto be a gulf between them as wide as theworld, yet evidently they had hit uponsome subject which interested them both.Through the clatter of dishes Max caughtwords, or fragments of sentences, allspoken in French. The man had a commonaccent, but the girl's was charming. Shehad a peculiarly sweet, soft voice, thatsomehow matched the sweetness andsoftness of the long, straight-lashed eyesunder the low, level brows, so delicatelyyet clearly pencilled. Max guessed at firstthat she was English; then from someslight inflection of tone, wondered if shewere Irish instead. It was a name whichsounded like "Sidi-bel-Abbés" that madethe girl start and blush, and turn to herneighbour with sudden interest. Again and

again they mentioned "Sidi-bel-Abbés,"which meant nothing for Max until heheard the girl say "La Legion Etrangére."Immediately the recollection of a book hehad read flashed into Max's brain. Why,yes, of course, Sidi-bel-Abbés was aplace in Algeria, the headquarters of theForeign Legion, that mysterious band ofmen without a country, in whom men of allcountries are interested. What was there inthe subject of the Foreign Legion to attractsuch a girl? Could she be going alone toSidi-bel-Abbés, hoping to find some lostrelative—a brother, perhaps? She askedthe man eager questions, which Max couldnot hear, but the big fellow shook hisbullet-shaped head. Evidently he had littleinformation to give on the subject whichspecially appealed to her; but there were

others on which he held forth volubly; andthough the girl's attention flaggedsometimes, she could have been no moregracious in her manner to the commonfellow if he had been an exiled king. "LaBoxe" were the words which Max beganto hear repeated, and a boxer was whatthe man looked like: a second or third rateprofessional. Max wished that he couldcatch what was being said, for boxing wasone of his own accomplishments. Heboxed so well that once, before he wastwenty-one, he had knocked out hismaster, an ex-lightweight champion, inthree rounds. Since then he had kept up hispractice, and the sporting set among theofficers at Fort Ellsworth had been proudof their Max Doran.

Every moment the weather grew worse,and one after another the few second-classpassengers who had dared to risk diningfaded away. At last, about halfwaythrough the badly served meal, the girl gotup with a wan little smile for her talkativeneighbour, and went out, keeping herbalance by catching at the back of a chairnow and then. The bullet-headed man soonfollowed, charging at the open door like abull, as a wave dropped the floor underhis feet. But Max, priding himself on hisqualities as a sailor, managed to sitthrough the meagre dessert.

The girl was not visible on the rain-sweptdeck, or in the gloomy reading-room,where Max glanced over old Frenchpapers until his optic nerves sent

imperative messages of protest to hisbrain. Then he strayed on deck again,finding excuse after excuse to keep out ofhis cabin, where no doubt a seasickroommate was by this time wallowing andguzzling. At last, however, his swimminghead begged for a pillow, no matter howhard, and in desperation he went below.He found the cabin door on the hook, andthe faded curtain of cretonne drawnacross. There was one comfort, at least:the wretch liked air. Max hoped thefellow had gone to sleep, in which casethere might be some chance of rest. Gentlyhe unhooked the door and fastened it againin the same manner. A little light flitteredthrough the thin curtain, enabling Max togrope his way about the tiny stateroom,and he determined not to rouse his

companion by switching on the electricity.

It had occurred to him, on his way to thecabin, that he might find his berth usurpedby a prostrate form, as in the afternoon bya bag. But his first peering glance throughthe dimness reassured him on this point.The owner of the bag had taken the hint,and stowed himself in his own bunk. Maxcould just make out a huddled shape underbedclothes which had been drawn high forwarmth. Then he knelt down to grope forthe suitcase which he had pushed far underhis own berth. Seeking it in the semi-darkness, a wave sent him sprawling. Heheard from somewhere a shrill crash ofglass, a sudden babble of excited voices,and decided it would not be worth whileto undress unless the storm should abate.

He scrambled up, and thankfully flunghimself, just as he was, on to his bunk. Inthe wild confusion of squeaking, strainingplanks, the thump of waves against theporthole, the demon-shrieks of infuriatedwind, and the shouts and running to andfro of sailors overhead, it seemedimpossible that any human being couldsleep. Yet the creature overhead wasmercifully quiet; and suddenly slumberfell upon Max, shutting out thought andsound. For a while he slept heavily; but byand by dreams came and lifted the curtainof unconsciousness, stirring him torestlessness. It seemed that he had livedthrough years since New York, and thateverything had long ago been decided forhim, one way or the other, though hisdulled brain kept the secret. He knew only

that he was at Sidi-bel-Abbés—Sidi-bel-Abbés. How he had got there, and what hewas doing, he could not tell. It ought to bea town, but it was not. There were nohouses nor buildings of any kind in thisstrange Sidi-bel-Abbés. He could see onlywaves of yellow sand, billowing andmoving all around him like sea waves;and it was sea as well as desert. Suddenlyone of the waves rolled away, to show asmall white tent, almost like a coveredboat. A voice was calling to him from it,and he struggled to get near, falling andstumbling among the yellow waves. Thenabruptly he started back. It was BillieBrookton's voice. Instead of being glad tohear it, he was bitterly, bleaklydisappointed, and felt chilled to the heartwith cold. Surprised at his own despair,

he waked up, with a great start, just intime to brace his feet against the bottom ofthe berth and save himself from beingthrown out by a shuddering bound of theship. From overhead he heard a sigh ofpain or weariness, and the top berthcreaked with some movement of itsoccupant. "The beast's awake!" thoughtMax, resentfully. "Now for ructions! Nomore hope of sleep for me, I suppose."

But all was still again, except for a faintrustling as if the pillow were being turnedover. At the same instant something longand supple, like a thick, silky rope, sliddown from above. He could see it in thedim light as it fell and brushed his handprotruding, palm uppermost, over the edgeof the bunk. Quite mechanically he shut his

fingers on the thing, to prevent itsdropping to the floor, and, to hisamazement, it felt to the touch like awoman's hair. His hand was full of it—agreat, satin-soft curl it seemed to be. Only,i t couldn't be that, of course! Maybe hewas half dreaming still. He opened hisfingers and let the stuff go. But instead offalling to the floor, the long rope swayedgently back and forth with the rocking ofthe ship. It was hair! A wonderful plait ofhair, attached to a woman's head. Awoman was lying there in the upper berth.

CHAPTER VTHE NIGHT OF STORMS

A Woman! But how was it possible thatthere should be a woman in his cabin?There must have been some unthinkablemistake, and he felt confident that it wasnot he who had made it. He had lookedcarefully at the number over the door,comparing it with the number on his ticket.But, after all, what did it matter? It wastoo late now to apportion blame. She wasthere. And what hair she had! When shestood up it must fall far below her knees.

"What shall I do?" thought Max. "Shall I

lie still until she goes to sleep again, andthen sneak out into the salle? If she doesn'tsee my suitcase she need never know I'vebeen in the room."

And, after all, it came back to that,whether he had mistaken the cabin, or she.If he had left his suitcase in plain sight,marked "Lieutenant Max Doran, —thCavalry, Fort Ellsworth," the womanwould have rung for a steward, and theerror would somehow have been adjusted.

Four or five minutes passed, and silencereigned in the berth overhead. Max sat upcautiously, lest his bunk should squeak,and had begun still more cautiously toemerge from it, when there came a suddenvicious lurch of the ship. He was flungout, but seized the berth-curtain, as the

General Morel awkwardly wallowed,and staggered to his feet, just in time tosave the occupant of the upper berth fromflying across the room. With a cry, she fellon to his shoulder, and he held her up withone hand, still grasping the curtain withthe other. The long plait of hair and asmooth bare arm were round his neck. Aface was close to his, and he could feelwarm, quick breaths on his cheek.

"Don't be frightened," he heard himselfsoothe her with deceitful calm. "It'll be allright in a minute. I won't let you fall."

Even as he spoke, it occurred to Max thatpossibly she didn't understand English.The thought had hardly time to passthrough his mind, however, when sheanswered him in English in a shocked

whisper, trying vainly to draw away:

"But—it's a man!—in my cabin!"

"I'm awfully sorry," said Max. "There'sbeen some mistake. Better let me hold youa few seconds more, till the ship'ssteadier. Then I'll lift you down to thelower berth. You see, I thought it was mycabin."

"Oh," she exclaimed; and he felt a quiverrun through the bare arm. Her hair, whichshowered over his face and twinedintricately round his neck, had a faint,flowery perfume. "As soon as I get youdown, and make you comfortable, I'll go,"he hurried on. "There, now, I think thingsare quieting for the moment. We must havehad two waves following one another

quicker than the rest. Let go your hold onthe berth, and I'll take you out."

He felt her relax obediently; and slippingone arm under her shoulder, the otherunder her knees, he lifted a burden whichproved to be light, from the upper berth, tobestow it in safety, far back against thewall in the bunk underneath.

"Oh, thank you," was breathed out with asigh of relief. "You're very kind—and sostrong! But I feel dreadfully ill. I hope I'mnot going to faint."

"I'll get you some brandy," said Max,bethinking himself of a certain silver flaskin his suitcase, a prize as it happened,won as an amateur of la boxe.

To his horror she made no answer.

"Jove!" he muttered. "She's gone off—andno wonder. It's awful!"

He began to be flurried, for his own headwas not too clear. "She may be flung to thefloor while I'm groping around for thatsuitcase of mine, if she's fainted, and can'tsave herself when the next wave comes,"he thought. "That won't do. I'll have tolight up, and wall her in with the beddingfrom the top bunk, so she can't easily bepitched out."

Hesitating a little, not quite sure about thepropriety of the necessary revelation, henevertheless switched on the electricity.After the dusk which had turnedeverything shadow-gray, the little

stateroom appeared to be brilliantlyilluminated. In his berth lay the girl he hadseen on deck and at dinner.

Max was not completely taken bysurprise, as he would have been had heseen the vision before hearing her voice.As she clung round his neck, she hadspoken only brokenly and in a whisper,but from the first words he had feltinstinctively sure of his companion'sidentity.

If she had been delicately pale before,now she was deathly white, so white thatMax, who had never before seen a womanfaint, felt a stab of fear. What if she had aweak heart? What if she were dead?

She wore a dressing-gown of a white

woollen material, inexpensive perhaps,but classic in its soft foldings around theslender body; and the thought flittedthrough Max's head that she was like aslim Greek statue, come alive; or perhapsGalatea, disappointed with the world,turning back to marble.

All the while he, with unsteady hands,unlocked and opened his bag, fumblingamong its contents for the flask, she laystill, without a quiver of the eyelids. Shedid not even seem to breathe. But perhapsgirls were like that when they fainted!Max didn't know. He wanted to listen forthe beating of her heart, but dared not. Hewould try the brandy, and if that did notbring her to herself, he would ring and askfor the ship's doctor. But—could he do

that? How could he explain to any onetheir being together in this cabin?

Hastily he poured a little brandy from theflask into the tiny cup which screwed onlike a cover. The pitching and tossingmade it hard not to spill the fluid over theupturned face—that would have beensacrilege!—but with an adroitness born ofdesperation he contrived to pour a fewdrops between the parted lips. Apparentlythey produced no effect; but anothercautious experiment was rewarded by agasp and a slight quivering of the whitethroat. On one knee by the side of theberth, Max slipped an arm under thepillow, thus lifting the girl's head a little,that she might not choke. As he did thisshe swallowed convulsively, and opening

her eyes wide, looked straight into his.

"Thank heaven!" exclaimed Max. "Youfrightened me."

She smiled at him, their faces not farapart, her wonderful hair trailing past hisbreast. Yet in his anxiety and relief Maxhad lost all sense of strangeness in thesituation. Drawing long, slow breaths, sheseemed purposefully to be gaining strengthto speak. "It's nothing—to faint," shemurmured. "I used to, often. And I feel soill."

"Have you any one on board whom I couldcall?" Max asked.

"Nobody," she sighed. "I'm all alone. I—surely this cabin is 65?"

"I think it's 63. But no matter," Maxanswered hurriedly. "Don't bother aboutthat now. I——"

"When I came in first this morning, I rangfor a stewardess to ask if there was to beany one with me," the girl went on, a faintcolour beginning to paint her white cheeksand lips with the palest rose. "But nobodyanswered the bell. There was no luggagehere, and I thought I must be by myself.But afterward a stewardess or some oneput my bag off this bed on to the upper oneso I dared not take the lower berth. I putthe door on the hook, to get air; but when Iheard somebody come in, I never dreamedit might be a man."

"Of course not," Max agreed. "And I—when I saw a form in the dim light, lying

up there—I never thought of its being awoman. I can't tell you how sorry I am tohave seemed such a brute. But——"

"After all, it's a fortunate thing for me youwere here," the girl comforted him. "If youhadn't been, I should have fallen out of thetop berth and perhaps killed myself. Ishould hate to die now. I want so much tosee my father in Africa, and—and—somebody else. I think you must havesaved my life."

"I should be so happy to think that," Maxanswered warmly. "I haven't as pleasantan errand in Africa as you have. Butwhatever happens, I shall be thankful that Icame, and on this ship. I was wonderingto-day if I were glad or sorry to have beenborn. But if I was born to save a girl from

harm, it was worth while, of course, justfor that and nothing else. Now, if you'refeeling pretty well again, I'd better go."Gently he drew his arm out from under thepillow, thus laying down the head he hadsupported.

The girl turned, resting her cheek on herhand—a frail little hand, soft-looking asthat of a child—and gazed at Maxwistfully.

"I suppose you'll think it's dreadful of me,"she faltered, "but—I wish you needn't go.I've never been on the real sea beforesince I was a baby: only getting fromEngland to Ireland the shortest way, andon the Channel. This is the first storm I'veseen. I never thought I was a coward. Idon't like even women to be cowards. I

adore bravery in men, and that's why I—but no matter! I don't know if I'm afraidexactly, but it's a dreadful feeling to bealone, without any one to care whetheryou drown or not, at night on a horribleold ship, in the raging waves. The sea'slike some fierce, hungry animal, waitingits chance to eat us up."

"It won't get the chance," Max returnedcheerfully. He was standing now, and shewas looking up at him from the hard littlepillow lately pressed by his own head. "Ishouldn't wonder if the old tub has gonethrough lots of worse gales than this."

"It's comforting to hear you say so, and tohave a human being to talk to, in thestormy night," sighed the girl. "I feelbetter. But if you go—and—where will

you go?"

"There are plenty of places," Maxanswered her with vague optimism.

Just then the General Morel gave a leap,poised on the top of some wall of water,quivered, hesitated, and jumped from theheight into a gulf. Max held the girl firmlyin the berth, or she would have beenpitched on to the floor. Involuntarily shegrasped his arm, and let it go only whenthe wallowing ship subsided.

"That was awful!" she whispered. "Itmakes one feel as if one were dying. Ican't be alone! Don't leave me!"

"Not unless you wish me to go," Max saidwith great gentleness.

"Oh, I don't—I can't! Except that you mustbe so miserably uncomfortable."

"I'm not; and it's the finest compliment andthe greatest honour I've ever had in mylife," Max stammered, "that you shouldask me to—that it should be a comfort toyou, my staying."

"But you are the kind of man women knowthey can trust," the girl apologized forherself. "You see, one can tell. Besides,from the way you speak, I think you mustbe an American. I've heard they're alwaysgood to women. I saw you on deck, andafterward at dinner. I thought then therewas something that rang true about you. Isaid 'That man is one of the few unselfishones. He would sacrifice himself utterlyfor others.' A look you have about the eyes

told me that."

"I'm not being unselfish now," Max brokeout impulsively; then, fearing he had saidan indiscreet thing, he hurried on tosomething less personal. "How would itbe," he suggested in a studiouslycommonplace tone, "if I should makemyself comfortable sitting on my suitcase,just near enough to your berth to keep youfrom falling out in case another of thosemonsters hit the ship? You could go tosleep, and know you were safe, becauseI'd be watching."

"How good you are!" said the girl. "But Idon't want to sleep, thank you. I don't feelfaint now. I believe you've given me someof your strength."

"That's the brandy," said Max, very matterof fact. "Have a few drops more? Youcan't have swallowed half a teaspoonful——"

"Do you think, if I took a little, it wouldmake me warm? I'm so icy cold."

"Yes, it ought to send a glow through yourbody." He poured another teaspoonful intothe miniature silver cup, and supported thepillow again, that she need not lift herhead. Then he took the two blankets off theupper berth, and wrapped them round thegirl, tucking them cozily in at the side ofthe bed and under her feet.

"If you were my brother," she said, "youcouldn't be kinder to me. Have you everhad a woman to take care of—a mother, or

a sister, perhaps?"

"I never had a sister," Max answered."But when I was a boy I loved to lookafter my mother."

"And now, is she dead?"

"Now she's dead."

"My mother," the girl volunteered, "diedwhen I was born. That made my fatherhate the thought of me, because heworshipped her, and it must have seemedmy fault that she was lost to him. I haven'tseen my father since I was a little girl. ButI'm going to him now. I've practically runaway from the aunts he put me to livewith; and I'd hardly any money, so I wasobliged to travel all the way second-

class."

"That's exactly what I thought!" ejaculatedMax.

"Did you think about me, too?" she asked,interest in their talk helping her to forgetthe rolling of the ship.

"Yes, I thought about you—of course."

"That I'd run away?"

"Well, you were so different from the rest,it was queer to see you in the second-class."

"But so are you—different from the rest.Yet you're in the second-class."

"I'm hard up," exclaimed Max, smiling.

"You, too! How strange that we, of all theothers, should come together like this. It isas if it were somehow meant to be, isn'tit? As if we were intended to dosomething for each other in future. I wish Icould do something for you, to pay you forto-night."

"I don't need pay." Max smiled again,almost happily. "It's you who are beinggood to me. I was feeling horribly downon my luck."

"I'm sorry. But it's helped you to help me.I understand that. Do you know, I believeyou are one whose greatest pleasure is indoing things for those not as strong asyourself."

"I never noticed that in my character,"

laughed Max.

"Yet there's something which tells me I'mright. I think you would, for that reason,make a good soldier. My father is asoldier. He's stationed at a place calledSidi-bel-Abbés."

"But that's where the Foreign Legion is,isn't it?" The words slipped out.

"He's colonel of the First Regiment. Oh, Ibelieve it's half dread of what he'll say tome, that makes me so ill and nervous to-night. The only two men in the world Ilove are so strong, so—so almost terrible,that I'm like a little wreath of spray dashedagainst the rocks of their nature. Theydon't even know I'm there!"

Suddenly Max seemed to see the twoframed photographs in the open bag: anofficer in French uniform, and RichardStanton, the explorer, the man of fire andsteel said to be without mercy for himselfor others. Max felt ashamed, as ifinadvertently he had stumbled upon asecret. "Strong men should be thetenderest to women," he reminded her.

"Yes, on principle. But when they want tolive their own lives, and women interfere?What then? Could one expect them to bekind and gentle?"

"A man worth his salt couldn't be harsh toa woman he loved."

"But if he didn't love her? I'm thinking oftwo men I know. And just now, more of

my father than—than the other. I've got noone to advise me. I wonder if you would,a little? You're a man, and—and I can'thelp wondering if you're not a soldier.Don't think I ask from curiosity. And don'ttell me if you'd rather not. But you see, ifyou are one, it would help, because youcould understand better how a soldierwould feel about things."

"I have been a soldier," Max said. Therewas no reason why he should keep backthe truth from this little girl for whom hewas playing watchdog: the little girl whothought him as kind as a brother! "But I'mafraid I don't know much about women."

"The soldier I'm thinking about—my father—doesn't want to have anything to do withwomen. My mother spoiled him for others.

I believe their love story must be thesaddest in the whole world. But tell me, ifyou were old, as he is, nearly fifty, andyou had a daughter you didn't love—though you'd been kind about money andall that—what would you say if shesuddenly appeared from another country,and said she'd come to live with you?"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Max. "Is that whatyou're going to do?"

"Yes. You think my father will have aright to be angry with me, and perhapssend me back?"

"I don't know about the right," said Max,"but soldiers get used to discipline, yousee. And a colonel of a regiment is alwaysobeyed. He might find it inconvenient if a

girl suddenly turned up."

"But that's my only hope!" she pleaded."Surprising my father. Anyhow, I simplycan't go back to my aunts. I have some inDublin—they were my mother's aunts, too:and some in Paris—aunts of my father.That makes them my great-aunts, doesn'tit? Perhaps they're harder for youngpeople to live with than plain aunts, whoaren't great. I shall be twenty-one in a fewweeks and free to choose my own life ifmy father won't have me. I'm not brave,but I'm always trying to be brave! I canengage as a governess or something, inAlgeria, if the worst comes to the worst."

"I don't believe your father would let youdo that. I wouldn't in his place."

"After all, you're very young to judge whathe would do, even though you are asoldier!" exclaimed the girl, determinednot to be thwarted. "I must take my chancewith him. I shall go to Sidi-bel-Abbés. Ifthere's a train, I'll start to-morrow night.And you, what are you going to do? Shallyou stop long in Algiers?"

"That depends," answered Max, "on myfinding a woman I've come to search for."

The girl was gazing at him with thedeepest interest. "You have come toAlgiers to find a woman," she murmured,"and I, to find a man. Do you—oh, don'tthink me impertinent—do you love thewoman?"

"No," said Max. "I've never seen her."

And then, the power of the storm and thenight, and their strange, dreamlikeintimacy, made him add: "I love a womanwhom I may never see again."

"And I," said the girl, "love a man Ihaven't seen since I was a child. Let'swish each other happiness."

"I wish you happiness," echoed Max.

"And I you. I shall often think of you, evenif we never meet after to-morrow. But Ihope we shall! I believe we shall." Sheshut her eyes suddenly, and lay still for solong that Max was afraid she might havefainted again.

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously,bending toward her from his low seat on

the suitcase.

She opened her eyes with a slight start, asif she had waked, half dazed, from someunfinished dream.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I was making apicture, in a way I have. I was wonderingwhat would happen to us, in our differentpaths, and trying to see. One of my auntssays it is 'Celtic' to do that. I saw you in agreat waste-place, like a desert. And then—I was there, too. We were together—allalone. Perhaps, although I didn't know it,I'd really fallen asleep."

"Perhaps," agreed Max, and a vague thrillran through him. He, too, had dreamed ofdesert as he lay in the lower berth, andshe, overhead, had dreamed a desert

dream, each unknown to the other. "Try togo to sleep again."

She closed her eyes, and presently hethought that she slept. Once or twice shewaked with the heave and jolt of a greatwave, always to find her watchdog athand.

But at last, when with the dawn the stormlulled, Max noiselessly switched off thelight and went out.

CHAPTER VITHE NEWS

It was after breakfast when they met oncemore, on a wet deck, in bleak sunshine.

"I waked up in broad daylight and foundyou and your suitcase gone," said the girl."Oh, how guilty I felt! And then todiscover that, just as you thought, thecabin was 63, not 65. What became ofyou?"

"I was all right," replied Max evasively."I got a place to rest and wash."

"In 65?"

"No, not there."

"Why, was there a woman in that cabin,too?"

Max laughed. It was good to have someone to laugh with. "I didn't dare look," heconfessed. "And I didn't care to wanderabout explaining myself and mybelongings to suspicious stewards."

They walked up and down the deck,shoulder to shoulder, like old comrades.Last night there had been so many mattersmore pressing and more important, thatthey had forgotten such trifles as names.Now they introduced themselves to eachother, though Max had an instant'shesitation before calling himself Doran.To-morrow, or even to-day, he might

learn that which would part him foreverfrom the name and all that had endearedand adorned it for him.

"Do you know what I've been callingyou?" the girl asked, half ashamed, halfshyly friendly, "'St. George.' Because youcame and saved me from the dragon of thesea that I was afraid of. And that wasappropriate, because St. George is mypatron saint. I was born on his day, andone of my names is Georgette, in honourof him, and of my father, who is Georges:Colonel Georges DeLisle. My Frenchaunts call me Georgette, for him. My Irishaunts call me 'Sanda,' for my mother, whowas Corisande, and I like being 'Sanda'best."

She was frank about herself, as if to

reward Max for his St. George-like vigil,telling him details of her life in Irelandand France, and how it had come aboutthat Richard Stanton, her father's friend,had informally acted as her guardian whenshe was a child. Somehow, finding her sosimple and outspoken, so kindly interestedin him, Max could not bear, on his part, tobuild up a wall of reserve. He gave thename that had always been his: and thoughhe did not tell her the whole story of hisquest, he said that he was in search of aperson to whom, if found, all that had beenhis would belong. "But you needn't pityme," he added quickly. "I'm used to theidea now. I shall lose some things bybeing poor, but I shall gain others."

She gave him a long look, seeing that he

wanted no sympathy in words, and that itwould jar on him if she tried to offer it."Yes, you'll gain others," she echoed. "Itmust be splendid to be a man. I wonder—if things go as you think—will you stayand seek your fortune in Algeria?"

Seek his fortune in Algeria! Max could notanswer for a second or two. Again heseemed to hear Grant Reeves's ratheraffected voice speaking far off as if in agramophone: "Perhaps you won't want tocome back to America."

When Grant had said that, Max hadresolved almost fiercely that nothing onearth should keep him from going back asquickly as possible. If Grant or EdwinReeves had calmly advised his seeking anew fortune in remote Algeria, he would

have flung away the proposition withpassion; but when Sanda DeLisle quietlymade the suggestion, it was different.America lay behind him in the fardistance, where the sun sets. His face wasturned to the east, and Algeria was near.The girl whom he had been able to helpand protect was near, also. And she wouldbe in Algeria. If he hurried home toAmerica he would never see her again.Not that that ought to matter much! Theywere ships passing each other in the night.Yet—they had exchanged signals. Maxhad a queer feeling that they belonged toeach other, and that, if it were not for her,he would be hideously, desperatelyhomesick at this moment, almost homesickenough to turn coward and go back withhis errand not done. Curiously enough, he

felt, too, that she had somewhat the samefeeling about him. Silently they werehelping each other through a crisis.

"I hadn't thought of staying in Algeria," heanswered her at last. "I don't suppose Ishall stay. But—I don't know. Just now myfuture's hidden behind a big cloud."

"Like mine!" cried Sanda DeLisle. "Doesit comfort you at all to know there's someone here, close to your side, who'swalking in the dark, exactly as you are?"

It was the thought that had hovered, dimand wordless, in his own mind. "Yes, itdoes comfort me," he said. "Though Iought to be sorry that things aren't clearfor you. They will be, though, I hope,before long."

"And for you," she added. "I wish wecould exchange experiences when we'vefound out what's going to become of us. Iwish you were going on to Sidi-bel-Abbés."

"I wish I were," Max said, and he didactually wish it.

"Will you write and tell me what happensto you?" she rather timidly asked.

"I should like to. It's good of you to care."

"It's not good, but I do care. How could Ihelp it, after all you've done for me?"

"You'll never know what it was to me tohave the chance. And will you write whatyour father's verdict is? If you should begoing back, perhaps I——"

"Oh, I shall not be going back!" the girlcried, with sharp decision. "But I'll write.And I shall never forget. If men disappointme—though I hope, oh, so much, they willnot—I shall remember one loyal friend Ihave made. After last night and to-day, wecouldn't be less than friends, could we?even though we never hear from eachother again."

"Thank you for saying that. I feel it, too,more than you can," Max assured her. "Butsince we're to be friends, will you let mehelp you all I can, and see you again onshore, before we go our separate ways?Let me find out about your train, and takeyou to it, and so on; and perhaps you'lldine with me, if there's time before youstart."

"How good you are!" She gave him one ofthose soft, sweet glances, which, unlikeBillie Brookton's lovely looks, wereprompted by no conscious desire tocharm. "But you will be so busy with yourown affairs!"

"Not too busy for that. I don't suppose itwill be very difficult to get at what I'vecome for. I shall soon know—one way orthe other. I may have to go on somewhereelse, but one day won't matter. I can givemyself a little indulgence, if it's for thelast time."

So they settled it. Max was to be "St.George" and keep off dragons for a fewhours more.

The General Morel was supposed to do

the distance between Marseilles andAlgiers in twenty-four hours, but on thistrip she had an unusually good excuse tobe late. The storm had delayed her, andevery one was thankful that it was onlyhalf-past three when the ship steamed intothe old "pirate city's" splendid harbour.

Max Doran and Sanda DeLisle stoodtogether watching the Atlas mountainsturning from violet blue to golden green,and the clustered pearls on hill and shoretransform themselves into white domes.The two landed together, also, and Sandalet Max go with her in a big motoromnibus to the Hotel Saint George, thehotel of her patron saint, whose name Maxremembered well because of postcardspicturing its beautiful terrace and garden,

sent him long ago by Rose when he was acadet at West Point. They discovered thatthe first train in which Sanda could leavefor Sidi-bel-Abbés would start at nineo'clock that evening, so the proposeddinner became possible; and Sanda, by theadvice of Max, took a room at the hotelfor the rest of the day, inviting him to havetea with her on the terrace at five, if hewere free to come back.

He waited until the girl had disappearedwith a porter and her hand-luggage, andthen inquired of the concierge whether theHotel-Pension Delatour still existed. Heput the question carelessly, as though itmeant nothing to him, adding, as the manpaused to think, that he had looked in vainfor the name in the guide-book.

"Ah, I remember now, sir," said theconcierge. "There used to be a hotel ofthat name, close to the old town—theKasbah; quite a little place, forcommercants, and people like that. Why,yes, to be sure! But the name has beenchanged, five or six years ago it must be. Ithink it is the Hotel-Pension Schreibernow."

"Oh, and what became of Delatour?" Maxheard himself ask, still in that carefullycareless tone which seemed to his earsalmost too well done.

"I'm not sure, sir, but I rather think hedied. Yes, now I recall reading somethingi n La Depeche Algerienne, at the time.He'd been a brave soldier, and wonseveral medals. There was a paragraph,

yes, with a mention of his family. He camefrom the aristocracy, it said. Perhaps that'swhy he didn't turn out a good man ofbusiness. Or maybe he drank too much ortook to drugs. These old retired soldierswho've seen hard fighting in the Southoften turn that way."

"Did he leave a widow and children?"Max went on, his throat rather dry.

"That I can't tell you, sir; but Delatour'ssuccessor might know. I could send there,if——"

"Thank you. I'll go myself," said Max.

The concierge advised a cab, althoughthere was of course the tram which wouldtake him close to the Hotel Schreiber, and

then he could inquire his way. Max chosethe tram. He had thought it not unfair topay the expenses of his quest for theDoran heiress with Doran money, since hehad little left that he could call his own.But he had not spent an extra dollar onluxuries; and after a journey from NewYork to Paris, Paris to Algiers, second-class, a tram as a climax seemed moresuitable than a cab.

Where the Arab town—old and secret,and glimmering pale as a whitedsepulchre—huddled away from contactwith Europe, a narrow street ran like abridge connecting West with East, to-daywith yesterday. Near the entrance to thisstreet, where it started from a fine openplace of great shops and cafés, the Hotel

Schreiber stood humbly squeezed inbetween two dull buildings as shabby asitself.

"In a few minutes I shall know," Max saidto himself, as he walked into a cheaplytiled, dingy hall, smelling of cabbage-soupand beer.

Commercial travellers' sample boxes andtrunks were piled in the dim corners, anda fat, white little man behind a windowlabelled "Bureau" glanced up from somecalculations, with keen interest in atraveller who for once lookeduncommercial.

His eyes glazed again when he understoodthat Monsieur wished only to makeinquiries, not to engage a room. He was

civil, however, and glib in French with aSouth-German accent. Madame Delatourhad sold her interest in the hotel to him,Anton Schreiber. Unfortunately there hadbeen a mortgage. The widow was leftbadly off, and broken-hearted at herhusband's death. With what little moneyshe had, she had gone to Oran, and throughofficial influence had obtained aconcession for a small tobacconistbusiness, selling also postcards andstamps. She ought to have done well, forthere were many soldiers in Oran. Theyall wanted tobacco for themselves andpostcards for their friends. But Madamelost interest in life when she lost Delatour—a fine fellow, well spoken of, thoughnever strong since some fever he hadcontracted in the far South. A friend in

Oran had written Schreiber the last newsof poor Madame Delatour. That brokenheart had failed. She had died suddenlyabout two years ago, and the girl (yes,there was a daughter, a strange youngperson) had been engaged through theinfluence of Schreiber's Oran friends, toassist the proprietor of the HotelSplendide at Sidi-bel-Abbés. She was,Schreiber believed, still there, in theposition of secretary; unless she'd latelymarried. It was some months since he'dheard.

Sidi-bel-Abbés.... Home of the ForeignLegion; home perhaps, of SandaDeLisle!...

It was all over, then. The blow had fallen,and Max thought that he must be stunnedby it, for he felt nothing, except a curiousthrill which came with the news that hemust go to Sidi-bel-Abbés. The Arabname rang in his ears like the sound ofbells—fateful bells that chime at midnightfor birth or death. It seemed to him thatSomething had always been waiting,hidden behind a corner of life, calling himto Sidi-bel-Abbés, calling for good orevil, for sorrow or happiness, who couldtell? but calling. And his whole past, withits fun and popularity and gay adventure,its one unfinished love story, its one tragicepisode, had been a long road leading himon toward this day—and Sidi-bel-Abbés.

The temptation to go back, to forget his

mission, a temptation which had come tolife many times after it had first been"scotched, not killed," did not now lift itshead. Max had found out within less thanan hour after landing that which wouldmake him penniless and nameless; yet hismost pressing wish seemed to be to getback in time for his appointment withSanda DeLisle, and tell her that he, too,was going to Sidi-bel-Abbés.

CHAPTER VIISIR KNIGHT

Max hurried back to the St. George,knowing that he would be late, andarrived somewhat breathless on theterrace, at a quarter-past five. MissDeLisle would forgive him when heexplained. And he would explain! He washalf minded to tell everything to the onehuman being within four thousand mileswho cared.

It was March, and the height of the seasonin Algiers. Many people were having teaon the flower-draped terrace framed by a

garden of orange trees and palms, andcypresses rising like burnt-out torchesagainst the blue fire of the African sky.Max's eyes searched eagerly among thegroups of pretty women in white and palecolours for a slim figure in a dark bluetravelling dress. Sanda had said that shewould come out to take a table and waitfor him; but he walked slowly alongwithout seeing, even in the distance, a girlalone. Suddenly, however, he caught sightof a dark blue toque and a mass of hairunder it, that glittered like molten gold inthe afternoon sun. Yes, there she was,sitting with her back to him, and close to agateway of rose-turned marble pillarstaken from the fountain court of some oldArab palace. But—she was not alone. Aman was with her. She was leaning

toward him, and he toward her, theirelbows on the little table that stoodbetween them.

The man sat facing Max, who recognizedhim instantly from many newspaperportraits he had seen—and the photographin Sanda's bag. It was Richard Stanton,poseur and adventurer, his enemies said,follower and namesake of Richard Burton:first white man to enter Thibet; discovererof a pigmy tribe in Central Africa, and—the one-time guardian of Sanda DeLisle.

Max had thought vaguely of the exploreras a man who must be growing old. Butnow he saw that Stanton was not old. Hisface had that look of eternal youth which astatue has; as if it could never have beenyounger, and ought never to be older. It

was a square face, vividly vital, with amassive jaw and a high, square forehead.The large eyes were square, too; verywide open, and of that light yet burningblue which means the spirit of madadventure or even fanaticism. The skinwas tanned to a deep copper-red thatmade the eyes appear curiously pale incontrast; but the top of the forehead, justwhere the curling brown hair grew crisplyup, was very white.

The man had thrown himself socompletely into his conversation with thegirl, that Max, drawing nearer, could stareif he chose without danger of attractingStanton's attention. He did stare, taking inevery detail of the virile, roughly cutfeatures which Rodin might have

modelled, and of the strong, heavy figurewith its muscular throat and somewhatstooping shoulders. Richard Stanton wasnot handsome; he was rather ugly, Maxthought, until a brief, flashing smile lit upthe sunburnt face for a second. But it wasin any case a personality of intensemagnetic power. Even an enemy must sayof Stanton: "Here is a man." He looked cutout to be a hero of adventure, a soldier offortune, and in some sleeping depth ofMax's nature a hitherto unknown emotionstirred. He did not analyse it, but it madehim realize that he was lonely andunhappy, uninterestingly young; and that hewas a person of no importance. He hadcome hurrying back to the hotel, anxious toexplain why he was late; but now he saw—or imagined that he saw—even from

Sanda's back, her complete forgetfulnessof him. He might have been far later, andshe would not have known or cared.Perhaps she would be glad if he had notcome at all.

Max had until lately been subconsciouslyaware (though it was nothing to be proudof!) that he was rather an importantpersonage in the eyes of the world. He hadbeen a petted child, and flattered andflirted with as a cadet and a young officer,one of the richest and best looking at hispost. Suddenly he stood face to face withthe fact that he had no longer a world ofhis own. He was an outsider, a nobody,not wanted here nor anywhere. If he couldhave stolen away without danger ofrudeness to Sanda, he would have gone

and left her to Stanton, even though by sodoing he lost his chance of seeing heragain. But there was the danger that, afterall, she had not quite forgotten him, andthat she might be taking it for granted thathe would keep his appointment. Hedecided not to interrupt the eagerconversation at this moment, but to hovernear, in case Miss DeLisle looked aroundas if thinking of him. He hardly expectedher to do so, until the talk flagged, butperhaps some subtle thought-transferencewas like a reminding touch on hershoulder. She turned her head and sawMax Doran. For an instant she gazed athim half dazedly, as if wondering why heshould be there. Her face was sotransfigured that she was no longer thesame girl; therefore it did not seem strange

that she should have forgotten so small athing as an invitation to tea given to achance acquaintance. Instead of being paleand delicately pretty, she was a glowing,radiant beauty. Her dilated eyes werealmost black, her cheeks carnation, hersmiling lips not coral pink, but coral red.She made charming little gestures whichturned her instantly into a French girl."Oh, Mr. Doran!" she exclaimed. "Here isMr. Stanton. Only think, he's staying in thishotel, and we found each other byaccident! I came out here and he walkedpast. He didn't know me—it's such agessince I saw him—till I spoke."

Max had felt obliged to draw near, at hercall, and to stand listening to herexplanation; but it was clear that to

Stanton he was irrelevant. The explorerhad spread a folded map on the table. Itwas at that they had been looking, and asSanda talked to the newcomer, Stanton'seyes returned to the map again. Max musthave been dull of comprehension indeed ifhe had not realized that he was wanted byneither. The girl followed up her littlepreamble by introducing her new friend toher old one, and the explorer half rosefrom his chair, bowing pleasantly enough,though absent-mindedly; but there wasnothing for Max to do save to excusehimself. He apologised by saying that hisbusiness would keep him occupied for therest of the afternoon, and that he mustforego the pleasure of having tea withMiss DeLisle. The expression of the girl'sface as she said that she was very sorry

contradicted her words. She wasevidently enchanted to have Stanton toherself, and Max departed, smiling bitterlyas he thought of his impatience to give herthe news. This was what all her prettyprofessions of friendship amounted to inthe end! He had been a fool to believe thatthey meant anything more than momentarypoliteness. She had not referred to hisinvitation for dinner, so had probablyforgotten it in the flush of excitement atmeeting her hero. It seemed cruel to recallit to her memory, as by this time no doubtStanton and she were planning to spendthe evening together, up to the lastmoment. Still, the situation was difficult,as she might remember and consider it anengagement. Max decided at last to send acard up to her room, where she would find

it when her tête à tête with Stanton wasover. He scribbled a few words in pencil,saying that his business would be over inan hour; that if Miss DeLisle cared to seehim he would be delighted; but she mustnot consider herself in any way bound. Hedid not even mention the fact which a littlewhile ago he had been eager to tell: thathe was going to Sidi-bel-Abbés. Perhaps,as Stanton was a friend of ColonelDeLisle's, he, too, was on his way there,in which case Max would lurk in thebackground. The card, in an envelope, hegave to the concierge, and then wentgloomily out to walk and think things over.Passing the terrace he could not resistglancing at the table nearest the marblepillars. The two still sat there, absorbedin each other, their heads bent over the

map. Stanton looked up as if in surprisewhen a waiter appeared with a tray. Theyhad apparently asked for tea, and thenforgotten the order.

During that hour of absence Max Doranpassed some of the worst moments of hislife. He lived over again his anguish atRose's death; heard again her confessionwhich, like a sharp knife, with one strokehad cut him loose from ties of love; andgazed ahead into a future swept bare of allold friendships, luxuries, and pleasures.His "business," of which he had mademuch to Miss DeLisle, consisted solely inwalking down the Mustapha hill from thegarden of the Hotel St. George to the smallwhite-painted post-office, and theresending off two telegrams. One was to

Edwin Reeves: the other was the messagefor which Billie Brookton had thriftilyasked in her special postscript. "Have losteverything," he wrote firmly. "Willexplain in letter following and ask you totreat it in confidence. Good-bye, I hopeyou may be happy always. Max."

As he paid for the telegrams he wonderedthat the framing of Billie's did not turn onemore screw of the rack which torturedheart and brain, but he felt no new wrenchin the act of giving up the girl whom allmen wanted. She seemed strangelyremote, as if there had never been anychance of her belonging to him. Max hadsomething like a sensation of guilt becausehe could not call up a picture of her,traced with the sharp clarity of an etching.

In thinking of Billie, he had merely animpressionist portrait: golden hair,wonderful lashes, and a sudden upwardlook from large, dark eyes, set in a face ofpearly whiteness. Because Sanda DeLislewas somewhat of the same type, havingyellow-brown hair, and a small, fair face,her image would push itself in front of thatother far more beautiful image; far morebeautiful at least, save in the one momentof glowing radiance which had illuminedSanda, as a rose—light within mightillumine a pale lily. No woman on earthcould have been more beautiful than she,at that instant; but the magic fire had beenkindled by, and for, another man; and ifMax had not already guessed, it wouldhave revealed her whole secret.

The impression was so vivid that itclouded everything else, just as a whitelight focussed upon one figure on the stagedims all others there. He thought ofhimself, and what he should do with lifeafter his mission was finished; whether heshould take the name of Delatour, whichwas rightfully his, or choose a new one;yet suddenly, in the midst of somepressing question, he would forget tosearch for the answer, as Sanda DeLisle'stransfigured face seemed to shine on himout of darkness.

He stayed away from the hotel forprecisely an hour, and then, returning,asked at the desk of the concierge whetherthere were a message for him. Yes, therewas a letter. Max took it, thinking that this

was perhaps the last time he should eversee the name of Doran on an envelopeaddressed to him. The direction had beenscrawled in haste, evidently, but even so,the handwriting had grace and character.Its delicacy, combined with a certainfirmness and impulsive dash, expressed toMax the personality of the writer. Theletter was of course from Miss DeLisle; ashort note asking if he would look for heron the terrace at six-thirty. She would bealone then. Max glanced at the hall clock.It wanted only three minutes of the halfhour, and he went out at once. The sceneon the terrace was very different fromwhat it had been an hour ago. It might havebeen "set" for another act, was the fancythat flashed through the young man's mind.The hyacinth-pink of the sunset-sky was

now faintly silvered with moonlight. Allthe gay groups of tea-drinking people haddisappeared. Many of the crowding chairshad been taken away from the little tablesand pushed back against the irregular wallof the house. The floor was being slowlyinlaid with strips of shadow-ebony andmoon-silver. Even the perfume of theflowers seemed changed. Those whichhad some quality of mystery and sensuoussadness in their scent had prevailed overthe others.

At first Max saw no one, and supposedthat Miss DeLisle had not yet come tokeep the appointment; but as he slowlypaced the length of the terrace, hediscerned, standing on the farther side ofthe pillar-gateway, a figure that paused

close to the carved balustrade and lookedout over the garden. There was asuggestion of weariness anddiscouragement in the pose, and though theform had Sanda's tall slimness he couldhardly believe it to be hers, until passingthrough the gateway he had come quiteclose to her. She turned at the sound offootsteps; and in the rose-and-silvertwilight he could see that her eyes werefull of tears.

Somehow it struck him as characteristic ofthe girl that she should not try to pretendshe had not been crying. He couldscarcely imagine her being self-consciousenough to pretend anything.

"Is it half-past six already?" she asked, ina very little voice, almost like that of a

child who had been punished. "I'm gladyou've come. Will you forgive me?"

"Forgive you for what?" Max asked,though he guessed what she meant, andadded hastily, "I'm sure there's nothing toforgive."

"Yes, there is," she insisted; "you knowthat as well as I do. But you will forgiveme, because—because I think you musthave understood. I was not myself at all."

Max hesitated and stammered. He did notdare admit how well he had understood,though it seemed a moment for speakingclear truths, here in this wonderful gardenwhich they two had to themselves, withthe magic light of sunset and moonriseshining into their souls.

"You needn't be afraid of shaming me," thegirl went on. "I felt that you understoodeverything, so we can talk now, when I'vecome back a little to myself. I didn't mindyour seeing, then, because everythingseemed unimportant except—just him, andmy being there with him. And I don't mindeven now, because there's so much that'sthe same in my life and yours. I feel (as Ifelt before I was carried out of myself)that we've drifted together at a time whenwe can help each other. You can forgiveme for being selfish and thoughtless toyou, because I was at a great moment ofmy life, and you realized it. Didn't you?"

"Yes," said Max.

"I've always adored him. He was the one Imeant, of course, when I told you about

caring for somebody," Sanda confessed."You see, my father has never let me lovehim, in a personal sort of way. He hasheld me off, though I hope it's going to bedifferent when he sees me. Sir Knight(that's what I always called Richard, eversince I was small) was very kindwhenever he had time. He didn't mind myworshipping him. He never wrote,because he was too busy; but when hecame home from his wonderfulexpeditions and adventures, he generallyhad some present for me. I've alwaysfollowed him as far as I could, through thenewspapers, and—I knew he wassomewhere in Algeria now. I'm afraid—that's partly what made my wish to comeso—terribly, irresistibly strong. I didn'tquite realize that, until I saw him.

Honestly, I thought it was because Icouldn't live with my aunts any longer, andbecause I wanted so much to win myfather before it was too late. But meetingRichard here, unexpectedly, when Iimagined him somewhere in the South,showed me—the truth about myself. I'dbeen so anxious for you to come back, andto hear all that had happened to you; butmeeting him put everything else out of myhead!"

"It was natural," said Max. "You wouldn'tbe human if it hadn't."

"I think it was inhuman. For when Iremembered—other things, I didn't seemto care. I was—glad when you said youhad business and couldn't stay to tea. Ihoped you'd forget that you'd asked me to

dinner, because I wanted so much to haveit with Sir Knight—with Richard. Ithought he'd be sure to invite me, and takeme to the train afterward. I was going toapologize to you as well as I could; buteven if you'd been hurt, I was ready tosacrifice you for him."

"Please don't punish yourself byconfessing to me," Max broke in. "Indeedit's not necessary. I——"

"I'm not doing it to punish myself," Sandaexclaimed. "I've been punished—oh,sickeningly punished!—already. I'mconfessing to you because—I want ourfriendship to go on as if I hadn't doneanything ungrateful and cruel to spoil it.I'm trying to atone."

"You've done that a thousand times over,"Max comforted her, feeling that he oughtto be comforted at the same time, yetaware that it was not so. He began torealize that he was boyishly jealous of thegreat man whose blaze of glory had madehis poor rushlight of friendship flicker intonothingness.

"Then if I have atoned, tell me quicklyyour news," said the girl.

"The news is, that I haven't any past whichbelongs to me—and God knows whetherI've a future." Max gave lightness to thesombre words with a laugh.

"Then the worst has happened to you?"

"One might call it that." Still he managed

to laugh.

"Are you very miserable?"

"I don't know. I haven't had time to think."

"Don't take time—yet. Stay with me, aswe planned before—before——"

"But Mr. Stanton? Aren't you——"

"No, I'm not. He left me fifteen minutesafter you went. I shan't see him again."

"Not at the train?"

"No, not anywhere. You see, he has suchimportant things to do, he hasn't time tobother much with—with a person he stillthinks of as a little girl. Why, I told you,he would hardly have known me if I hadn't

spoken to him! He's going away to-morrow, leaving for Touggourt. There areall sorts of exciting preparations to makefor a tremendous expedition he means toundertake, though it will be months beforehe can be ready to start. He can think ofnothing else just now. Oh, it was only'How do you do?' and 'Good-bye' betweenus, I assure you, over there at the little tea-table I'd been keeping for you and me."

"It didn't look like anything sosuperficial," Max found himself tryingonce more to console her. "I'm sure it mustreally have meant a lot to him, meetingyou. I could see even in the one glance Ihad, how absorbed he was——"

"Yes, in his map! He was pointing out hisroute to me, after Touggourt. He's chosen

Touggourt for his starting-place, becausethe railway has just been brought as far asthere. And there's a man in Touggourt—anold Arab explorer—he wants to persuadeto go with him if he's strong enough. He—and some other Arab Richard came toAlgiers to see, are the only two men alive,apparently, who firmly believe in the LostOasis that Sir Knight means to try to find,when he can get his caravan together, andstart across the desert early next autumnafter the hot weather."

"The Lost Oasis? I never heard of it," saidMax. "Is there really such a placesomewhere?"

"Richard doesn't know. He only believesin it; and says nearly every one thinks he'sinsane. But you must have heard—I

thought every one had heard the old legendabout a Lost Oasis—lost for thousands ofyears?"

"I'm afraid not. I haven't any desert lore."As Max made this answer, last night'sdream came back, rising for an instantbefore his eyes like a shimmering picture,a monochrome of ochre-yellow. Then itfaded, and he saw again the silver skybehind darkening pines, plumed date-palms, the delicate fringe of pepper trees,and black columns of towering cypress.

"All mine has come from Sir Knight:stories he's told me and books he's givenme. Long ago he talked about the LostOasis. I thought of it as a thrilling fairystory. But he believes it may exist,somewhere far, far east, beyond walls of

mountains and shifting sand-dunes,between the Sahara and the Libyandeserts."

"Wouldn't other explorers have found it, ifit were there?"

"Lots have tried, and been lostthemselves: or else they've given up hope,after terrible privations, and havestruggled back to their starting-place. ButRichard says he has pledged himself tosucceed where the rest have failed, or elseto die. It was awful to hear him say that—and to see the look in his eyes."

"He's done some wonderful things," Maxsaid, trying to speak with enthusiasm.

"Yes; but this seems different, and more

terrifying than any of his other adventures,because in them he had men for his worstenemies. This time his enemy will benature. And its venturing into the unknown—almost like trying to find the way toanother world. Everybody knew there wasa Thibet and a Central Africa, and whatthe dangers would be like there; but noone knows anything of this place—if it isa place."

"What's the story that makes Mr. Stantonfeel the thing is worth risking?" Maxasked.

"The story is, that there's a blank inEgyptian history which could be filled upand accounted for, if a great mass ofpeople had moved away and begun a newcivilization somewhere, safe from all the

enemies who had disturbed them andstolen their treasure."

"Splendid story! But it sounds as much ofa fable as any other myth, doesn't it?"

"It might, if there hadn't been other storiesof lost oases which have proved to betrue."

"I never heard of them," Max confessedhis ignorance.

"Nor I, except from Sir Knight. He saysthat only lately people have found severaloases south of Tripoli, which were talkedabout before in the same legendary way asthis one he's going to search for. Only afew people know about them now: butthey are known. And they're inhabited by

Jews who fled by tribes from the Romanswhen Solomon's Temple was destroyed,in the reign of the Emperor Titus. Theynever trade, except with each other, buthave everything they need in their hiddendwelling-places. They speak the ancientlanguage that was spoken in Palestine allthose centuries ago, and wear the samecostume, and keep to the same laws.That's why Sir Knight thinks the greaterLost Oasis may exist, having been evenbetter hidden than those. There was afamous explorer named Rholf whobelieved that he'd found traces of a way toit, but he lost them again. And there wereCaillaud and Cat, and other names hespoke of to-day, that I've forgotten. I wish,though, that he were not going—or elsethat I could go with him, in the way I used

to plan when I was small." The girlpaused and sighed.

"What way?"

"Oh, it was only nonsense—silly,romantic nonsense, that I'd got out ofbooks. I used to make up stories aboutmyself joining Sir Knight on someexpedition, dressed as a boy, and he notrecognizing me." She laughed a little. "Iconstantly saved his life, of course! Butnow we won't talk of him any more. Youand I will make up a story aboutourselves. We're alone on a desert island,and we have to find food and shelter, andbe as comfortable and as happy as we can.In the story, you have cause to hate me, butyou don't, because you're generous. So youforage for game and fruit, and help me to

escape. Which means, if you've reallyforgiven my horridness, that you'll takepity on me and ask me to dine with youbefore you put me into my train as youpromised."

"I will do all that," said Max, almosteagerly. "And if you'll let me I'll go withyou in the train to Sidi-bel-Abbés."

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "I couldn'tconsent to such a sacrifice."

"I must go either by your train or another."

"Why—why?"

"I've found out that the woman I came tosearch for is not only alive, but living atSidi-bel-Abbés."

"It's Fate!" the girl half whispered. "Butwhat Fate? What does it all mean?"

"I've been asking myself that question,"Max said, "and I can't find an answer—yet."

CHAPTER VIIION THE STATION PLATFORM

They dined together in a glass-frontedrestaurant opening out on to the terrace,and Sanda was sweet, but absent-minded.Max could guess where her thoughts were,and almost hated Stanton. How could theman let some wretched engagement, with afew French officers, keep him from thispoor little girl who adored him? Howcould Stanton let her go alone to meet herunnatural father (it was thus that Maxthought of Colonel DeLisle) when as herone-time guardian he might have taken herto Sidi-bel-Abbés himself, and persuaded

his old friend, DeLisle, to be lenient. Allthat Max had heard against the explorercame back to him, and he was ready tobelieve Stanton the cruel and selfishegoist that gossip sketched him. PoorSanda!

Miss DeLisle had meant to finish her longjourney as she had begun it, second-class;but Max persuaded the girl to let him takefor her a first-class ticket, with coupé lit,in a compartment for women, as far as thestation where at dawn they must changefor Sidi-bel-Abbés. She was surprised atthe smallness of the price, but did notsuspect that she owed her new friendanything more substantial than gratitudefor all the trouble he had taken for hercomfort.

Max himself went second-class, packed inwith seven men who would have thoughtopening the window a symptom ofinsanity.

One of the seven was the man with whomSanda DeLisle had chatted on board theGeneral Morel at dinner. He was the heroof the compartment, for he was going toSidi-bel-Abbés to fight a boxing matchwith the champion of the Legion, a soldiernamed Pelle. Four of the travellers (threemen of Algiers and a youth of Sidi-bel-Abbés) were accompanying the Frenchboxer, having met him at the ship.

Dozing and waking, Max heard excitedtalk of la boxe and the coming event. Hewas vaguely interested, for he had beenthe champion boxer of his regiment—a

hundred years ago!—but he was tooweary in body and mind to care muchabout a match at Sidi-bel-Abbés. When hewas not trying to sleep, he was mentallycomposing a letter to his colonel, withdiscreet explanations, and a justificationof his forthcoming immediate resignationfrom the army: or else a writtenexplanation of his farewell to Billie,following up the telegram; or thinking outbusiness directions to Edwin Reeves.Suddenly, however, as he was dullywondering how best to send the heiress toNew York without going back himself, aname spoken almost in his ear had theblinding effect of a searchlight upon hisbrain.

"La petite Josephine Delatour," said the

young man who lived at Bel-Abbés. Hewas evidently answering some questionwhich Max had not caught.

"The handsomest, would you call her?"disputed a commercial traveller, who alsoknew the town. "Ah, that, no! she is toostrange, too bizarre."

"But her strangeness is her charm, monami! She has eyes of topaz, like those of ayoung panther. If she were not bizarre,would she—a little nobody at all—bestrong enough to draw the smart youngofficers after her? There are girls in Bel-Abbés, daughters of rich merchants, whoare jealous of the secretary at the HotelSplendide. Before she came, it was onlythe officers of high rank who messedthere. Now it is also the lieutenants. It is

not the food, but Mademoiselle Josephinewho attracts!"

"Once upon a time she thought me and mycomrades good enough for a flirtation,"said the commercial traveller. "But shelooks higher in these days, especiallysince her namesake in the Spahis joinedhis regiment at Bel-Abbés. She told methey had found out that they were cousins."

"The lieutenant doesn't go about boastingof the relationship," laughed the youthfrom Bel-Abbés. "He comes to my father'scafé, which is the best in the town, as youwell know. If any one speaks to him of lapetite, he laughs: and it is a laugh shewould not like."

Max's ears tingled. He felt as if he were

eavesdropping. He wished to hear more,though at the same time it seemed that hehad no right to listen. Luckily or unluckily,the boxer broke in and changed thesubject.

Early in the morning, passengers for Sidi-bel-Abbés had to descend from the traingoing on to Oran, and take a slow one, ona branch line. It was a very slow one,indeed, and it was also late, so that itwould be nearly midday and the hour fordejeuner when they reached theirdestination. Max saw himself inquiring forMademoiselle Delatour just at the momentwhen the admirers of her topaz eyes wereassembling for their meal. He did not likethe prospect; but said nothing of his ownworries to Sanda, whom he joined on

changing trains. Now the meeting with herfather was so near, she had to hold hercourage with both hands. She had realizedfor the first time that she would not knowwhere to look for Colonel DeLisle. Hemight be in barracks. She could hardly goto him there. He would perhaps be angry,should a girl arrive, announcing herself ashis daughter, at the house where he hadrooms. The third alternative was the HotelSplendide, where he took his meals. Hemight already be there when she reachedSidi-bel-Abbés. What a place for a firstmeeting! Max agreed, sympathetically. Itseemed that everything at Sidi-bel-Abbésmust happen at the Hotel Splendide!

"If you could only be with me and help, asyou have helped me all along!" she sighed.

"Though of course you can't. If Sir Knighthad come—— But I couldn't easilyexplain you to my father. At least, not justat present."

Max saw this, even more clearly than shesaw it. It would indeed be difficult for astrange new daughter to explain in a fewbrief words a still more strange youngman to such a person as Colonel DeLisle.If he were to be introduced or evenmentioned at all, Max felt that it wouldhave to be later, and must depend on theword of the redoubtable colonel. Hesuggested to Sanda as discreetly as hecould that he would keep out of her way atthe hotel, unless she summoned him. But,he added, he would have to be there for ashort time at all events, because his

business was taking him precisely to theHotel Splendide.

"The person you're looking for is stayingthere?" asked Sanda.

"She's the secretary of the hotel." Maxhesitated an instant, then, realizing fromthe words he had overheard howconspicuous a character JosephineDelatour evidently was, he thought best totell Sanda something more of his storythan he had told her yet. He sketched theversion, vindicating his foster-mother,which he had given to Billie Brookton andthe Reeveses—a version which all theworld at home would, he believed, soonhear.

"So that is it?" said Sanda. "You're giving

up everything to this girl. Do you think shewill take it?"

"I wish I were as sure of what I shall donext as I am sure of that," laughed Max. Ifthere had ever been any doubt in his mindas to Josephine's attitude, it had vanishedwhile listening to the talk of her in thetrain.

"I know what you ought to do next," Sandasaid. "You ought to be what you have been—a soldier."

"I shall always be, at heart, I think," Maxconfessed. "But soldier life is over forme, so far as I can see ahead."

"I wonder——" she began eagerly, thenstopped abruptly.

"You wonder—what?"

"I daren't say it."

"Please dare."

"I mustn't. It would be wrong. I might behorribly sorry afterward. And yet——"

She silenced herself with a little gasp. Heurged her no more, but stared almostunseeingly out of the window at the roofedfarmhouses, and the yellow hills, likereclaimed desert, with bright patches ofcultivation, and a far, floating backgroundof the blue Thesala mountains.

Sidi-bel-Abbés at last! and the train

slowing down along the platform of aninsignificant station, which might havebeen in the South of France, save for afew burnoused Arabs. There was a greenglimpse of olives and palms, and tallerplane trees, under a serene sky; and in thedistance the high fortified walls of yellowand dark gray stone, which ringed in thenorthernmost stronghold of the ForeignLegion.

"Sidi-bel-Abbés!" a deep voice shoutedmusically from one end of the platform tothe other, as the train came in; and thename thrilled through Max Doran's veinsas it had not ceased to thrill sinceyesterday. More strongly than ever he hadthe impression that some great thingswould happen to him here, or begin to

happen, and carry him on elsewhere,beyond those yellow hills. Deep down inhim excitement stirred in the dark, like adazed traveller up before the dawn,groping for the door through which hemust pass to begin his journey. All themore quietly, however, because of whathe secretly felt, Max took Sanda's bag andhis own, and gave her a hand for the highstep from the train to platform. There theybecame units in a crowd strange to see ata little provincial station; a crowd to bemet at few other places in the world.

The French boxer was not the only guestof importance this train brought to Sidi-bel-Abbés. At the far end of the platform,where the first-class carriages hadstopped, a group of officers in full dress

were collected round a man who worecivilian clothes awkwardly, as an oldsoldier wears them. There was thesensationally splendid costume of theSpahis; scarlet cloak and full trousers; thebeautiful pale blue of the Chasseursd'Afrique, and a plainer uniform whichMax guessed to be that of the ForeignLegion. The boxer had his committee deréception also; a dozen or more dark, fat,loud-talking proprietors of cafés, ortradefolk keen on "le sport." These, andthe lounging Arabs, might have interestedstrangers to Sidi-bel-Abbés, if there hadbeen nothing better worth attention. Butowing to the lateness of the train, it hadcome in almost simultaneously withanother made up of windowless wagonsfor men, horses or freight, which had not

yet discharged its load. Out from the widedoorway of the long car labelled "32hommes, 6 chevaux," was streaming anextraordinary procession; tall, beardedmen with the high cheek-bones and sad,wide-apart eyes of the Slav: a blond,round-cheeked boy whose shy yet stolidface could only have been bred inGermany, or Alsace; sharp-featured, rat-eyed fellows who might have beencollected at Montmartre or in a Marseillesslum; others who were nondescripts of nocomplexion and no expression; waifs fromanywhere; a brown-skinned Spaniard andan Italian or two; a Negro with thesophisticated look of a New York"darkee"; a melancholy, hooded Arab, anda fierce-faced Moor; types utterly atvariance, yet with one likeness which

bound them together like a convict's chain:weariness and stains of long, hardtravelling, which thrust the few well-dressed men down to the level of theshabbiest. Some were almost middleaged; some were youths hardly yet at theregulation enlistment age of eighteen; afew one might take for broken-downgentlemen; more who looked likeworkmen out of a job, and one or twounmistakably old soldiers, eager-eyed aslost dogs who had found their way home:a strange gathering of individuals to findstumbling out of a freight train at a countrystation of a French colony; but this wasSidi-bel-Abbés, headquarters of LaLegion Etrangére: and as the tired, dirtymen tumbled out on to the platform,everybody stared openly as a corporal

with a high képi, a buttoned-back blueovercoat, and loose, red trousers tuckedinto military boots, formed the crew intolines of four.

Even the officers at the end of the platformgazed at the soiled scarecrows who had tobe made into soldiers: for this being Sidi-bel-Abbés, there was no difficulty inguessing that the twenty-eight or thirty menof six or seven nations were recruits of theLegion of Foreigners. The draggled throngwas quietly indicated to the visitor incivilian clothes, who noddedappreciatively and then turned away. Butthe boxer's brigade explained theunfortunate wretches so loudly andunflatteringly to their guest that haggardfaces flushed and quivering lips stiffened;

while at the gateway of exit, a motionlessrow of non-commissioned officers,watching for deserters, regarded "lesbleus" critically, yet indifferently.

Max, whose quick imagination made himalmost painfully sensitive for others, felthot and sorry for the men herded togetherby misfortune. He had read sensationalstories of the Foreign Legion, and foundhimself hypnotized into looking for brutaljowls of escaped murderers, or faces ofpallid aristocrats in torn evening clothes,splashed with blood. Among these men ofmystery or sorrow there were, however,few startling types which caught the eye.But one man—young, tall, straight as anarrow—running the gauntlet of jokes andstares with fierce, repressed defiance,

turned suddenly to look at Max and Sanda.

Where to place him in life, Max could nottell. He might be prince or peasant bybirth, since prince and peasant are akin atheart, and ever remote from the middle-classes as from Martians. He wore a soft,gray felt hat, smeared with coal-dust fromthe engine. The collar of his dusty blackovercoat was turned up; it actually lookedlike an evening coat. His trousers wereblack too, and Max had an impression ofpatent leather shoes glittering through dust.But these details were only accessories tothe picture, and interesting because of thewearer's face. It was dark as that of aSpaniard from Andalusia, with the high,proud features of an Indian. It had beenclean-shaven a few days ago; and from

two haggard hollows a pair of wild blackeyes flashed one glance at Max—the onlyman who had not seemed to stare. Faceand look were unforgettable. It seemed toMax that some appeal had been flung tohim. He could hardly keep himself fromstriding after the tall figure, to ask: "Whatis it you want me to do?" And Sanda alsohad been impressed. He heard her murmurunder her breath, "Poor man! Whatwonderful eyes!"

Nobody moved from the platform until thecorporal had called the roll of names—German, French, Spanish, Italian, Russian,Arab—and had marched his batch ofrecruits briskly through the guarded gate.Max would have hurried Sanda outdirectly behind them, before the crowd

could secure all the queer, old-fashionedcabs which were waiting, but at thatmoment the smart group of officers movedforward. Having shown their guest one ofthe sights of Sidi-bel-Abbés, theyevidently expected to take precedence ofthe townspeople, who gave no sign ofdisputing their right. Max, following theexample of others and resisting an impulseto salute, stood back with his companionto let the uniforms pass. Sanda, pink withexcitement, was as usual all unconsciousof self, and vividly interested both inrecruits and officers. The latter, especiallythe young ones, were equally interested inthe pretty, well-dressed girl, a stranger inSidi-bel-Abbés and the one woman on theplatform.

Max saw the polite but admiring glances,and would have liked to draw her furtheraway. He bent down to whisper asuggestion, but Sanda did not hear. Herface, her whole personality, hadundergone one of those swift changescharacteristic of her.

With a fluttering cry, she started forward,then stepped nervously back, and,stumbling against Max's foot, would havefallen if he had not caught her.

All his attention was for her, yet, with hiseyes on the girl, he suddenly becameconscious that something had happenedamong the officers. One man had stoppedabruptly just in front of Sanda, whileothers were going through the gate,hurrying on as if tactfully desirous to get

themselves out of the way. A voicemurmured "Mon Dieu!" and havingsteadied Sanda, Max saw standing closeto them a small, rather dapper man with alined brown face, a very square, smooth-shaven jaw, long gray eyes, short grayhair, and the neat slimness of a West Pointcadet. He had on his sleeve the five goldstripes signifying a colonel's rank, andwas decorated with several medals.

Instantly Max understood the situation.The one thing that ought not to havehappened, had happened.

CHAPTER IXTHE COLONEL OF THE LEGION

All Sanda's anxiously laid plans wereswept away in the wind of emotion. Sheand the father she had meant to win withloving diplomacy had stumbled upon eachother crudely in a railway station. Thedear resemblance upon which she hadfounded her best hope had struck ColonelDeLisle like a blow over the heart.

The dapper little officer, with the figure ofa boy and the face of a tragic mask, staredstraight at the girl, with the look of onewho meets a ghost in daylight. "My God!

who are you?" he faltered, in French. Thewords seemed to speak themselves againsthis will.

Sanda was deathly pale. But she caught ather courage as a soldier grasps his flag: "Iam—Corisande, your daughter," sheanswered in that small, sweet voice of achild with which she had begged Max topardon her, yesterday. And she too spokein French. "My father, forgive me if I'vedone wrong to come to you like this. But Iwas so unhappy. I wanted so much to seeyou. And I've travelled such a long way!"

For an instant the man still stared at her insilence. He had the air of listening for avoice within a voice, as one listensthrough the sound of running water for itstune. Max, who must now unfortunately be

explained and accounted for in spite ofevery difficulty, found a strange likenessbetween the middle-aged soldier and theyoung girl. It was in the eyes: long, gray,haunted with thoughts and dreams. IfSanda DeLisle ever had to becomeacquainted with sorrow her eyes would belike her father's.

The pause was but for a second or two,though it was full of suspense for the girl,and even for Max, who forgot himself inanxiety for her. The hardness of strainingafter self-control melted to sudden beauty,as Max had seen Sanda's facetransfigured. Never again, it seemed tohim—no matter what Colonel DeLisle'sactions might be—could he believe him tobe cruel or cold.

"Ma petite," DeLisle said, with a quiverin his voice that echoed up fromheartstrings swept by some spirit hand."Can it be true? You have come—acrosshalf the world, to me?"

"Oh, father, yes, it is true. And always I'vewanted to come." Sanda's voice caressedhim. No man could have resisted her then."You're not angry?"

"Mon Dieu, no, I'm not angry, though mylife is not the life for a girl. I only—for amoment I thought I saw——"

"I know, I guessed," Sanda gently filled uphis pause. "Since I began growing into awoman every one told me I was like—her.But I wouldn't send you a photograph. Foryears I've planned to surprise you—and

make you care a little, if I could."

"Care!" he echoed, a look as of anguishpassing over his face like the shadow of acloud; then leaving it clear, though sadwith the habitual sadness which hadscored its many lines. "You havesurprised me, indeed. But——" Hestopped abruptly, and apparently for thefirst time noticed the young man standingnear. Stiffening slightly, Colonel DeLislelooked keenly at Max, his eyes trying tosolve the new puzzle. "But—my daughter,you have come to me with——"

"Only a friend," Sanda broke indesperately, blushing up to her bright hair."A kind friend, Mr. Doran, an Americanwho had to travel to Sidi-bel-Abbés onbusiness of his own, and who's been more

good to me than I can describe. I want himto let me tell you all about him, and thenyou will understand."

"I thank you in advance, Monsieur," saidColonel DeLisle, unbending again, and afaint—a very faint—twinkle brighteninghis eyes, at the thought of the error he hadnearly made, and because of Doran's blushat being mistaken for an unwelcome son-in-law.

"I've done nothing, Monsieur le Colonel,"stammered Max. "I had to come. I havebusiness with a person at the HotelSplendide. It is Mademoiselle who is kindto me in saying——"

"Could he not take me to the hotel to waitfor you?" Sanda cut in. "I shouldn't have

interrupted you in such a place as this, andat such a time, my father, if I could havehelped doing so, even though I recognizedyour face from the old photograph that ismy treasure. But acting on impulse is mygreatest fault, the aunts all say. And whenI saw you I cried out before I stopped tothink. Then I drew back, but it was toolate. I have taken you from some duty."

"I came officially with my comrades tomeet General Sauvanne, who is visitingour Algerian garrisons," said DeLisle. Heglanced again at Max, giving him one ofthose soldier looks which long experiencehas taught to penetrate flesh and bone andbrain down to a man's hidden self. "It istrue that I have no right to excuse myselffor my own private affairs." He hesitated,

almost imperceptibly, then turned to Max."Add to your past kindness by taking mydaughter to the hotel, Monsieur, where inmy name she will engage a room forherself—since, unfortunately, I have nohome to offer her. I will go with you bothto a cab, and then return to duty. My child,I will see you again before dejeuner."

Max's quick mind promptly comprehendedthe full meaning of Colonel DeLisle'sseemingly unconventional decision. Notonly was he being made friendly use of, ina complicated situation, but Sanda's fatherwished all who had seen the girl arrivewith a man to know once for all that theman had his official approval. SoonSanda's relationship to the Colonel of theFirst Regiment of the Foreign Legion

would be known, and there must be nostupid gossip regarding the scene at thestation. As they passed the other officersand their guests (who for these fewdramatic moments had discreetly awaiteddevelopments, outside the platform gate),Colonel DeLisle lingered an instant tomurmur; "It is my daughter, who has comeunexpectedly. A young friend whom I cantrust to see her to the hotel will take herthere, and I am at your service when Ihave put them into a cab."

"What do you think?" cried Sanda, as therickety vehicle rattled them toward thenearest gate of the walled town. "Have Ifailed with him—or have I succeeded?"

"Succeeded," Max answered. "Don't youfeel it?"

"I hoped it. Oh, Mr. Doran, I am going tolove him!"

"I don't wonder," Max said. "I'm sure he'sworth it."

"Yet I saw by your look when I spoke ofhim before, that you were thinking himheartless."

"I had no right to think anything."

"I gave you the right, by confiding in you.But I didn't confide enough, to do myfather justice. I knew he wasn't heartless,though he couldn't bear the sight of mewhen I was a baby, and put me out of hislife. He has always said that a soldier'slife was not for a young girl to share. Iknew he had a heart, because of that, not

in spite of it. It was that he loved mymother so desperately, and I'd robbed himof her. Now you've seen him, you must letme tell you a little——"

"Would he wish it?"

"Yes, if he knew why, and if he knew you,and what you are going through at thistime. He fell in love with my mother atfirst sight in Paris, and she with him. Hewas on leave, and she was there with herparents from Ireland. He'd never meant tomarry, but he was swept off his feet.Mother's people wouldn't hear of it. Theytook her home in a hurry, and tried tomake her marry some one else. She nearlydid—because they were stronger than she.She wrote father a letter of good-bye, tohis post in the southern desert, where he

was stationed then. He supposed, when heread the letter, that she was alreadymarried when he got it. But suddenly sheappeared—as unexpectedly as I appearedto-day. She'd run away from home,because she couldn't live without him. Oh,how well I understand her! Think of thejoy! It was like waking from a dreadfuldream for both of them. They were goingto be married at once, though mother washalf dead with fatigue and excitement afterher long, hurried journey; but on theirwedding eve she was taken ill, andbecame delirious. It was typhoid fever.She had got it somehow on the journey.She had come without stopping to rest,from Dublin to Touggourt, where fatherwas stationed. They say it's wild thereeven now. It was far wilder then, more

than twenty-one years ago. He nursedmother himself, scarcely eating orsleeping: not taking off his clothes forweeks. One of his aunts—my great-aunt—told me the story. It came to her from afriend of father's. He never spoke of it.For three months mother wasn't out ofdanger. Father was her nurse, her doctor,not her husband. But at last she was wellagain. They had their honeymoon in a tentin the desert. She loved the desert, then—or thought she did. Afterward, though, shechanged, for I was coming, and she was illagain. By that time they were stationedstill farther south. She grew so homesickfor the north that my father got leave. Theystarted to travel by easy stages through thedesert, with a small caravan. Their hopewas to reach Algiers, and to get to France

long before the baby should come; but theheat grew suddenly terrible, and one daythey were caught in a fearful sandstorm.My mother was terrified. I was born twomonths before the time. That same nightshe died, while the storm was still raging;and before she went, she begged my fatherto promise, whatever happened, not toleave her body buried in the desert. Hedid promise. And then began hismartyrdom. The caravan could not marchfast because of me. A negro woman who'dcome as mother's maid took care of me aswell as she could, and fed me oncondensed milk. Strange I should havelived.... My father had his men make formy mother's body a case of many tins,which they spread open and solderedtogether, with lead from bullets they

melted. In the next oasis they cut down apalm tree and hollowed out the trunk for acoffin. They sealed up the tin case in it,and the coffin travelled on the camelmother had ridden when she was alive, inone of those beautiful hooded bassourahsyou must have seen in pictures. At nightthe coffin rested in my father's tent, and helay beside it as he had lain beside mymother when she lived, and they werehappy. Because she'd been a Catholic, andbecause she'd always hated the dark,father burned candles on the coffin alwaystill dawn; and the men who loved himlooked for wild flowers in the desert tolay upon it. He had forty days, and fortynights, marching through the desert withthe dead body of his love, before theycame to the railway. Then he took mother

to France, and left me with his two auntsthere. Now do you wonder he never lovedme, or wanted to have me with him?"

"No, perhaps not," said Max. Deepsadness had fallen upon him. He was inthe desert with the man beside whoseagony his own trial was as nothing. All theworld seemed to be full of sorrow andpain sharper than his own personal pain.And as the girl asked her question and heanswered it, their cab passed theprocession of recruits for the ForeignLegion, tramping along between tall planetrees toward the town gate.

Once again a pair of tortured black eyeslooked at Max, who winced as the thickyellow dust from the wheels envelopedthe marching men.

"Will you let me tell my father your story,as I have told you his?" Sanda asked.

"Do as you think best," he said.

In another moment the cab had rolled pasta few gardens and villas, a green plateauand a moat, and passed through a greatgateway. Overhead, carved in the stone,were the words "Porte d'Oran," and thedate, 1855. Once, when the town wasyoung, the gates had been kept tightlyclosed, and through the loopholes in thestout, stone wall (the old part yellow, thenewer part gray) guns had been fired atbesieging Arabs, the tribe of the BeniAmer, who had worshipped at the shrineof the dead Saint, Sidi-bel-Abbés. But allthat was past long ago. No hope of fightingfor the Legionnaires, save over the

frontier in Morocco, or far away in theSouth! The shrine of Sidi-bel-Abbés stoodneglected in the Arab graveyard. Even themeaning of the name, once sacred to hisfollowers, was well-nigh forgotten; andall that was Arab in Sidi-bel-Abbés hadbeen relegated to the Village Négre ,strictly forbidden as Blue Beard's Roomof Secrets, to the Soldiers of the Legion.

Inside the wall everything was modernand French, except for a few trudging orlabouring Arabs in white, or in grayburnouses of camel's hair made inMorocco. As the daughter of the Legion'scolonel drove humbly in her shabby cab tothe Hotel Splendide, she felt vaguelydepressed and disappointed in the townwhich she expected to be her home. She

had fancied that it would be very eastern,with mosques and bazaars, and perhapssurrounded with desert; but there was nodesert within many miles; and there wasonly one minaret rising in the distance,like a long white finger to mark thebeginning of the Village Négre . Instead ofbazaars, there were new French shops anda sinister predominance of drinking placesof all sorts: a few "smart" cafés, withmarble-topped tables on the pavement, butmostly dull dens, appealing to the poorestand most desperate. The town was like aMaltese cross in shape, the arms of thecross being wide streets, each leading to agate in the fortifications; Porte d'Oran,Porte de Tlemcen, Porte de Mascarra, andPorte de Daya; and the one great charm ofthe place seemed to be in its trees; giant

planes which made arbours across thestreets, giving a look of dreaming peace,despite the rattle of wheels on roughly setpaving-stones.

There were middle-aged buildings, lowand small and dun-coloured, exactly likethose of every other French-Algeriansettlement, but big new blocks of glitteringwhite gave an air of almost ostentatiousprosperity to the place. There was even anattempt at gayety in the ornamentation, yetthere appeared to be nothing attractive totourists, save the Foreign Legion, whichgave mystery and romance to all thatwould otherwise have been banal. Noisewas everywhere, loud, shrill, insistent;rumbling, shrieking, rattling, roaring. Hugewagons, loaded with purple-stained cases

of Algerian wine, bumping over thestones; strings of bells wound round thegreat horns of horses' collars jingling likesleigh-bells in winter; whips in the handsof fierce-eyed carters cracking round theheads of large, sad mules; hooters ofautomobiles and immense motordiligences blaring; men shouting atanimals; animals barking or braying,snorting or clucking at men; unseensoldiers marching to music; a town clocksweetly chiming the hour, and, above all,rising like spray from the ocean of din,high voices of Arabs chaffering, disputing,arguing. This was the "Arabian Night'sParadise" that Sanda had dreamed of!

Presently the cab passed a great townclock with four faces (one for each of the

four diverging streets) and drew up beforea flat-faced building with the name "HotelSplendide" stretching across its dim,yellow front. Inside a big, open doorway,stairs went steeply up, past piles ofcommercial travellers' show trunks, andan Arab bootblack who clamoured forcustom. At the top Max Doran and hischarge came into a hall, whence a bare-looking restaurant and several other roomsopened out. On a gigantic hatrack like awithered tree hung coats and hats in darkbunches, brightened with a few militarycoats and gold-braided caps. As Max andSanda appeared, an officer—youngish,dark, sharp-featured, with a small waxedmoustache and near-sighted black eyes—turned hastily away from a window, andwith a stride added his cap and cloak to

the hatrack's burden. He had an almostchildishly guilty air of not wishing to becaught at something. And what thatsomething was, Max Doran guessed with aqueer constriction of the throat as helooked through the window. This openedinto a dim room, which was labelled"Bureau," and framed the head and bust ofa young woman.

Such light as there was in the hall fell fullupon her short, white face, into herslanting yellow eyes and on to theelaborately dressed red hair. She had beensmiling at the officer, but on theinterruption of the strangers' entrance shefrowned with annoyance. It was the frank,animal annoyance of a beautiful younglynx, teased by having a piece of meat

snatched away. The eyes were clear incolour as a dark topaz, and full of topazlight. This was remarkable; but their realstrangeness lay in expression. Theyseemed not unintelligent, but devoid of allhuman experience. They gazed at thenewcomers from the little window of thebureau, as an animal gazes from the barsof its cage, looking at the eyes whichregard it, not into them; near yet remote; acreature of another species.

The girl appeared to be well-shapedenough, though her strong white throat wasshort, and the hands which lay on the widewindow ledge were as small as a child's.Yet like a shadow thrown on the wallbehind her was a lurking impression ofdeformity of body and mind, a spirit cast

out of her, to point at something veiled. Ifthere could have lingered in the mind ofMax a grain of doubt concerning RoseDoran's confession, it was burnt up in amoment; for the girl was an AubreyBeardsley caricature of Rose. No need toask if this were Mademoiselle Delatour.He knew. And this lieutenant in theuniform of the Spahis was the "namesake"of whom the men had talked in the train.

CHAPTER XTHE VOICE OF THE LEGION

It was all far worse even than Max hadexpected; and the next few days were anightmare. The resemblance between thegirl and her mother—once his mother,whom he had as a boy adored—made theeffect more gruesome.

Josephine Delatour was coarse mindedand sly, inordinately vain, caring fornothing in life except the admiration ofsuch men as she had met and mistaken forgentlemen. Her way of receiving the newsof her change of fortune disgusted Max,

sickened him so utterly that he could notbear to think of her reigning in JackDoran's house. She was torn betweenpleasure in the prospect of being rich, andsuspicious that there was a plot to kidnapher, like the heroine of a sensationalnovel. She did not want to go to America.She wanted to stay in Sidi-bel-Abbés andtriumph over all the women who hadsnubbed her. She boasted of her admirers,and hinted that even without money shecould marry any one of a dozen youngofficers. But the one for whom she seemedreally to care—if it were in her to care forany one except herself—was the namesakeof whom Max had heard laughing hints.

At the time it had not occurred to him thatthe name of the alleged "cousin" must be

Delatour; but so it was though the darkyoung man with the waxed moustachespelled his name differently, in the morearistocratic way, with three syllables.When Josephine boasted that, though hewas from a great family, with a castle onthe River Loire, he called himself hercousin, Max realized that the Lieutenant ofSpahis must be a son or nephew of the dela Tour from whom Rose and Jack hadtaken the château. So far, however, wasMax Doran from being elated by this tie ofblood, that he mentally dubbed his relativea cad. It was all he could do to persuadeJosephine not to tell Raoul de la Tour thatshe had come into money, and a name asaristocratic as his own—in fact, that shewas qualifying as a heroine of romance.Only by appealing to the crude sense of

drama the girl had in her could she beprevented from stupidly throwing out baitto fortune-hunters. But having wired againto Edwin Reeves, and hearing that Mrs.Reeves, already in Paris, had started forAlgiers, a plan occurred to Max. Headvised Josephine, if she thought that de laTour cared for her, to tell him that she wasgiving up work in the Hotel Splendide;also that she was leaving Sidi-bel-Abbésforever; and then see what he would say.What he did say was such a blow to thegirl's vanity that, when she was sure hehad no intention of marrying a poorsecretary, she flung the dazzling truth athis face. Repentant, he tried to turn his lateinsults into honest lovemaking; but thetemper of the lynx was roused. Neverhaving deeply loved the man, she took

pleasure in using her claws on him. Intaunting him with what he might have had,however, she let the identity of thenewsbringer leak out.

De la Tour then warned her passionatelyagainst le jeune aventurier Americain,and almost frightened the girl intodisbelieving the whole story. But proofswere forthcoming, and with the landlord'swife, who enjoyed sharing a borrowedhalo, Josephine Delatour—or JosephineDoran—went to Algiers to await Mrs.Reeves's arrival. Meanwhile, with themoney she procured from Max, the girlplanned to buy herself a trousseau, andeventually departed, rejoicing in herlover's discomfiture. Whether or no thisattitude were safe with such a man

remained to be seen. As for Max—themessenger who had brought the tidings—since he showed no desire to flirt withher, Josephine saw no reason to beinterested in him. Besides, she couldhardly believe that he was not somehow toblame for having kept what ought to havebeen hers for his own all these years. Shehad not loved her supposed father andmother, who had interfered with herpleasure, disapproving of what they calledher extravagance and frivolity.... Therewas no grief to the girl in learning that theDelatours were not her parents.

Nor did it seem to Josephine that gratitudewas due Max for resigning in her favour.She was greedily ready to grabeverything, without thanks, just as her

lynx-prototype would snatch a piece ofmeat, if it could get it, from another lynx.She grudged the years of luxury andpleasure which she ought to have had; andcould she have realized that she had madeof Lieutenant de la Tour an enemy for MaxDoran, she would have been glad. It wasright that two men should quarrel over awoman.

While he was arranging Josephine'saffairs, Max saw nothing of Sanda andColonel DeLisle. He had thought it best totake up his quarters at another hotel, andhis only communication with them was byletter. He wrote Sanda that when hisbusiness was finished he would make uphis mind what to do; but in any case hehoped that he might be allowed to bid her

and Colonel DeLisle farewell. In answer,came an invitation from the Colonel to seethe Salle d'Honneur of the Legion, thefamous gallery where records of itsheroes were kept. "That is," (Sanda said,writing for her father) "if you areinterested in the Legion."

"If he were interested in the Legion!"Already he was obsessed by thoughts of it.Sidi-bel-Abbés, which at first had struckhim as being a dull provincial town, nowseemed the only place where he couldhave lived through his dark hours.Elsewhere he would have felt surroundedby a gay and happy world in which a manwith his back to the wall had no place.Here at Sidi-bel-Abbés was the home ofmen with their backs to the wall. The very

town itself had been created by such men,and for them. For generations desperatemen, sad men, starving men, of allcountries—men who had lost everythingbut life and strength—had been turningtheir faces toward Sidi-bel-Abbés, theirsole luggage the secret sorrow which,once the Legion had taken them, was noone's business but their own.

Max Doran could not go into the streetwithout meeting at least a dozen men in theLegion's uniform, who seemed akin to himbecause of the look in their eyes; the lookof those cut off from what had once meantlife and love. What they were enduringwas unknown to him, but he was somehowat home among them. And the dayJosephine went away, before he had yet

made up his mind to the next step, for thefirst time he heard the music of theLegion's band.

It was in the afternoon, and he had strolledoutside the Porte de Tlemcen into thepublic gardens for the music, only becausehe had an hour to pass before hisappointment in the Salle d'Honneur. Inwinter the band played in the PlaceCarnot, but on this soft day of early springthe concert was announced for the gardensbeloved by the people of Sidi-bel-Abbés.They were beautiful, but to Max it seemedthe beauty of sadness; and even there,outside the wall which dead Legionnaireshad built, everything spoke of the Legion.Men of the Legion had planted many of thetall trees of the cloistral avenue, whose

columnar trunks were darkly draped withivy. Men of the Legion swept dead leavesfrom the paths, as they swept away oldmemories. Men of the Legion walked inthe gray shadow of the planes, as theywalked in the shadows of life. Men of theLegion rested on the rough woodenbenches, staring absently at mourningplumes of cypresses, or white waterfallsthat fleeted by like lost opportunities. Yes,despite the flowers in the myrtle borders itwas a place of sadness, and of a mournfulsilence until the musicians brought theirinstruments into the curious bandstandformed of growing trees. Then it seemedto Max that he heard the Legion speak in agreat and wonderful voice.

As by studying a hive one feels the

mysterious governing spirit, so he felt thespirit of the Legion in its music, itsrestlessness, its longings, its passions, andits ambitions, uttered and cried to heavenin prayers and curses. As individuals themen were dumb, guarding their secrets,striving to forget; and it was as if thissmothered fire, seeking outlet, had sprungfrom heart to heart, kindling and massingall together in a vast, white-hot furnace.The music opened the doors of thisfurnace, and the flames roared upward tothe sky. In the dazzling light of that strangefire, secrets could be read, if the eyes thatsaw were not blinded. Bitterness and joywere there to see, and the blending of allpassions through which men ruin theirlives, and need to remake their souls. Yes,that was the Legion's call. Men came to it,

in the hope of remaking their souls. Withhis own drowned in the music of pain andregeneration, Max went to the Salled'Honneur to meet Colonel DeLisle.

He knew where to find it, next to thebarracks; a small, low building of thesame dull yellow, set back in a littlegarden with a few palms and flowerbeds.Inside the gate was a red, blue, and whitesentry box. But Max entered unchallenged,because at the door of the house stood thecolonel, who came down a step to meethim. "Monsieur Doran!" he exclaimedcordially, holding out his hand.

"Will you still offer me your hand, sir,"Max asked wistfully, though he smiled,"even if I've no name any more, and nocountry that I can claim? Mademoiselle

DeLisle has told you?"

"She has told me," echoed the elder man,shaking the younger's hand with extrawarmth. "I congratulate you on the chanceof making a name for yourself. I think fromwhat I hear, and can judge, that you willdo so, in whatever path you choose. Haveyou chosen yet?"

"Not yet," Max confessed. "Neither aname nor the way to make it. Nor thecountry most likely to make it in."

"As for that"—and Colonel DeLislesmiled—"we of the Legion are more usedto men without names and withoutcountries than to those who have them.Not that your case is allied to theirs. Shallwe go in? I want to thank you, as I've not

been able to do yet, for your chivalrousbehaviour to my daughter. She has told meall about that, too—all. And I had afeeling that this room, in which our Legioncommemorates honourable deeds, wouldbe a place where you and I might talk."

As he spoke he led Max into a shortcorridor, at the end of which hung a largeframe containing portraits and many namesof men and battles with the crest of laLegion Etrangére at the top. Pushing opena door at the right, DeLisle made way forhis guest. "Here are all the relics that areto us men of the First Regiment mostsacred," he said. And as he passed in, hesaluted a flag preciously guarded in a longglass case: the flag of the regimentdecorated with the Cross of the Legion of

Honour on an historic occasion of greatbravery. An answering thrill shot throughMax's veins, for in them ran soldier blood.Involuntarily he, too, saluted the flag andits cross. Colonel DeLisle gave him aquick look, but made no comment.

Two out of the four walls were coveredwith portraits of men in uniforms ancientand modern; paintings, engravings,photographs; and the decorations werestrange weapons, and torn, faded bannerswhich had helped the Legion to makehistory. There were drums and weirdidols, too, and monstrous masks and greatfans from Tonkin and Madagascar, andrelics of fighting in Mexico. On the longtable lay albums of photographs, and uponeither side were ranged chairs as if for

officers to sit in council.

"Whenever we wish to do a guest honour,we bring him here," said the colonel. "Weare not rich, and have nothing better tooffer; except, perhaps, our music."

"I have already heard the music,"answered Max. "I shall never forget it.And I shall never forget this room."

"Such music wakes the hearts of men, andhelps inspire them to heroic acts likethese." Colonel DeLisle waved his handtoward some of the pictures whichshowed soldiers fighting the Legion's mosthistoric battles. "I am rather proud of ourmusic and our men. This room, too, andthe things in it—most of all the flag. Mydaughter has spent hours in the Salle

d'Honneur looking over our records.Presently she will join us. But I wanted tothank you before she came. Corisande is achild, knowing little of the world and itsways. Some men in your place wouldhave misunderstood her—in the unusualcircumstances. But you did not. Youproved yourself a friend in need for mylittle girl, on her strange journey to me. Iwish in return there might be some way inwhich I could show myself a friend to you.Can you think of any such way?"

The voice was earnest and very kind. Agreat reaction from his first prejudiceagainst the speaker swept over Max.Beneath this one voice which questionedhim and waited for an answer, he heard asa deep, thrilling undertone the voice of the

Legion which had called to him throughthe music to come and share its bath offire. A sudden purpose awoke in MaxDoran, and he knew then that it had beenin the background of his mind for days,waiting for some word to wake it. Nowthe word had come. All his blood seemedto rush from heart to head, and he grewgiddy: yet he spoke steadily enough.

"I have thought of a way, ColonelDeLisle!"

"I am glad. You have only to tell me."

"Accept me as one of your men. Let mejoin the Legion."

"Mon Dieu!" The Legion's colonel wastaken completely by surprise. Max had

thought he might perhaps have expectedthe request, but evidently it was not so.The dapper little figure straightened itself.And from his place beside his adored flag,Colonel DeLisle gazed across to the otherside where, close also to the flag, stoodthe young man he had wished to serve.Max met his eyes, flushed and eager and,it seemed, pathetically young. There wasdead silence for an instant. Then DeLislespoke in a changed tone: "Do you meanthis? Have you thought of what you aresaying?"

"I do mean it," Max replied. "I believe Ihave thought of it ever since I saw thosemen of all countries getting out of the trainto join the Legion. I felt the call they hadfelt. But it is stronger to-day. I know now

what I want. In the Salle D'Honneur of theLegion I decide on my career."

"Decide!" the other repeated. "No, notthat, yet! You have got this idea into yourhead because you are romantic. You thinkyou are ruined and that the future doesn'tmatter. You will find it does. This is noplace for poetry and romance—my God,no! It's a fiery furnace. In barracks weshould burn the romance out of you intwenty-four hours."

"If I've got more in me than any man wholoves adventure ought to have, then I wantit burned out," said Max.

"Adventures will cost you lesselsewhere," almost sneered DeLisle.

"I don't ask to get them cheap," Max stillinsisted. "Though I've got nothing to paywith, except myself, my blood, and flesh,and muscles."

"That's good coin," exclaimed the elder,warming again. "Yet we can't take it. Youmay think you know what you mean. Butyou don't know what the Legion means. Ido. I've had nearly twenty years of it."

"You love it?"

"Yes, it is my life. But—I have to remindyou, I entered it as an officer. There is allthe difference."

"At least I should be a soldier. I knowwhat a soldier's hardships are."

"Ah, not in the Legion!"

"It can't kill me."

"It might."

"Let it, then. I'll die learning to be a man."

DeLisle looked at his companion intently."I think," he said, "you are a man."

"No, sir, I'm not," Max contradicted himabruptly. "I used to hope I might passmuster as men go. But these last days I'vebeen finding myself out. I've been down inhell, and I shouldn't have got there if Iwere a man. I'm a self-indulgent, pining,and whining boy, thinking of nothing butmyself, and not knowing whether I've doneright or wrong. If the Legion can't teachme what's white and what's black, nothingcan."

The colonel of the Legion laughed a queer,short laugh. "That is true," he said. "I takeback those words of mine about poetryand romance. You've got the right point ofview, after all. And you are the kind ofman the Legion wants, the born soldier,lover of adventure for adventure's sake.You would come to us not because youhave anything to hide, or because youprefer barracks in France to prison athome, or because some woman has thrownyou over," (just there his keen eyes sawthe young man wince, and he hurried onwithout a pause) "but because we've madesome history, we of the Legion, and youwould like a chance to make some foryourself, under this"—and he pointed tothe flag whose folds hung between them—"Valeur et Discipline! That's the

Legion's motto, for the Legion itself mustbe Dieu et Patrie for most of its sons. I'vedone my duty as a friend in warning you togo where life is easier. As colonel of theFirst Regiment, I welcome you, if yousincerely wish to come into the Legion.Only——"

"Only what, sir?"

"My daughter! She wanted me to help you.She'll think I've hindered, instead."

"No, Colonel. She hoped I'd join theLegion."

DeLisle looked surprised. "What reasonhave you for supposing that?"

"Interpreting a thing she said, or, rather, athing she wanted to say, but was afraid to

say for fear I might blame her some day inthe future."

"She, knowing nothing of the Legion,recommended you to join? That isstrange."

"She knew a little of me and mycircumstances. I'd been a soldier, andthere seemed only one convenient way fora man without a name or country to startand become a soldier again. Miss DeLislesaw that."

"You're talking of me?" inquired Sanda'svoice at the half-open door. Both mensprang to open it for her. As she came intothe Salle d'Honneur, she seemed to bringwith her into this room, sacred to deadheroes of all lands, the sweetness of

spring flowers to lay on distant graves.And as she stepped over the threshold,like a young soldier she saluted the flag.

"I have just said to Colonel DeLisle thatyou would approve of my joining theLegion," Max explained. "Have I told himthe truth?"

The girl looked anxiously from one man tothe other. She was rather pale andsubdued, as if life pressed hardly evenupon her. "You guessed what I wouldn'tlet myself say in the train the other day!"she exclaimed. "But—you haven't joined,have you?"

"Not yet, or I shouldn't be here. The Salled'Honneur is for common soldiers onlywhen they're dead, I presume."

"But you could become an officer someday, couldn't he, father?"

"Yes," replied Colonel DeLisle. "Everysoldier of the Legion has his chance. Andour friend is French, I think, from whatyou've told me of his confidences to you.That gives an extra chance to rise. France—rightly or wrongly, but like all mothers—favours her own sons. Besides, he hasbeen a soldier, which puts him at onceahead of the others."

"I shouldn't trade on that! I'd rather beginon a level with other men, not ahead ofthem," Max said hastily. "My objectwould be not to teach, but to learn—tocure myself of my faults——"

The colonel drew a deep breath, like a

sigh. "We do cure men sometimes, men farmore desperate, men with souls far moresick than yours. There's that to be said forus."

"His soul isn't sick at all!" Sanda criedout, in defence of her friend.

"Perhaps he thinks it is." Colonel DeLislelooked at Max as he had looked afterthose chance words of his about a woman.

"Do you think that, Mr. Doran?" the girlquestioned incredulously. "I shall bedisappointed if you do."

"Don't be disappointed. I do not think mysoul is sick. I want to see how strong itcan be, and my body, too. But you mustn'tcall me 'Mr. Doran' now, please. It isn't

my name any more. Colonel DeLisle, mayI ask your daughter to choose a name for anew soldier of the Legion? It will be thelast favour, for I understand perfectly thatafter I've joined the regiment, as a privatesoldier, you can be my friends only atheart. Socially, all intercourse must end."

"Oh, no, it wouldn't be so," Sanda criedout impulsively, though the old officerwas silent. "It wouldn't, if I were notgoing away."

"You are going away?" Max wasconscious of a faint chill. He would havefound some comfort in the thought that hisbrave little travelling companion wasnear, even though he seldom saw andnever spoke to her.

"Not home to the aunts! I told you I'dnever go back to live with them, and myfather wouldn't send me. But there's to bea long march—— Oh, have I said what Ioughtn't? Why? Since he must know if hejoins? Anyhow, I can't stay here manydays longer—I mean, for the present. I'mto be sent to a wonderful place. It will bea great romance."

"Sanda, it is irrelevant to talk of thatnow," Colonel DeLisle reminded hisdaughter.

"Forgive me! I forgot, father. May I—name the new soldier, and wish him joy?"

DeLisle laughed rather bitterly. "'Joy' isn'tprecisely the word. If he hoped for it, hewould soon be disillusioned. You may

give him a name, if he wishes it. But letme also give him a few words of advice.Monsieur Doran——"

"St. George!" broke in Sanda. "That is tobe his name. I christen him, close to theflag. Soldier, saint, slayer of dragons."She did not add "my patron saint," butMax remembered, and was grateful.

"Soldier Saint George, then," DeLislebegan again, smiling, "this is my advice asyour friend and well-wisher: again, I say,why should you not take advantages youhave fairly earned? My men are wonderfulsoldiers. I suppose in the world there canbe none braver, few so brave; for theynearly all come to heal or hide somesecret wound that makes them desperateor careless of life. They are glorious

soldiers, these foreigners of ours! But atthe beginning you will see them at theirworst in the dulness of barrack life. Thereare all sorts and conditions, from thelowest to the highest. You may happen tobe among some of the lowest. Why notstart where you are entitled to start?When, in being recruited, you are asked tostate your profession, you're at liberty tosay what you choose. No statement as toname, age, country, or occupation isdisputed in the Legion. But once more, letme advise you, if you write yourself down"Soldier," things can be madecomparatively easy for you."

"I thank you, sir, and I will take youradvice in everything else. But I don't wantthings made easy."

"You may regret your obstinacy."

"Oh, father," pleaded Sanda, "wouldn'tyou be the very one to do the same thing?"

"In his place," said Colonel DeLisle,shrugging his shoulders, "I suppose Ishould do what he does. What I might do,isn't the question, however. But I've saidenough.... Now I have to get back tobarracks. For you, Sanda, this must be'good-bye,' I fear, to the friend of yourjourney."

"My friend for always," the girl amended,holding out her hand to Max. "And I'drather say 'Au revoir' than 'Good-bye'; weshall meet again—away in the desert,perhaps."

She caught her father's warning eye andstopped. "Good-bye, then—Soldier of theLegion."

"If he doesn't change his mind," mutteredDeLisle. "There's still time."

Max looked from the girl to the flag in itsglass case.

"I shall not change my mind," he said.

CHAPTER XIFOUR EYES

Beyond the barracks of the Legion, goingtoward the Porte de Tlemcen, andopposite the drill-ground and cavalrybarracks of the Spahis, there is a sign:Bureau de Recrutement.

Early in the morning after taking hisresolution, Max walked down the narrow,lane-like way which led off from the Ruede Tlemcen and the long front wall of theLegion's barracks, and found the doorindicated by the sign.

In a bare office room, furnished with a

table and a few benches, sat a corporal,busily writing. He looked up, surprised tosee such a visitor as Max, and was atsome trouble to hide his amazement onhearing that this well-dressed young man,evidently a gentleman, wished to enlist inthe Legion. Opening off the outer room,with its white-washed walls and displayof posters tempting to recruits, wasanother office, the Bureau duCommandant de Recrutement, and thereMax was received by a lieutenant, olderthan most of the men of that rank in theEnglish or American armies. Something inhis manner made Max wonder if theofficer had been told of him and hisintention by Colonel DeLisle. At first heput only the perfunctory questions which aman entering the wide-open gate of the

Legion may answer as he chooses. Butwhen in its turn came an inquiry as to therecruit's profession, the officer looked atMax sharply yet with sympathy.

"No profession," was the answer; a trueone, for Max's resignation had alreadytaken effect.

"At present, but—in the past?" thelieutenant encouraged him kindly. "If youhave military experience, you can risequickly in the Legion."

For good or ill, Max stuck to yesterday'sresolve, knowing that he might be weakenough to regret it, and anxious thereforeto make it irrevocable. "I have done somemilitary service," he explained, "enough tohelp me learn my duties as a soldier

quickly."

"Ah, well, no more on that subject, then!"and the lieutenant sighed audibly. "Yet itis a pity, especially as you are of Frenchbirth and parentage, though brought up inAmerica. Your chance of promotionwould—but let us hope that by good lucksomething may happen to give you thechance in any case. Who knows but bothyour countries may be proud of you someday? Is there—nothing you would care totell me about yourself that might enableme to advise you later?"

"Nothing with which it is necessary totrouble you, my Lieutenant."

"Bien! It remains then only for you to beexamined by the medecin major. You

have nothing to fear from his report. Aucontraire!"

In an adjoining room two men werealready waiting the arrival of the doctor,who was due in a few minutes. One,evidently a Frenchman, with a dark,dissipated face, volunteered theinformation that he was a chauffeur,whose master had discharged him withoutnotice on account of an "unavoidableaccident" at a small town within walkingdistance of Sidi-bel Abbés. The other, ablond boy who looked not a day oversixteen, announced that he was an Alsatianwho had come to Algeria as a waiter in arestaurant car, on purpose to join theLegion, and escape military service as aGerman. "I shall serve my five years, and

become a French subject," he saidjoyously. "Take hold of my arm. Not bad,is it, for biceps? For what age would youtake me?"

"Seventeen," replied Max, adding a yearto his real guess.

But it was not enough. The girlish faceblushed up to the lint-coloured hair, cut enbrosse. "I call myself eighteen," said thechild. "Don't you think the doctor willbelieve me when he feels my muscle?"

"I think he'll give you the benefit of thedoubt," Max assured him, smiling.

"No trouble about my age!" exulted thechauffeur. "I am twenty-seven."

He looked ten years older. But a recruit

for the Legion may take the age as well asthe name he likes best, provided themedecin major be not too critical.

Both his companions were keenly curiousconcerning Max, and consideredthemselves aggrieved that, after theirfrankness, he should choose to bereserved. They put this down to pride. Butthe Legion would take it out of him! Allmen were equal there. They had heard thatamong other things.

Before the stream of questions had run drythrough lack of encouragement, the doorwas thrown open, and in walked thedoctor, a big, jovial man, accompanied bythe middle-aged lieutenant who had showninterest in Max, and a weary-faced clerkplunged in gloom by a bad cold in the

head. As they entered, the two officerslooked at Max, and glanced quickly ateach other. They had evidently beenspeaking of him. But his examination wasleft till the last. The chauffeur of "twenty-seven" and the waiter of "eighteen" werepassed as physically fit—bon pour leservice: and then came the turn of the thirdrecruit, whose pale blue silkunderclothing brought a slight twinkle tothe eye of the jolly medecin major. Maxwished that it had occurred to him to buysomething cheaper and less noticeable.But it was too late to think of that now. Atall events, he was grateful for the tact andconsideration which had given him the lastturn.

"Magnifique!" exclaimed the doctor, when

he had pinched and pounded Max,sounded heart and lungs, and squeezed hisbiceps. "Here we have an athlete." And heexchanged another glance with thelieutenant.

The clerk scribbled industriously andsadly in his book, as Max dressed himselfagain; and the ordeal was over. When thethird recruit of the day had been given apaper, first to read, and then to sign withhis new name, his contract for five yearsto serve the Republic of France was madeand completed. Maxime St. George was asoldier of the Legion.

He, with the ex-chauffeur and the ex-waiter, was marched by a corporalthrough a small side gate into the barracksquare; and the guard, sitting on a bench

by the guardhouse, honoured thenewcomers with a stare. The chauffeurand the waiter got no more than a passingglance, but all eyes, especially those ofthe sergeant of the guard, focussed onMax. Apparently it was not every day thatthe little gate beside the great gate openedfor a gentleman recruit. Max realizedagain that he was conspicuous, andresigned himself to the inevitable. Thiswas the last time he need suffer. In a fewminutes the uniform of the Legion wouldmake him a unit among other units, andthere would be nothing to single him outfrom the rest. He would no longer haveeven a name that mattered. In losing hisindividuality he would become a number.But for a moment he felt like a new arrivalin a Zoo: an animal of some rare species

which drew the interest of spectatorsaway from luckier beasts of commonersorts.

The trio of recruits stood together in anunhappy group, awaiting orders from theregimental offices; and the news of theiradvent must have run ahead of them withmagic speed, swiftly as news travels inthe desert, for everywhere along the frontof the yellow buildings surrounding thesquare, windows flew open, heads ofsoldiers peered out, and voices shoutedeagerly: "Voilà les bleus!" There wereonly three newcomers, and the arrival ofrecruits in the barrack square was aneveryday spectacle; but something to gazeat was better than nothing at all. Men infatigue uniform of spotless white, their

waists wound round with wide bluesashes, came running up to see the sight,before les bleus should be marched awayand lose their value as objects of interestby donning soldier clothes. Max recalledthe day of his début at West Point, ahumble, modest "Pleb." This huge,gravelled courtyard, surrounded on threesides by tall, many-windowed barracks,and shut away from the Rue de Tlemcenby high iron railings, had no resemblanceto the cadets' barracks of gray stone; butthe emotions of the "Pleb" and of therecruit to the Legion were curiously alike.The same thought presented itself to thesoldier that had wisely counselled the newcadet. "I must take it all as it comes, andkeep my temper unless some one insultsme. Then—well, I'll have to make myself

respected now or never."

"Les bleus! Voilà les bleus!" was the cryfrom every quarter: and discipline notbeing the order of the moment forLegionnaires off duty, young soldiers andold soldiers gathered round, making suchremarks as occurred to them, witty orribald. Les bleus were fair game.

As a schoolboy, Max had read in somebook that, in the time of Napoleon First,French recruits had been nicknamed "lesbleus" because of the asphyxiating highcollars which had empurpled their faceswith a suffusion of blood. Little had hedreamed in committing that fact to memorythat one day the name would be applied tohim! Thinking thus, he smiled betweenamusement and bitterness; but the smile

died as a voice whispered in his ear: "ForGod's sake don't sell your clothes to theJews. Keep them for me. I'll get hold ofthem somehow."

The voice spoke in French. Max turnedquickly, and could not resist a slight startat seeing close to his, the face which hadseized his attention days ago in therailway station.

The man who had then been dressed industy black was now a soldier of theLegion, in white fatigue uniform, like allthe rest: but the dark face and night-blackeyes had the same arresting, tragic appeal.After this whisper, the Legionnaire drewback, his look asking for an answer by nodor shake of the head. Max caught the ideainstantly. "By jove! the fellow has made

up his mind to desert already!" he thought."Why? He hasn't the air of a slacker."

There was no language he could choose inthis group made up from a dozencountries, which might not be understoodby one or all. The only thing was to trustto the other's quickness of comprehension,as the speaker had trusted to his. He heldout his hand, exclaiming: "C'est vous, monami! Quel chance!"

The ruse was understood. His handclaspwas returned with meaning. Every onesupposed that le bleu of four days ago andle bleu of to-day were old acquaintanceswho had found each other unexpectedly.

There was no chance for private speech.A quick fire of interrogation volleyed at

the three recruits, especially at Max. "Areyou French? Are you German? Are youfrom Switzerland—Alsace—Belgium—Italy—England?" Questions spatteredround the newcomers like a rain ofbullets, in as many languages as thecountries named, and Max amused himselfby answering in the same, whenever hewas able.

"How many tongues have you stowed inthat fly-trap of yours, my child?" inquireda thin, elderly Legionnaire with a longnose and clever, twinkling eyes. No nationbut Holland could have produced thatface, and it was unnecessary that thespeaker should introduce himself as aDutchman. "Fourteen years have I servedFrance in the Legion. I have been to

Madagascar and Tonkin. Everywhere Ihave found myself the champion oflanguages, which is only natural, for I wastranslator in the State Department at home—a long while ago. But if you can speakeleven you will get the championship overme. I have only as many tongues as I havefingers."

"You beat me by six," laughed Max, andthe jealous frown faded.

"Encore un champion!" gayly announcedthe round-faced youth who had jocoselyasked Max if he were a Belgian. "Voilànotre joli heros, Pelle."

"Quatro oyos" ("Four Eyes") added aSpaniard. "Papa van Loo can beat youwith his tongue; Four Eyes beats with his

fists."

Sauntering toward les bleus, with themanner of a big dog who deigns to visit alittle one, came a man of average heightbut immense girth. His great beardlessface was so hideous, so startling, that Maxgaped at him rudely, lost in horror. Noseand lips had been partly cut away. Theteeth and gums showed in a ghastly,perpetual grin. But as if this were notenough to single him out among athousand, a pair of black, red-rimmedeyes had been tattooed on the largeforehead, just above a bushy, auburn lineoverhanging the eyes which nature hadpushed deeply in between protrudingcheek and frontal bones.

"Good heavens!" Max blurted out aloud;

and the Dutchman cackled with laughter."You're no Frenchman, boy!" he loudlyasserted in English. "Now we've got atyour own jargon. Go away, Mister Pelle,you're frightening our British baby. Or is itYankee?"

An angry answer jumped to the tip ofMax's tongue, but he bit it back. So thisliving corpse was Pelle, the championboxer of the Legion, who would fight theFrenchman!

The new recruit was ashamed of the sickspasm of disgust that closed his throat. Hefelt that it was a sign of raw youth andamateurishness, as when a medical studentfaints at first sight of the dissecting table.He feared that his face had betrayed himto these soldiers, many of whom had

hardened their nerves on battlefields.Somehow he must justify himself, andforce respect from the men who greetedVan Loo's cheap wit with an appreciativeroar.

Pelle was the only one who did not laugh.He came lumbering along in silence as ifhe had not heard; but Max saw that theboxer was aiming straight for him. Thenewly christened St. George stood still,waiting to see what the dragon would do.Within three feet of the recruit the hero ofthe Legion came to a stop and looked theslim figure in civilian clothes slowly overfrom head to foot, as Goliath maysarcastically have studied the points ofDavid. The whole group was hypnotized,enchanted, each man in white praying that

it might be five minutes yet before thecorporal returned to shepherd his threelambs. Much can happen in five minutes.Battles can be won or lost! and at anythingPelle might do, under provocation, thepowers that were would wink. Not anofficer below the colonel but had moneyon the match which was to come off in thebarrack square to-morrow.

All four eyes of Quatro Oyos seemed tostare at the insignificant shrimp of arecruit. Max had but two eyes with whichto return the compliment, but he made themost of them. Pelle was not only hideous:he was formidable. The big square headand ravaged face were set on a strongthroat. Chest and shoulders wereimmense, the arms too long, the slightly

bowed legs too short. Up went asledgehammer hand, coated with red hair,to scratch the heavy jowl contemplatively,and Max thought of a gorilla.

"So you don't think I'm pretty, eh?" theboxer challenged him, and Max startedwith surprise at sound of the Cockneyaccent, which came with a hissing soundfrom the defaced mouth. Pelle was anEnglishman!

The start was misunderstood, not only bythe champion of the Legion, but by thesurrounding Legionnaires, who tittered.

"Sorry if I was rude," remarked Max, withan air of nonchalance, to show that he wasready for anything.

"That's no way to apologize," said Pelle."Don't look at me like that. You'll have tolearn better manners in the Legion."

"A cat may look at a king," retorted therecruit. "And as for manners, I won't askyou to teach them to me."

"Why, you damned little Yankee spy, doyou want to be pinched between my thumband finger as if you was a flea?" bellowedthe boxer.

"Try it, and you'll find the flea can bitebefore he's pinched," said Max. His heartwas thumping, for despite his knowledgeo f la boxe he knew that he might bepounded into a jelly in another minute.This man was a heavyweight. He was alightweight. But whatever happened he

would show himself game; and at thatinstant nothing else seemed much tomatter.

Somewhat to his surprise, Pelle burst outlaughing. "Hark to the bantam!" heexclaimed in French—execrable French,but a proof that he was no newcomer inthe Legion. "If you weren't a newspaperspy, my chicken, I'd let you off for yourcheek. But we have heard all about you.Lieutenant de la Tour of the Spahis knows.He's told every one. It doesn't take longfor news to get to the Legion. I'm going toteach you not to write lies about us foryour damned papers. We get enough fromGermany. So I shall make chicken jelly ofyou. See!"

"All right. Come on!" said Max, more

cheerfully than he felt. For his one chancewas in his youth and the method he hadlearned from the lightweight champion ofthe world.

A ring formed on the instant, to screen aswell as to see the spectacle. Here wouldbe no rounds timed by an official, noseconds to encourage or revive their men.The encounter, such as it was, would beprimitive and savage, asking no quarterand giving none. But Max felt that hiswhole future in the Legion depended on itsissue.

CHAPTER XIINO. 1033

For a second the contestants eyed eachother.

A strange hush seemed to fall upon all, asituation always present in affairs of thiskind. It was noticeable to Max. "It mightwell be said that a calm always precededa storm," Max reflected, and then he hearda voice speak close to his ear.

He dared not turn his head for fear of asudden onslaught by his antagonist, buteven as low as the tone was, herecognized the voice—it was the same

voice that had begged him stealthily forhis civilian clothes!

"Beware of his foot," said the voice. "He'sEnglish, but he fights French fashion withla savate."

Max had not expected the savate from anEnglishman, and he was very glad of thewarning.

It flashed through his brain just what theterrible savate could accomplish—alightning-like kick landing on the jaw ofan adversary, being much more crushingand damaging than the hardest punch.

The warning came just in time, for he hadonly a brief chance to steady himself whenFour Eyes rushed at him like a maddened

bull.

As he neared Max he let go two terrificswings, first with his left and then with hisright hand, but his smaller opponent side-stepped with the nimbleness of a cat, andPelle rushed by two or three steps beforehe could stop.

At once he turned with a lithe movement,surprisingly graceful for a body so big,and made ready as though to once moreswing his two flail-like fists.

Again did Max set himself to dodgePelle's punches, but instead of letting histwo hands fly, one after the other, he benthis huge body back from the waist, and atthe same time shot his right foot upwardtoward the other's face.

It was a fearful kick, and had it landed onMax's jaw it would have ended the fightthen and there, indeed, if it did not breakhis neck. But that whispered warningabout the savate was Max's salvation.

With a quick backward jerk of his head hesaved himself—just barely saved himself—and the big foot shot harmlessly up intothe air, Pelle almost losing his balance inthe unsuccessful effort.

Before the latter could really regain hisfooting Max stepped in and, with left andright, landed full on his opponent's face,the last of the two punches coming flushon the nose with smashing force. It rockedthe amazed Pelle back on his heels.

Moreover, the surprise at the force of the

blow was not greater than the surprise atthe sudden knowledge of the fact that the"Yankee Spy" was no bungling amateur,but that he had all the ear-marks of askilled professional.

Well, he could not be fooled again, and ontop of this thought came a heavy grunt asMax again stepped in and swung a swiftright hook to his stomach and then jumpedout of harm's way.

This blow took Pelle's wind and he beganto dance around on his toes with thelightness of thistledown, despite hisdiscomfiture, while all the time hewatched the clever Max between half-closed eyes, waiting for another chance todeliver that awful kick where it wouldsurely put the other out of business.

Now and then the big man would try anoccasional swing at his elusive opponent,but it was more of an attempt to cover uphis real intention rather than to landeffectively. Well he knew that his best andquickest chance to end the fight lay in hisability to kick the other man insensible,and so he tried to fool and disarm Max bya bluff attack.

In this manner they danced about eachother for a short space; the American,apparently whenever he chose, stepped inand landed left and right on the other's jawwith a sound like the crack of a whip.

There was a snap to Max's punches, asnap that stung and made an impression,and so while the big man almost explodedwith fury at the gruelling he had to go

through as his graceful adversary jumpedin and out and banged him, he still nursedhis best blow—the murderous kick!—holding it in reserve until the rightmoment.

Finally, in the course of Max's punishingonslaught, in which he was leaping in andout with unceasing agility, he—stumbled!This was just what Pelle was waiting for,and then, like the fillip of a spring-board,the heavy boot went toward Max's head!

Though he saw it start, and though heswung his head back, Max could notescape it altogether, and it grazed his chin.For an instant the barrack yard and thewhite-clad ring of men swam before hiseyes. It seemed as though an iron bolt hadentered his chin and gone through the top

of his head, but he did not quite lose allpresence of mind, though he did bendaway from the other until he almost fell onhis own back.

Pelle saw his advantage and, with a yelpof joy, jumped forward and swung hisother foot. As he did so reason returned toMax and with it came a blind rage at theother's unfairness.

With the quickness of a panther, and withthe strength of ten men, he swung his slimbody sideways and then bent forward tolet go a vicious right-hand swing—flush tothe other's jaw!

The kick missed Max—missed him by ahair—but the punch landed, landed withevery ounce of bone and muscle behind it

that Max had in his body.

Down crashed the champion on the backof his skull, with a thud amid a spatter ofgravel!

For an instant the huge form lay still,while the ring of Legionnaires remainedpetrified. Suddenly the group realized thatthe fighting cock had been beaten by thebantam.

Then, with visions of "cellule" for everyone concerned, four or five men sprang topick up the champion. As they got him tohis feet, blood poured from his swollenand disfigured nose. Coming slowly tohimself, Pelle wiped it away dazedly withthe back of a hairy hand, anxious, even insemi-consciousness, to preserve the purity

of his uniform, sacred in the Legion.

Max stood his ground, rather expecting tobe attacked in revenge by some of Pelle'sangry allies; and the man who had warnedhim to beware of "la savate" took a stepnearer him. But both were new to theLegion Etrangére, and did not yet knowthe true spirit of the regiment.

Only admiring looks were turned upon theastonished young conqueror, who wasrather surprised at his own easy victory.As Pelle came to himself in his friends'arms, the big fellow staggered forward,holding out a bloodstained paw.

CHAPTER XIIITHE AGHA'S ROSE

Sanda did not know, and would not knowfor many days, the news of Sidi-bel-Abbés, for she had started on a longjourney, to the "wonderful place" of whichshe would have spoken to Max had she notbeen warned by her father's word andlook that the story was "irrelevant."

If Sanda had tried to tell the tale of that"romance" at which she had hinted in theSalle d'Honneur, she would have had tobegin far back in time when, after hiswife's death, Georges DeLisle had by his

own request been transferred to theLegion. His first big fight had been inhelping the Agha of Djazerta against a raidof Touaregs, the veiled men of the South,brigands then and always. Since thosedays, DeLisle and Ben Râana, the greatdesert chief, had been friends. More thanonce they had given each other aid andcounsel. When Ben Râana came north withother Caids, bidden to the Governor's ballin Algiers, he paid DeLisle a visit. Eachyear at the season of date-gathering he sentthe colonel of the Legion a present of thehoney-sweet, amber-clear fruit for whichthe oasis of Djazerta was famous; and theofficer sent to the Agha a parcel of Frenchbooks, or some new invention in the shapeof a clock, such as Arabs love. Now hewas sending his daughter.

The way of it was this: just before Sanda'ssurprise arrival, the Agha of Djazerta,chief of the Ouled-Mendil, had written aconfidential letter to Colonel DeLisle. Hehad a young daughter whom he adored.Foolishly (he began to think) he had lether learn French, and allowed her to readFrench novels. These books had made thegirl discontented with her cloistered life.Being the only child, and always ratherdelicate, perhaps she had been too muchspoiled. Greater freedom than she hadcould not be granted; but seeing her sadBen Râana had asked himself what hecould do for her happiness. Before longshe would marry, of course; but it hadoccurred to him that meanwhile it might bewell if a companion could be found whowould be a safe friend for a girl of

Ourïeda's position and religion. DidColonel DeLisle know of any younggentlewoman, English or French, whowould be willing to come to Djazerta?She must be educated and accomplished,but above all trustworthy; one who wouldnot try to make Ourïeda wish for a life thatcould never be hers: one who would notattempt to unsettle the child's religiousbeliefs. In writing this letter Ben Râanahad shown a naïf sort of conceit in hisown broad-mindedness, which wouldhave been rather comic if it had not beenpathetic. But to DeLisle it was onlypathetic, because, European though hewas, he knew the hidden romance of theAgha's life: his worship of a beautifulSpanish wife who had died years ago, andfor love of whom he had vowed never to

take into his harem any other woman,although he had no son. His nearest malerelative was a nephew, to whom DeLisleimagined that some day Ourïeda would bemarried, though the young man was atleast a dozen years older than she.

When the letter came, Colonel DeLisleknew of no such person as Ben Râanaasked for; but he had not answered yetwhen Sanda unexpectedly appeared.Hardly had he recovered from the firstshock of his surprise when he rememberedthe great march soon to be undertaken—amarch ostensibly for maneuvers, but inreality to punish a band of desert raiders,and later, men of the Legion were to beginthe laying of a new road in the far south,even beyond Djazerta. There would be no

long rest for the colonel of the FirstRegiment for many months, consequentlyhe would be unable to keep Sanda withhim. She did not want to go back to Franceor Ireland, so she was told about the Aghaof Djazerta and the sixteen-year-old girl,Ourïeda, whose Arab name meant "LittleRose."

Next to staying at the headquarters of theForeign Legion with its colonel, Sandaliked the idea of going into the desert andliving for a while the life of an Arabwoman with the daughter of a great chiefof the south. The more she thought of it,the more it appealed to her. Besides, whenher father pointed out Djazerta on the map,and not more than twenty kilometres awaythe douar, or tribal encampment under the

rule of Ben Râana, she noticed that theyseemed to be scarcely a hundredkilometres distant from Touggourt.Probably Richard Stanton would bespending many days or even weeks atTouggourt before he set off across vastdesert spaces searching for the Lost Oasis.So the girl said to Colonel DeLisle that,since she could not at present stay withhim, she would like beyond everythingelse such a romantic adventure as a visitto the Agha's house.

The one objection was that, if she went atall, she must start at once, because therewas at the moment a great chance for herto travel well chaperoned. A captain ofthe Chasseurs d'Afrique had just beenordered from Sidi-bel-Abbés to

Touggourt, and was leaving at once withhis wife. They could take Sanda withthem: and at Touggourt Ben Râana wouldhave his friend's daughter met by an escortand several women servants. It was anopportunity not to miss; though otherwiseColonel DeLisle might have kept the girlwith him for a fortnight longer.

Sanda would have liked to bid Max good-bye, or if that were not possible, to writehim a letter. But DeLisle said it "wouldnot do." Not that the newly enlistedsoldier would misunderstand: but—hewould realize why he heard nothing morefrom his colonel's daughter. She need notfear that he would be hurt. So Sanda couldsend only a thought message to her friend,and perhaps it reached him in a dream, for

the night of her departure—knowingnothing of it—he was back again in thedim cabin of the General Morel gazingthrough the dusk at a long, swinging plaitof gold-brown hair.

Sanda, with Captain Amaranthe and hiswife, travelled to Oran, thence to Biskra,and from Biskra on the newly finishedrailway line to Touggourt. It was therethat, twenty-two years ago, the beautifulIrish girl who had run away from home toher soldier lover, joined Georges DeLisleand married him. Sanda thought of that,and thought again also that in a few monthsmore Richard Stanton would come toTouggourt for the getting together of hiscaravan. These two thoughts transformedthe wild desert town with its palms, and

tombs of murdered sultans, and its frameof golden dunes into a magical city ofromance. She felt that some great thingought to happen to her there. It was notenough that Touggourt should give her afirst glimpse of the true Sahara. Shewanted it to give her more. Nor was itenough that she should be met there by anescort of Bedouins with a chief's nephewat their head, and negro women to be herservants, and a white camel of purestbreed for her to ride, she being hiddenlike an Arab princess in a red-curtainedbassourah. All this was wonderful, andthrilling as an Eastern story of the MiddleAges; but it meant nothing to her heart.And something deep down in her expectedmore of Touggourt even than this. She toldherself that a place with such associations

owed more to a child of Georges DeLisleand Sanda De Lisle; and even when sheand her cavalcade started away from thegreat oasis city, winding southward amongthe dunes, she still had the conviction thatsome day, before very long, Touggourtwould pay its debt.

Ben Râana had done what he could tohonour Colonel DeLisle through hisdaughter. He had sent a fine caravan tofetch the girl to Djazerta, and according tothe ideas of desert travellers, no luxurywas lacking for her comfort. His half-sister's son, Sidi Tahar Ben Hadj, hadunder him some of the best men of theAgha's goum, and there were a pair ofgiant, ink-black eunuchs to guard the guestand her two negresses. Silky-soft rugs

from Persia lined her bassourah on theside where she would sit, the balancebeing kept on the other by her luggagewrapped in bundles; and the whole wascurtained with sumptuous djerbi, stripedin rainbow tints. Over the djerbi, toprotect her from the sun, or wind andblowing sand, were hung heavy rugs madeby the women of the Djebel Amourmountains, the red and blue foldsornamented by long strands and woollentassels of kaleidoscopic colours. Sanda'scamel (like that of Ben Hadj and the onewhich carried the two negresses) was amehari, an animal of race, as superior toordinary beasts of burden as an eagle isnobler than a domestic fowl. There was amusician among the camel-drivers, chosenespecially—so said Ben Hadj—because

he knew and could sing a hundred famoussongs of love and war. Also he wasmaster of the Arab flute, and the räita,"Muezzin of Satan," strange instrument ofthe wicked voice that can cry down allother voices.

Lest the men should misunderstand andthink lightly of the Agha's guest, hisnephew did not look upon Sanda's faceafter the hour of meeting her at Touggourt,in the presence of her friends, until he hadbrought the girl to his uncle's house, threedays later. She was waited upon only bythe women and the two black giants whorode behind the white camels: andaltogether Sidi Tahar Ben Hadj was in hisactions an example of that Arab chivalryabout which Sanda had read. Nevertheless

she was not able to like him.

For one thing, though he had a fine bearingand a good enough figure (so far as shecould tell in his flowing robes andburnous), in looks he was no hero ofromance, but a disappointingly ugly man.Ourïeda, the Agha's daughter, was onlysixteen, and Tahar was supposed to be nomore than a dozen years her elder, but heappeared nearer forty than twenty-eight.He had suffered from smallpox, which hadmarred his large features and destroyedthe sight of one eye. It had turned whiteand looked, thought Sanda, like the eye ofa boiled fish. He wore a short black beardthat, although thick, showed the shape of aheavy jaw; and his wide-open, quiveringnostrils gave him the look of a bad-

tempered horse. Although he could speakFrench, he seemed to the girl singularlyalien and remote. Sanda wondered if hehad a wife, or wives, and pitied any Arabwoman unfortunate enough to be shut up inhis harem.

On the third morning the great dunes wereleft behind, and the bassourahs no longerswayed like towers in a rotary earthquakewith the movements of the camels. Faraway across a flat expanse of golden sand,silvered by saltpetre, a long, low cloud—blue-green as a peacock's tail—trailed onthe horizon. It was the oasis of Djazerta,with its thousands of date palms.

At first the vision seemed to float behind aveil of sparkling gauze, unreal as amirage; but toward noon it brightened and

sharpened in outline, until at last the talltrees took individual form, bunches ofunripe dates beneath their spread fan ofplumes hanging down like immenseyellow fists at the end of limp, thin armscased in orange-coloured gloves.

There was a chott, or dried desert lake,glistening white and livid blue, full ofghostly reflections, to cross; but once onthe other side all the poetic romance offairy gardens and magic mirrors vanished.The vast oasis rose out of earthy sand andcracked mud; and the houses piledtogether beyond it were no longer cubes ofmolten gold, but squalid, primitivebuildings of sun-dried brick crowdingeach other for shade and protection, theironly beauty in general effect and bizarre

outline.

"Am I to live in one of those mud hovels?"Sanda wondered. She was notdisheartened even by this thought, for thenovelty of the whole experience had keyedher up to enjoy any adventure; still it wasa relief to go swaying past the huddledtown, and to stop before a high, white-washed wall with a small tower on eachside of a great gate. Over the top of thewall Sanda could see the flat roof of alarge, low house, not yellow like theothers, but pearly white as the two orthree minarets that gleamed above thefringe of palms.

Somebody must have been watching fromone of the squat towers by the gate—eachof which had a loophole-window looking

out over the caravan way—for evenbefore the head man of the cavalcadecould reach the shut portals of faded graypalm-wood, both gates were thrown open,and a dozen men in white rushed out. Theyuttered shouts of joy at sight of Sidi TaharBen Hadj, as though he had been absentfor months instead of a few days, andsome of the oldest brown faces bent tokiss his shoulders or elbows.

Sanda saw a bare courtyard paved onlywith hard-packed, yellow sand; and thelong front of the house with its few smallwindows looked unsympathetic andunattractive. The girl felt disappointed.She had imagined a picturesque house, asort of "Kubla Khan" palace in the desert;and she had expected that perhaps Ourïeda

and her father, the Agha, would comeceremoniously out through a vast archeddoorway to welcome her. But here therewas not even the arched entrance of herfancy, only two small doors set as far aspossible from one another in the blankfaçade. Sanda's mehari was led in front ofthe eastern door, which was pulled ajar ina secretive way. One of the big negroeshelped her out of the bassourah as usual,when he had forced the white camel to itsknees; and to her surprise the other blackman made of his long white burnous a kindof screen behind which she might passwithout being seen. The women servants—already out of their bassourah—camehurrying along to join her, silver braceletsa-jingle, chattering encouragement inArab, scarcely a word of which could

Sanda understand.

Inside the house was a queer kind ofvestibule, evidently intended for defence,with a jutting screen of wall behind thedoor, and then a passage with a sharp turnin it, and seats along the sides. A very old,withered negro let them in; and still itseemed to the girl an unfriendly greetingfor her father's daughter, one who hadcome so far. But in a minute more shegave a little cry of pleasure, and suddenlyunderstood the mystery. This part of thehouse was the harem, secret and sacred tothe women, since the very meaning of theword "harem" is "hidden."

She had been ushered through a long, dimcorridor, with a sheen of pink and purpletiles halfway up the white wall to the dark

wood of a roughly carved ceiling, andinstead of coming into a room at the end,she walked unexpectedly into a largefountain court, bright with the crystalbrightness of spraying water and thecolour of flowers, shaded with orangetrees whose blossoms poured out perfume.

Perhaps it was not such a wonderful placereally, for the house walls were only ofsun-dried sand-brick, white-washed tillthey gleamed like snow in sunlight; andthe wooden balustrades of the narrowbalcony that jutted out from the upperstory were but roughly carved in stars andcrescents, and painted brown to representcedarwood. Yet it was a picture. The stemof the octagonal tiled fountain was oftime-worn, creamy marble; the white

house was draped with cascades ofwistaria, and pale pink bougainvillea;underneath the shadow of the overhangingbalcony ran wall-seats covered andbacked with charming old tiles of blue andwhite "ribbon" design; on them werespread white woollen, black-striped rugsdelicately woven by Kabyle women;Tuareg cushions of stamped leather, andpillows of brilliant purple and goldbrocade silk. Though no grass carpetedthe earthy sand, there were beds ofgorgeous flowers under the orange andmagnolia trees that patterned the yellowsand with lacy shadow, and a girl like anArabian Nights' princess stopped feedinga tame gazelle and a troop of doves, tocome forward shyly at sight of Sanda. Shewas the soul of the picture for the moment.

Sanda did not even see that there wereother women in it. Nothing counted exceptthe girl. Everything else was a merebackground or a frame.

There was but a second of silence beforewords came to either, yet that instantimpressed upon Sanda so sharply, soclearly, every detail of Ourïeda's fantasticbeauty, that if she had never seen the girlagain, she could by closing her eyes havecalled up the vision.

The oval face was so fair and purelychiselled that it seemed Greek rather thanArab. The golden-brown eyes were largeand full of dazzling light as the sunstreamed into them under the curve of theirheavy black lashes. But though they werebright they were very sad, keeping their

infinite melancholy while the red lipssmiled—the sad, far-off gaze of a desertcreature caged. So long were the lashesthat they curled up almost to the low-drawn brows which drooped toward thetemples; and that droop of the eyebrows,with the peculiar fineness of the aquilinenose and the downward curve of the veryshort upper lip, gave a fatal and tragiclook to the ivory face framed in dark hair.On either side its delicate oval fell a thickbrown braid, not black, but with a glint ofred where the light struck; and thoughOurïeda's hair was not so long as Sanda's,the two plaits lying over the shoulders andfollowing the line of the young bust fellbelow the waist. The girl wore a looserobe of coral-red silk, low in the neck,and belted in with a soft, violet-coloured

sash. Over this dress was a gandourah ofgolden gauze with rose and purple glintsin its woof; and a stiff, gold scarf waswound loosely round the dark head. Thecolours blazed like flaming jewels in theAfrican sunshine. As the Agha's daughtermoved forward smiling her sad littlesmile, there came with her a waft ofperfume like the fragrance of lilies; andthe tinkling of bracelets on slender wrists,the clash of anklets on silk-clad ankles,was like a musical accompaniment, afaintly played leit motif. Perhaps Ourïedahad dressed herself in all she had that wasmost beautiful in honour of her guest.

As usual, Sanda forgot herself with thefirst thrill of excitement. In her admirationshe did not realize that the other girl was

self-conscious, a little frightened, a littleanxious, and even distrustful. It wouldhave seemed incredible to Sanda DeLislethat any one on earth, even an inmate of aharem, could possibly be afraid of her.

She held out both hands impulsively,exclaiming in French: "Oh, are youOurïeda? But you are beautiful as aprincess in a fairy story. You are worthcoming all this long way to see!"

Then the Arab girl's smile changed, andfor an instant was radiant, unclouded byany thought of sadness. She took Sanda'slittle gloved hands, and, pressing themaffectionately, bent forward to kiss herguest on both cheeks. Her lips were softand cool as flower petals, though the daywas hot, and the scent of lilies swept over

Sanda in a fragrant wave. As she kissedthe stranger, Ourïeda made little birdlikesucking sounds, in the fashion of Arabwomen when they would show honour to afavoured friend. First she kissed Sanda'sright cheek, the right side of the bodybeing nobler because the White Angelwalks always on the right, jotting down inhis book every good deed done; then shekissed the left cheek, since it is at the leftside of man or woman that the wickedBlack Angel stalks, tempting to evil acts,and hastily recording them before they canbe repented.

"Why, you are as young as I am, and whiteand gold as the little young moon, andvery, very sweet, like honey!" cried thegirl, in French as good as Sanda's, though

with the throaty, thrushlike notes thatSpaniards and Arabs put into everylanguage. "I am glad, oh, really glad, thatyou have come to be with me! Now I seeyou I know I was foolish to be afraid."

Sanda laughed as they stood holding eachother's hands and looking into each other'seyes. "Afraid of me?" she echoed. "Oh,you couldn't have been afraid of me!"

"But I was," said Ourïeda. "I was afraiduntil this minute."

"Why?" asked Sanda. "Did you fancy Imight be big and old and cross, perhapswith stick-out teeth and spectacles, likeEnglishwomen in French caricatures?"

Ourïeda shook her head, still gazing at her

guest as if she would read the soul whoseexperiences had been so different from herown. "No, I have never seen any Frenchcaricatures," she answered. "I hardlyknow what they are. And I did not thinkyou would be old, because the Agha, myfather, told me you were but a baby whenhe first knew your father, the ColonelDeLisle. Still, I did not understand thatyou would look as young as I do, or thatyou would have a face like a whiteflower, and eyes with truth shining inthem, as our wise women say it shines uplike a star out of darkness from the bottomof a well."

"In my country they say the very samething about truth and a well," returnedSanda, blushing faintly under the oddly

compelling gaze of the sad young eyes."But do tell me why you felt afraid, if youdidn't think I should be old anddisagreeable?"

Suddenly the other's face changed. Aqueer look of extraordinary eagerness,almost of slyness, transformed it, chasingaway something of its soft beauty. "Hush!"she said, "we can't talk of such thingsnow. Some time soon, perhaps! I forgotwe were not alone. I must introduce you tomy Aunt Mabrouka, my father's widowedhalf-sister, who"—and her voice hardened—"is like a second mother to me."

She stepped back, and an elderly woman,who had stood in the background awaitingher turn (though far from humbly, to judgeby the flashing of her eyes), moved

forward to welcome the Roumia—theforeigner.

Then for the first time Sanda realized thatOurïeda, the soul of the picture, was notthe only human figure in it besides herself.Lella[1] Mabrouka was a personality, too,and if she had been a woman of someprogressive country, marching with thetimes, most probably she would have beenamong the Suffragists. She would havemade a handsome man, and indeed lookedrather like a stout, short man of middleage, disguised as an inmate of his ownharem. She was dressed in white, Arabmourning, considered unlucky for womenwho have not lost some relative by death,and her square, wrinkled face, the colourof bronze, was dark and harsh in contrast.

If she had not been partly screened by agreat flowering pomegranate bush as shesat in her white dress against the whitehouse wall, Sanda would have seen her onentering the court; but it was hopeless totry and appease the lady's scarcely stifledvexation with apologies or explanations.Lella Mabrouka, being of an oldergeneration, had not troubled to learnFrench, and could understand only a fewwords which her naturally quick mind hadassorted in hearing the Agha talk with hisdaughter. Ourïeda acted as interpreter forthe politeness of her aunt and guest, butSanda could not help realizing that all wasnot well between the two. A tall oldnegress (introduced by the girl as abeloved nurse), a woman of haggard yetnoble face, stood dutifully behind Lella

Mabrouka, but stabbed the broad whiteback with keen, suspicious glances thatsoftened into love as her great eyes turnedto the "Little Rose."

Lella, lady.

Honey could be no sweeter than the wordsof welcome translated by Ourïeda, andwhen Sanda's answers had been put intoArabic, Lella Mabrouka received themgraciously. Soon aunt and niece andservant were all chattering and smiling,offering coffee and fruit, and assuring theRoumia that her host was eagerly awaitingpermission to meet her. Yet Sanda couldnot rid herself of the impression that somehidden drama was being secretly playedin this fountain court of sunshine andflowers.

CHAPTER XIVTWO ON THE ROOF

"Come up on the roof with me, and I willtell you that thing I have been waiting totell you," said Ourïeda. "Aunt Mabroukawill not follow us there, because she hatesgoing up the narrow stairs with the highsteps. Besides, she will perhaps think Ireally want to show you the sunset."

Sanda had been in the Agha's house forthree days, and always since the firstevening a fierce simoon had been hurlingthe hot sand against the shut windows likespray from a wild golden sea. It had not

been possible to sit in the fountain court ofthe harem, the hidden garden of thewomen, protected though it was by fourhigh walls. Sanda and Ourïeda hadscarcely been alone together for more thana few minutes at a time, and even if theyhad been, Ourïeda would not have spoken.As she said, she had been waiting. Sandahad felt, during the three days, that shewas being watched and studied, not onlyby Lella Mabrouka, but by the girl. Theireyes were always on her; and thoughSanda DeLisle was very young, and hadnever tried consciously to become astudent of human character, it seemed toher, in these new and strange conditions oflife which sharpened her powers ofdiscernment, that she could dimly readwhat the brains behind the eyes were

thinking.

Lella Mabrouka's eyes, though old (as ageis counted with Arab women) werebeady-bright and keen as a hawk's, yet shewas clever enough to veil thought bywearing the expressionless mask of anidol in the presence of the girls. Sanda hadto pierce that veil; and she felt as if frombehind it a hostile thing peered out, spyingfor treachery in the new inmate of thehouse, hoping rather than fearing to find it,and ready to pounce if a chance came. Thestealthy watcher seemed to be saying,"What are you here for, daughter ofChristian dogs? You must have somescheme in your head to defeat our hopesand wishes; but if you have, I'll find outwhat it is, and break it—break you, too, if

need be."

No sinister thing looked out from the eyesof Ourïeda, but something infinitely sadand wistful kept repeating: "Can I trustyou? Oh, I think so, I believe so, more andmore. But it is so desperately important tobe certain. I must wait a little while yet."

Always, through the countless inquiries ofLella Mabrouka and the girl about Franceand England (Ireland meant nothing tothem) and Sanda's bringing up, and the lifeof women in Europe, the visitor wasconscious of the real questions in theirsouls. But on the third day the feverishanxiety had burnt itself out behindOurïeda's topaz-brown eyes. They wereeager still, but clear, and her wistful smilewas no longer strained. Whatever the

burden was that she hid, she had decidedto beg Sanda's help in carrying or gettingrid of it. And instinctively realizing this,Sanda ceased to feel that the Arab girlwas of an entirely different world fromhers, remote as a creature of anotherplanet. The Agha's daughter wastransformed in the eyes of her guest. Froma mere picturesque figure in a vivid fairytale, she became pathetically, poignantlyhuman. Sanda began to hear the call ofanother soul yearning to have her soul asits friend, and all that was warm andimpulsive in her responded. A thrill ofexpectation stirred in her veins when, onthe evening of the third day, after the windhad died a sudden, swift death, Ourïedawhispered the real reason for going up tothe roof.

Sanda had been looking forward tomounting those narrow stairs (with thesteep steps which Lella Mabrouka hated),because Ourïeda had several times spokenof the view far away to the dunes, and thewonderful colours of sunrise and sunset,when the sky flowered like a hanginggarden. Perhaps the Arab girl had beencleverly "working up" to this moment, sothat the suggestion, made instantly after thedeath of the simoon, might seem natural toher aunt. In any case it was as Ourïeda hadhoped. Lella Mabrouka did not follow thegirls.

When they came out on the flat whiteexpanse of roof, Sanda gave a cry ofsurprised admiration. She had known itwould be beautiful up there, to see so far

over the desert, but the real picture wasmore wonderful than her imaginationcould have painted. The sun had justdropped behind the waving line of dunesand dragged the fierce wind with him likea tiger in leash. All the world wasmagically still after the constant purringand roaring of the new-conquered beast.The voice of the Muezzin chanting thesunset call to prayer—the prayer ofMoghreb—seemed only to emphasize thevast silence. Up from the shimmering goldof the western sky, behind the gold of thedunes, slowly moved along separatespears of flame-bright rose, like thefingers of a gigantic Hand of Fatma spreadacross the sapphire heaven to bless herfather's people. From this flaming sign inthe west poured a pink radiance as of

falling rubies. The wonderful light rainedover the marble whiteness of the distantmosque—the great mosque of Djazerta—and fired the whole mass of the piledoasis-town behind its dark line of palms.The light showered roses over the girls'heads and dresses, stained the snow of theroof, with its low, bubbling domes, andstreaming eastward turned flat plain andfar billowing dune into a sea of flame.

Sanda's spirit worshipped the incrediblebeauty of the scene, and then flewnorthward to the two men whom sheloved. She thought of her father, andwondered where Richard Stanton was atthat moment. Then Max Doran's face camebetween her and the man she had named"Sir Knight." She remembered her dream

of herself and Max in the desert, and wasvexed because she had not dreamed thesame dream about Stanton instead.

"How wonderful it is here!" she halfwhispered, and Ourïeda answeredimpatiently:

"Yes, it is wonderful; but don't let us talkof it, or even think of it any more, becauseI have so much to say to you, and AuntMabrouka will send to call us if my fathercomes. Besides, we can see this on anynight when the wind does not blow."

She had in her hand a large silkhandkerchief tied in the form of a bag; andsitting down on the low, queerlybattlemented wall which protected the flatroof, she untied and opened the bundle on

her lap. It was full of yellow grain, andshe gave Sanda a handful. "That's for thedoves," she said. "They will knowsomehow that we are here, and presentlythey will come. If Aunt Mabrouka sendsher own woman, Taous, up to listen andspy on us she will find us feeding thedoves."

"But why should Lella Mabrouka do sucha thing?" Sanda ventured to ask, taking thegrain, and seating herself beside Ourïeda.

"You will understand that, and a greatmany other things, when I have told youwhat I am going to tell," answered the"Little Rose." "From books my father haslet me read, and from things you havesaid, I have seen that Roumia girls are notlike us, even in their thoughts. Perhaps you

are thinking now that I am very sly; and soI am, but not because I love slyness. It isonly because I have to be subtle in self-defence against those who are older andwiser than I am. Everything in our livesmakes us women stealthy as cats. It is notour fault. At least, it is not mine. Somewomen—some girls—may enjoy theexcitement, but not I. Perhaps I amdifferent from others, because I have theblood of Europe in my veins. My father'smother was Sicilian. My own mother wasSpanish. And he, my father, is anenlightened man, with broader views andmore knowledge of the world than mostCaids of the south. They all pridethemselves on knowing a little French inthese days, he tells me, and some haveeven made visits to Paris once in their

lives. But you know already what he is."

"Yes, he is a magnificent man," Sandaagreed, "even greater than I expected fromwhat my father said of him."

She had met the Agha only once, for aceremonious half-hour on the evening ofher arrival at his house, when he hadbegged permission as of a visitingprincess to see and welcome her; yet thispunctiliousness was not neglect, but Arabcourtesy; and Ben Râana had talked to herof the world in general and Paris inparticular, in French, which, thoughsomewhat stilted and guttural, wascuriously Parisian in wording andexpression. He was one of the handsomestmen she had ever seen, scarcely darker incolour than many Frenchmen of the Midi,

and marvellously dignified, with his longblack beard, his great, sad eyes whoseoverhanging line of brow almost metabove the eagle nose, and the magnificentgray, silver embroidered burnous worn inthe guest's honour. He had appeared toSanda years younger than the widowedMabrouka; and though she was a dark,withered likeness of him, it was notsurprising to learn that Lella Mabroukawas only a half-sister of the Agha, born ofan Arab mother.

"You know he has had but one wife, myown mother," Ourïeda said proudly. "Thatis considered almost a sin in our religion,yet he could never bring himself to lookwith love on any woman, after her, nor togive her a rival, even for the sake of

having a son. I adore him for that—howcould I help it, since he says I am herimage?—and for letting me learn thingsArab girls of the south are seldom taught,in order that I may have something of hercleverness that held his love, as herbeauty won it. Yet, if he had married asecond wife when my mother died, andshe had given him a son, my life would behappier now."

"How can that be?" asked Sanda. "Icouldn't love my father in the way I do ifhe had put somebody else in my mother'splace, and spoiled all the beautifulromance."

"My father's romance with my mother waslike a strange poem, for she was thedaughter of Catholic Spanish people, who

had an orange plantation near Blida, andwished her to enter a convent. But myfather rode by with some French officersand saw her on her way to church. Thatone look decided their whole lives. Yes,it would have been a pity to spoil theirromance; yet, keeping its poetry isspoiling mine."

"You mean your Aunt Mabrouka. But astepmother might be worse."

"No, it isn't only Aunt Mabrouka I amthinking of. It is her son, who is myfather's heir because he has no son of hisown. My father is very enlightened inmany ways, but in others he is as narrowand hard as the rest of our people, whohold to their old customs more firmly thanthey hold to life. My father intends me for

the wife of Si Tahar, who met and broughtyou to our house."

Sanda could not keep back a little gasp ofdismay. "Oh, no! it's not possible!" shecried. "You're so beautiful, and so fair.He's so—so——"

"Hideous. Don't be afraid to say the wordto me. I love you for it. But becauseTahar's not deformed from birth, and thestrength and beauty of the line isn'tthreatened, his looks make no differenceto my father. To him it seems far moreimportant that I should be the wife of theheir, so that money and land need not bedivided after his death, than that I shouldlove my husband before my marriage. Yousee, that can hardly ever happen to a girlof our race and religion. If Tahar were not

my cousin I should never even have seenhim, nor he me. And if I had not seen him,it would perhaps be a little better, forthere would be the excitement and mysteryof the unknown. We are brought up toexpect that; and if already I hadn't learnedto dislike Tahar for his own sake and hismother's, I should be no worse off thanother girls—except for one thing: thegreat thing of my life."

Her voice fell lower than before, and hercompanion on the wall had to bend closeto catch the whisper. "What is that thing?"Sanda dropped the words into a frightenedpause, while Ourïeda's glance wentquickly to the well of the staircase.

"It is what I came here to tell you about,"the Arab girl answered. "I forced myself

to wait, but now I am sure of you as if youwere my own sister. We are going to openour hearts to each other. Do you knowwhat it is to have a man in your life—aman who is not father or brother, and yetis of great importance to you; so great thatyou think of him by day and dream of himby night?"

"Yes, there are two such men in my life,"Sanda replied; and was surprised atherself that she should have said two.More truly there was only one man, notcounting her father, who had a place in herthoughts.

"Two men!" Ourïeda echoed, lookingshocked. "But how can there be two?"

Sanda felt herself blushing and ashamed

before the woman of another race. Shetried to explain, though it was difficult,because she had given the answer withoutstopping to think: indeed, it had almostspoken itself. "I fancy I said that becauseyou asked me about dreams," sheapologized. "The man who has been myhero all my life—and always will be, Isuppose, though he doesn't care for me andthinks of me as a child—I can't dream of,for some strange reason. He's seldom outof my thoughts by day for very long, Ibelieve; but the other—I hardly know whyI mentioned him!—is only a friend, andquite a new friend. He's nothing to me atall, really, though I'm interested in himbecause of the strange way we met andwere thrown together. But the odd thing is,I dream of him—often."

"The women of my people say it is theman you dream of who has touched yoursoul," Ourïeda said thoughtfully.

"That's a very poetical idea, but I'm sure itisn't true!" Sanda exclaimed. "Now tell meabout yourself, because if Lella Mabroukashould send——"

"Yes, I am, oh, so anxious to tell you! Butwhat you said about the man of yourthoughts and the man of your dreams wasvery queer, and made me forget for aninstant. I am glad you love some one, forthat will help you to understand me, andby and by you will tell me more. Already Ican see that you must be almost asunhappy as I am, because you say the oneyou care for doesn't care for you. Thatmust be terrible, but you are free, and

perhaps some day you can make him care.As for me, if I am not saved soon, I shallbe married to Tahar and lost forever."

"But surely your father, who loves you sodearly, won't actually force you to marryagainst your will?"

"He will expect me to obey, and I shallhave to obey or—kill myself. Rather that,only—oh, Sanda, I am a coward! At thelast minute my courage might fail. The onething my father would promise was that Ishould be left as I am till my seventeenthbirthday. That very day is fixed for thebeginning of the marriage feast. We shallhave a whole week of rejoicing. Think ofthe horror of it for me! I had a year ofhope when he made the promise. Now Ihave less than six months. And in all that

time nothing has happened."

Sanda saw by the girl's look and guessedby the quiver of her voice that she was notspeaking vaguely. There was something inparticular which she had been praying for,counting upon from day to day. And thatthing had not happened.

CHAPTER XVTHE SECRET LINK

The Hand of Fatma was gone from the sky.Ruby had turned to amethyst, amethyst tothe gray-blue of star sapphire, and the redfire of the dunes had burned out to anashen pallor. The change had comesuddenly while the girls talked; and whenSanda realized it, she shivered a little,with a touch of superstition she hadlearned from her two Irish aunts. All thiscold whiteness after the jewelled blaze ofcolour was like the death of youth andhope. She pushed the thought away hastily,telling herself it had come only because

Ourïeda had threatened to put an end toher own life rather than marry Tahar; yet itwould not go far away. Like a vaguelyvisible, ghostly shape it seemed to standbehind the Arab girl as she talked on,telling the story of her childhood and alove that had grown with her growth.

There was another cousin, it appeared, theson of her mother's sister. He was allSpanish. There was not a drop of Arabblood in his veins, unless it came throughSaracen ancestors in the days whenMoorish kings reigned over Andalusia.

"You know, now you've been with us eventhese few days," Ourïeda said, "that theharem of an Arab Caïd isn't a nest ofwives, as people in Europe who havenever seen one suppose! My father has

laughed when he told me Christiansbelieved that. Now, Aunt Mabrouka and Iand our servants are the only women in myfather's harem; but when I was a little girl,before my mother died—I can justremember her—besides my mother herselfthere was her sister, whose Spanishhusband had been drowned at sea. AnArab man thinks it a disgrace if anywomen related even distantly to him or hiswife are thrown on the world to maketheir own living. It could never happenwith an Arab woman if she wererespectable. And even though my mother'ssister was Spanish and a Christian, myfather offered her and her boy a home.Already his own sister, Aunt Mabrouka,had come to stay with us, and had broughther son Tahar. Neither of the boys lived in

the harem of course, for they were oldenough to be in the men's part of the house,and have men for their servants; but theycame every day to see their mothers. Eventhen, though I was a tiny child, I hatedTahar—and loved Manöel Valdez. Taharhad had smallpox, and looked just as helooks now, only worse, because he has abad chin that his beard hides; and Manöelwas handsome. Oh, you can't imagine howhandsome Manöel was! He was like theideal all girls, even Arab girls, mustdream of, I think. I can see him now—asplainly as I see you in this sad, pale lightthat comes up from the desert at night."

"Is it long since you parted?" Sanda askedquickly, to put away that persistent thoughtof trouble.

"We parted more than once, because whenour two mothers died, one after another, ofthe same sickness—typhoid fever—Manöel was sent away to school. He'snine years older than I am—twenty-fivenow; a little more than three years youngerthan Tahar. My father sent him to theuniversity in Algiers, because, you see, hewas Christian—or, rather, he was nothingat all then; he had not settled to any belief.Tahar was like Aunt Mabrouka, veryreligious, and did not care much to study,except the Koran and a little French. Hewent once to Paris, but he didn't stay long.He said he was homesick. Oh, he is cleverin his way! He has known how to makehimself necessary to my father."

"And Manöel Valdez?" asked Sanda.

"My father loved him when he was a boy,because he was of the same blood as mymother. Although Aunt Mabrouka wasjealous even then—for she ruled in thehouse after my mother's death—shecouldn't prejudice my father's mind againstManöel, hard as she tried. Manöel wasfree to come here when he liked, for hisholidays, or to the douar if we were there;and he loved life under the great tent. Hehad a wonderful voice, and he could singour Arab songs as no one else ever could.Father wished him to be a lawyer, andgave money for his education, because weArabs often need lawyers who understandus. But Manöel cared more for music thananything else—except for me. When I waseight and he was seventeen I told him Imeant to marry him when I grew up, and

he said he would wait for me. I supposehe was only joking then; but the thought ofhim and the love of him in my heart mademe begin to grow into a woman soonerthan if I had had only the thoughts of achild. It was like the sun opening a flowerbud. When he was away I felt hardlyalive. When he came back from Spain toour house or to our tent in the douar Ilived—lived every minute! It was threeyears ago, when I was thirteen, that hebegan to love me as a woman. I shallnever forget the day he told me! I was nothadjaba yet. Do you know what thatmeans? I was considered to be a childstill, and I could go out with my aunt to thebaths, or with one of our servants,unveiled. I was not shut up in the house asI am now. But in my heart I was a woman,

because of Manöel. And when he camehome after nearly a year in Seville andother parts of Spain he felt and saw thedifference in me. We were in the douar,and life was free and beautiful. For threemonths Manöel and I kept our secret. Hesaid he would do anything to have me forhis wife. He would even becomeMohammedan, since religion meant littleto him, and love everything. He had nomoney of his own, but he had been toldthat he could make a fortune with hisvoice, singing in opera, and he had beentaking lessons without telling my father. AFrenchman—is "impresario" the rightword?—was having his voice trained, andby and by Manöel would pay him back outof his earnings. We used to call ourselves"engaged," as girls and men in Europe are

engaged to each other in secret. But oneday, soon after my thirteenth birthday,Aunt Mabrouka, who must have begun tosuspect and spy on us, overheard ustalking. She told my father. At first hewouldn't believe her, but he surprised meinto confessing. I should never have beenso stupid, only, from what he said, Ithought he already knew everything. Afterall, it was so little! Just words of love,and some dear kisses! He suspected therewas more; and if I hadn't made himunderstand, he might have killed Manöel,and me, too. But even as it was, my fatherand Aunt Mabrouka hurried me from thedouar in the night, before Manöel knewthat anything had happened. I was broughthere; and never since have I been outsidethis garden without a veil. It was months

before I went out at all. And Manöel wassent away, cursed by my father foringratitude and treachery, warned never tocome again near Djazerta or the douar aslong as he lived, unless he wished for mydeath as well as his."

"Have you never seen him since?" Sandaasked, her heart beating fast with the rushof the story as Ourïeda had told it.

"Yes, he has seen me, and I have seen him.But we have not spoken, except in letters.For a whole year I heard nothing. Yet Inever lost faith. I seemed to feel Manöelthinking of me, calling me, far awayacross the desert. I knew that we shouldmeet in life or death. At last, one Fridaytwo years ago—Friday, you know, is thewomen's day for visiting the graves of

loved ones—I saw Manöel. He wasdressed like a beggar. His face wasstained dark brown, and nearly hidden bythe hood of a ragged burnous. But Irecognized the eyes. They looked intomine. I realized that he must have beenwaiting for me to pass with AuntMabrouka. He knew of course thatwhenever possible we went on Friday tothe cemetery. I almost fainted with joy; butAllah gave me presence of mind, andstrength to hide my feelings. You havenoticed how sharp Aunt Mabrouka is. It'sthe great ambition of her life to see thedaughter of the Agha married to her son.Never for one moment has she trusted mesince she spied out the truth about Manöel.That Friday, though, I thwarted her. Oh, itwas good to know that Manöel was near! I

hardly dared to hope for more than justseeing him; but he remembered that my oldnurse had a grandson in my father's goum,a fine rider, who first taught him—Manöel—to sit on a horse. Through my nurse andAli ben Sliman I got letters from Manöel.He told me he had begun to sing in opera,and that if I would wait for him two—orat most three—years, he would haveenough money saved to give me a life inEurope worthy of a prince's daughter, suchas I am. He would organize some plan tosteal me from home, if there were nochance of winning my father's consent, andhe was sure it could be done with greatbribes for many people, and relays ofMaharis and horses to get us through thedune-country. I sent word that I wouldwait for him three years, all the years of

my life! But that was before I knew myfather meant me to marry Tahar.

"Not long after Manöel came to stay inDjazerta, disguised as a wandering beggarof Touggourt, my father told me what wasin his mind. I feel sure Aunt Mabroukasuspected from my happier looks that Iwas hearing from Manöel, for shepersuaded my father that I was ill. Sheshut me up and gave me medicine; and Iwas so afraid Manöel might bediscovered and murdered, that I sent himword to go away at once, not even towrite me again. He obeyed for my sake,not knowing what might happen to me if herefused, but by word of mouth came themessage that he would always be workingfor our happiness. Well I guessed what he

meant! Yet when my father told me aboutTahar, all my faith in Manöel could notkeep me brave. My father is splendid, buthe will stop at nothing with those who goagainst him. At first he said I must bemarried when I was sixteen, but Ireminded him that seventeen was mymother's age when he took her; and Ibegged him, "for luck," to let me wait. Idared not warn Manöel, lest they shouldhave laid a trap, expecting me to writehim about my marriage. I waited formonths, and then it was too late, for Aliben Sliman was away. I dared trust no oneelse; and so it is not yet a year ago that Isent a letter to an old address Manöel hadleft with Ali. I told him all that hadhappened, and I said, if I were to be savedit must be before my seventeenth birthday,

the end of September. After that I shouldbe dead—or else Tahar's wife. Since then,not hearing, I have sent two more letters tothe same address, for I have no other. Butno answer has come. Now Ali has died offever, and I can never write to Manöelagain unless—unless——"

"Unless what?" breathed Sanda.

"Unless you can manage to help me.Would you, if you could?"

"Yes," answered the other girl, withouthesitating. "I'm a guest in the Agha'shouse, and I've eaten his salt, so it'shateful to work against him. But, someday, surely he'll be thankful to a friendwho saves you from Si Tahar. I'll doanything I can. Yet I'm only a girl like

yourself. What is there I can do? Haveyou thought?"

"If I have thought!" echoed Ourïeda. "Ihave thought of nothing else, for weeksand weeks, long before you came. Ibegged my father to find me a companionof my own age, not an Arab girl, but aEuropean, to teach me things and make meclever like my mother. He believed I waspining with ennui; and because he had putreal happiness out of my life, he waswilling to console me as well as he couldin some easy way. In spite of AuntMabrouka, who may have guessed whatwas in my mind, he trusts you completely,because you are your father's daughter."

"Ah, that's the dreadful part! To betraysuch a trust!" exclaimed Sanda.

"But after all, I am going to ask so little ofyou, not a hard thing at all," Ourïedapleaded, frightened at the effect of herown words. "It is a thing only a trustedguest, a woman of the Roumia, couldpossibly do, yet it's very simple. Andwhen the time comes to do it, you needonly shut your eyes."

"Tell me what you mean," said Sandaanxiously.

"Every letter you write—not to yourfather, because he might ask questions, butto a friend—leave the envelope open, andturn your back, or go out of the room. Thendon't look into the letter again, or notice ifit seems thicker than before, but fasten itup tightly and seal the envelope with wax.Will you do that?"

"Yes," said Sanda, rather miserably. "Tosave you I will do that."

"You have friends in France who wouldpost a letter if they found it enclosed inone of yours, without explanations?"

"I have friends who would do that,perhaps, but to make it more sure I willexplain. It would not save my conscienceto let you slip a letter into an openenvelope, and pretend to myself that Iknew nothing about it; because I wouldknow, and I think I'd almost rather behypocritical with other people than withmyself."

"I told you," exclaimed Ourïeda, "thatRoumia girls were different from us evenin their secret thoughts! But you will love

me, won't you, although you think I amstealthy and sly? I need your love andhelp!"

"I love you, or I shouldn't have promisedwhat I have just promised now," Sandaassured her.

"But if there were still more—somethingharder and more dangerous—would youlove me enough to do that thing too?"

"Do you mean something in particular thatyou have in your mind, or——"

"Yes, oh, yes! I mean something inparticular."

"Will you tell me what it is?"

"I am half afraid."

"Don't be afraid. Tell me!"

"Hush!" whispered Ourïeda. "Don't youhear some one on the stairs—coming upsoftly? I must tell you another time. Laugh!Laugh out aloud! Call to the doves!"

The two girls began to chatter togetherlike children. And their young voicestinkling out in laughter sounded pitifullysmall in the immensity of the night-bleached desert.

Far away in the north where colonistfarmers had long ago conquered the desertthere was music that evening at Sidi-bel-Abbés, headquarters of the Foreign

Legion. The soul of the Legion wasspeaking in its tragic-sweet voice, and thePlace Carnot was full of soldierssauntering singly or in pairs, mostly silent,as if to hear their own heart-secrets criedaloud by telltale 'cellos and flutes andviolins.

The townsfolk were there, too; and whenthe band played some selection especiallyto their liking they buzzed approval. It wasonly the Legionnaires who talked little,and in tones almost humbly suppressed.Once, years ago, they had violentlyasserted their right to promenade the PlaceCarnot, and enjoy the music of their ownfamous band, when local authority wouldinsolently have banished them; but nowthe boon was won, they were subdued in

manner, as if they had never smashedchairs and wrecked bandstand in fierceprotest against bourgeois tyranny.Immaculate in every detail of theiruniform as though each man had his ownservant, these soldiers who spent halftheir so-called leisure in scrubbingclothes, polishing steel and brass, andvarnishing leather, had nevertheless apiteously dejected bearing whenever theypassed pretty, well-dressed young women.They knew that, whatever they might oncehave been, as Foreign Legion men on payof five centimes a day they were in theeyes of Bel-Abbés girls hopelessineligibles, poverty-stricken socialoutcasts, the black sheep of the world. Itwas to vie with each other and to make theLegion far outshine Chasseurs and Spahis

that they sacrificed two thirds of theirspare time in the cause of smartness, notbecause even the handsomest and youngestcherished any hope of catching a woman'sapproving eye.

Just at the moment, however, there was anexception to the depressing rule. Theprettiest girls, French, Spanish, andAlgerian-born, all condescended to glanceat the bleu who had "knocked out" theformer champion of the Legion, and,taking his place in the match with theMarseillais, had kept the championshipfor the First Regiment Etrangére. Sincethe day more than a week ago when thebarrack-yard of the Legion had been thescene of the great fight—officers lookingon in the front ranks of the invited crowd,

and soldiers hanging out of dormitorywindows—every one in Sidi-bel-Abbéshad learned to know the hero by sight; anda blackened eye, a bruised cheek-bone,and a swelled lip (the unbecoming badgesof his triumph) made recognition easy. Butthe Legion was proud of St. George. Not aman, least of all Four Eyes, grudged himhis success, such "luck" as had neverfallen to any mere recruit within thememory of the oldest Legionnaires, unlessin the battlefield, where all are equal.

Max realized fully what this "luck" haddone for him, and was aware that eyesturned his way; but, far from being proud,he was half-ashamed of hisconspicuousness, fearing that ColonelDeLisle might disapprove. Also, he knew

that the small, brief blaze of his notorietywould die out like the flame of a candle.A week or two more and the "little tingod" would go down off his wheels. If hemeant to be somebody in the Legion hewould have to work as he had neverworked in all his life.

With him in the Place Carnot was theSpaniard who had begged for his civilianclothes. They were in the same companyand of the same age. From the first glance(given and taken when one man was arecruit and the other did not yet dream ofbecoming one) something had drawn thetwo together. Then had come the incidentof the clothing; and Max had felt himselfan unwilling partner in the other's secret.Later, without exchanging confidences

(since "ask no questions, I'll tell you nolies," is a good general rule in theLegion), they drifted into a tacit kind ofcomradeship, Max admiring the Spaniard,the Spaniard trusting Max.

To-night they walked together in silence,or speaking seldom, like the otherLegionnaires, and listening to the music.Suddenly the Spaniard stopped, mutteringsome word under his breath, and Max sawthrough the dusk that the olive face hadgone ashy pale. "What's the matter,Garcia? Are you ill?" he asked.

The other did not answer. He stood stockstill, staring almost stupidly straightbefore him.

Max linked an arm in his. "What's wrong?

Garcia! What's wrong with you?" herepeated.

The Spaniard started. "I beg your pardon,"he stammered, dazed. "I didn't realize youwere—speaking—to me."

Instantly Max guessed that "Juan Garcia,"the name appearing with the "numeromatricule" over the bed of le bleu, was asnew as his place in the Legion, and asfictitious as the alleged profession ofgarcon d'hôtel which accounted cleverlyfor the recruit's stained evening clothes.

"I only asked you what was wrong, whatmade you stop so suddenly?" Maxexplained.

"It was that thing the band is playing

now," said the Spaniard. "Strange theyshould have it here already! It is out of thenew African opera by Saltenet, "LaNaïlia," produced for the first time tendays ago—a trial performance atMarseilles, and on now at the OperaComique in Paris. Good heavens! Anotherworld, and yet these extraordinary menare playing that song here already—mysong!"

"Your song?" involuntarily Max echoedthe words.

"My song. If a certain letter hadn't come tome on the night of the last rehearsal butone, and if we hadn't been in Marseilles,rehearsing, I shouldn't be here to-night. Ishould be in Paris, perhaps coming on tothe stage at this moment, where I suppose

my understudy is grimacing like theconceited monkey he is."

"By jove!" was all that Max could find tosay. But he put several emotions into thetwo words: astonishment, warm sympathy,and some sort of friendly understanding.

"You wonder why I tell you this?" Garciachallenged him.

Max answered quietly: "No, I don'twonder. Perhaps you feel it does you goodto speak. It's strange music!—stirs one up,somehow—makes one think of things. AndI suppose you trust me? You can. But don'tgo any farther unless you're sure you wantto."

"I do want to!" burst out the Spaniard.

"I've wanted to from the first—since youhelped me about the clothes. Only you're areserved fellow yourself. I didn't care tohave you think me a gusher. You guessedwhy I begged for the clothes?"

"I didn't let myself dwell on it too much."

"You must have guessed. Of course I meanto desert the first chance I get."

"It's a beastly risk. Did you see that awfulphotograph the colonel told the non-comsto pass around for us to look at, as awarning against desertion?"

"The poor wretch they found in the desert,across the Moroccan border, the man whoran away from Bel Abbés before wecame? Yes, I saw the picture. Ghastly!

And to think it's the women who mutilatemen like that! But I shan't try to escape byway of Morocco. The danger I'll run isonly from being caught and sent to thepenal battalion—the awful 'Batt d'Aff.' It'sa bad enough danger, for I might as wellbe dead as in prison—better, for I'd be outof misery. But I must run the risk. Ienlisted in the Legion for its protection ingetting to Africa, because I was in dangerof arrest. And you know the Legion, onceit's got a man, won't give him up to thepolice unless he's a murderer. I'm not that,though I came near it. Even while I signedfor five years' service, I knew I shouldhave to desert the minute I could hope toget away. I shall wait now till the bigmarch begins, and get as far south as therest of you go, in my direction—the

direction I want. Then I shall cut away."

"God help you!" said Max.

"Maybe He will, though I'm a man of noreligion. Is love the next best thing?Everything I've done so far, and what Ihave to do, is for love. Does that makeyou think me a fool?"

"No."

"I have to save a girl from being given to aman who isn't fit to kiss her littleembroidered shoes—bless them! To saveher from him—or from suicide. The lettertold me she would rather die than marryhim. That's why I'm not in Paris to-night.There'd been other letters before; she saidin the one which reached me at the theatre

—reached me in the midst of rehearsal—thank God—if there is a God—I still havetill the end of September. The crisis won'tcome till then, on her seventeenthbirthday. But what is five months and ahalf to a man handicapped as I am? Caughtin a trap, and with hardly any money, justwhen I had a fortune almost in my grasp!"

"I can lend you a little," said Max. "I've afew hundred dollars left." He laughed. "Itseems a lot here! These poor chaps lookon me as a millionaire, a sort of prince,because I've got something behind thedaily five centimes—some dollars to buydecent tobacco for my friends and myself,and pay fellows to do my washing and soon—fellows wild with joy to do it! Jove!It makes me feel a brute to think what a

few sous mean to them, gentlemen, someof 'em, who've lived a more luxurious lifethan I have—and——"

"Maybe that's why they're here: becausethey lived too luxuriously—on otherpeople's money. Tell me, St. George, didyou ever hear the name of ManöelValdez?"

Max thought for an instant. "Valdez? Letme see ... how ... I know, a singer! Hesang last winter in New York, insomething or other, a small part, and Iwasn't there, but I saw great notices. Iremember now. Why, you're——"

"Yes. You're right. Don't be afraid tospeak. I asked for it."

"Then you are——"

"Manöel Valdez. Saltenet, the man whowrote 'La Naïlia,' wrote the man's part forme, because he thought I could sing it, andbecause I understand Arab music asmaybe no other European does. I wasbrought up in the desert. The girl I love isa daughter of the desert. God! How thatmusic they're playing makes me hear hercall me, far away from behind her oceanof dunes! There's a secret link binding oursouls together. Nothing can keep themapart. Saltenet was my benefactor. He hasdone everything for me. He would havemade my fortune—after I'd made his; butthat's human nature! And twelve nights agoI nearly killed him because he wouldn't letme go when that girl called—my desert

princess! He vowed he'd have me arrested—anything to stop me. And he tried tohold me by force. I knocked him down inhis own private room at the theatre wherewe were rehearsing, and then I had tomake sure he wasn't dead, for his bloodwas on my hands, my sleeves, my shirtfront. It was only concussion of the brain,but I hoped it would keep him still, untilI'd got well away. That afternoon anofficer I knew had happened to mentionbefore me that a lot of men were beingshipped off to Oran for the ForeignLegion. I remembered. It was as if somevoice reminded me. Africa was my goal,but I'd next to no money. I thought, whyshouldn't France pay? Well, here I am!Now you know why I must desert.Wouldn't you do the same in my place?

Have you got it in you, I wonder, tosacrifice everything in life for a woman?"

Max thought for a moment before risking areply. Then he answered slowly: "I—almost believe I have. But who knows?"

"Some day you will know," said ManöelValdez, looking away toward the desert.

CHAPTER XVITHE BEETLE

When Max had served four months in theForeign Legion he felt older by four years.He looked older, too. There were faintlysketched lines round his mouth and eyes,and that indefinable expression which liesdeep down in eyes which have seen lifeand death at grip: a Legion look.

In some ways he had been a boy when hetook his sudden resolve in the Salled'Honneur to prove what the Legion coulddo for a nature he himself doubted. Nowhe was no longer a boy. He realized that,

though he had never found time to studythe success of his experiment, and had noidea that it was being studied day afterday by his colonel. Had he guessed, somedark hours might have been brightened bygleams of hope, for in spite of his luck inthe Legion there were times when Max felthimself abandoned, a creature of as smallconsequence to any heart on earth as ahalf-drowned fly. A more conceited manwould have been happier, but Max had notjoined the Legion with the object offinding happiness, and one who waswatching believed that it would be goodfor him to wait.

Max and Manöel Valdez (alias Garcia)had looked forward to the great march,already vaguely talked of when they

joined. But it had not been a march formarching's sake: its real purpose wasmore grave. A band of Arab thieves andmurderers on the border of the M'zabcountry had to be caught and punished. Norecruits were taken: disappointment forMax and despair for Valdez. He hadhoped everything from that chance, and, inhis rage at losing it, made a dash forliberty from Sidi-bel-Abbés. He got nofarther than the outskirts, the forbiddenVillage Négre , where he risked a nightvisit in search of the man bribed to hide acertain precious bundle. Fortunately hewas arrested before securing it, for had hebeen trapped with civilian clothes noteven his marvellous voice (the talk of thegarrison since it had been heard in thesoldier's theatre) could have saved him

from the fate of caught deserters: the penalbattalion for months, if not a year; death,perhaps, from fever or hardship. As itwas, he escaped with the penalty for anight visit to the Arab quarter: eight dayscellule. But the clothes were safe. Hewould try again. Nothing on earth, he said,should keep him from trying again;because he might as well be a "Zephir" inthe dreaded "Batt d'Aff," if he could notanswer the cry for help he seemed alwaysto hear from across the desert.

Since his first failure and imprisonmentnearly four months had passed, and he hadtried again and failed in the same way.The second time his sentence was twiceas long; but before it was over themedecin major sent him into hospital. He

came out emaciated, sullen, dangerous,caring for nothing, not even to sing. Maxyearned over him, but could do nothingexcept say, "It isn't too late yet. Maybe, ifwe brace up, we'll be taken on the bigmarch that they talk of for the first ofSeptember. Even then there'll be time."

He said "we," because it was morecomforting to Valdez that their namesshould be bracketed together as friends;but as Legionnaires they were already farapart. Max had never been censured, hadnever seen the inside of the prisonbuilding (that low-roofed, sinisterbuilding that runs along the walls of thebarrack-yard). He was in the school ofcorporals. Soon he would wear on hisblue sleeve the coveted red woollen

stripe. Garcia, on the contrary, wasconstantly falling into trouble. He hadeven drunk too much, once or twice, in thehope of drowning trouble, as Legionnairesdo. The September march to the south wasostensibly for road-laying; but there wasagain a rumour of other important work tobe done. The great secret society of theSenussi threatened trouble through a newleader who had arisen, a young man of thefar south called the "Deliverer." Andwhen there was prospect of fighting in thedesert or elsewhere for the Legion,recruits—even those who had served forsix months—were seldom taken if a longlist of black marks stood against theirnames. Max feared that there was littlehope for Valdez, though he meant to dowhat he could to help. And he found it

strange that he, a born soldier as he knewhimself to be, should think of tacitly aidinganother to desert, no matter on whatpretext. At home in the same position itcould not have been so; but in the ForeignLegion recruits talked freely, even beforeold Legionnaires to whom the Legion wasmother and father and country. There wasno fear of betrayal. The whole point ofview seemed different. If a man felt that hehad borne all he could, and was desperateenough to risk death by starvation orworse, why let him go with his comrades'blessing—and his blood on his own head!If he had money he might get through. Ifnot, he was lost; but that, too, was his ownbusiness.

March was bitterly cold in wind-swept

Sidi-bel-Abbés. April was mild; Maywarm; June hot; July and August a furnace,but Legionnaires drank no less of theheavy, red Algerian wine than before thesummer heat engulfed them. Max hadheard men say jokingly or solemnly ofeach other, "He has the cafard." Vaguelyhe knew that cafard was French forbeetle, or cockroach; that soldiers whohabitually mixed absinthe and other strongdrinks with their cheap but beloved litrewere often affected with a strangemadness which betrayed itself in weirdways, and that this special madness wasfamiliarly named le cafard. When the hotwave arrived he saw for himself what theterrible insect could do in a man's brain.

In the canteen it was bad enough on pay

nights—so called "the Legion'sholidays"—but there reigned Madame laCantiniere, young, good looking, arespected queen, who would go on marchwith the Legion in her cart, and who mustat all times to a certain extent be obeyed.But in dim side-streets of the town, farfrom the lights of the smart, out-of-doorscafés, were casse croutes kept bySpaniards who cared nothing for the fateof Legionnaires when they had spent theirlast sou. The cafard grew and prosperedthere. He tickled men's gray matter andkneaded it in his microscopic claws.There his victims fought each other, for noreason which they could explainafterward, or mutilated themselves,tearing off an ear, or tattooing a face withsome design to rival Four Eyes; or they

sold parts of their uniforms to buy a littlemore drink, or tried to blow out theirbrains, or the brains of some one else.Afterward, if they survived, they went toprison; but if it could be proved that theywere indeed suffering from cafard, theygot off with light sentences.

Officers of the Legion old enough to havewon a few medals seemed to respect thecafard and make allowances for hisdeadly work. If the men did not survive,they—what was left of them—went to thecemetery to rest under small black crossesmarked with name and number, their onlymourners the great cypresses which sighedwith every breath of wind from themountains.

One August night of blazing heat and

moonlight Max could not sleep. There hadbeen a scene in the dormitory which hadgot every man out of bed, but an hour afterthe tired soldiers were dead to the worldagain—all save Max, who felt as if awhite fire like the moonlight was raging inhis brain.

He lay still, as though he were gagged andbound, lest a sigh, or a rustle in turningover—as he longed to turn—might wakena neighbour. The hours set apart for theLegion's repose were sacred, soprofoundly sacred that any man who madethe least noise at night or during theafternoon siesta was given good cause toregret his awkwardness. The mostinveterate snorers were cured, or halfkilled; and to-night, in this great room

with its double row of beds, the trainedsilence of the sleepers seemed unnatural,almost terrible, especially after the horrorthat had broken it. Max had never beforefelt the oppression of this deathlikestillness. Usually he slept as the rest slept;but now, weary as he was, he resignedhimself to lie staring through the slowhours, till the orderly's call, "Au jus!"should rouse the men to swallow theircoffee before reveille.

The dormitory, white with moonlightstreaming through curtainless openwindows, seemed to Max like amausoleum. He could see the still, flatforms, uncovered and prone on theirnarrow beds, like carven figures ofsoldiers on tombs. He alone was alive

among a company of statues. The mencould not be human to sleep so soon andso soundly after the thing that hadhappened!

In his hot brain the scene repeated itselfconstantly in bright, moving pictures. Hehad been rather miserable before going tobed, and had longed for forgetfulness.Sleep had brought its balm, but suddenlyhe had started awake to see a man bendingover him, a dark shape with lifted armsthat fumbled along the shelf above the bed.On that shelf was the famous paquetage ofthe Legionnaire; all his belongings,underclothes, and uniforms, built into thewonderful, artistic structure which FourEyes had shown his pet how to make. Athief was searching among the neat layers

of the paquetage for money: every oneknew that St. George had money, for hewas continually lending or giving it away.This one meant to save him the trouble bytaking it. Max felt suddenly sick. He hadthought all his comrades true to him. Itwas a blow to find that some one wishedto steal the little he had left, though he hadgrudged no gift.

Just as Max waked the thief satisfiedhimself that the well-known wallet wasnot hidden in the paquetage, and stoopedlower to peer at the sleeper's face beforefeeling under the pillow. His eyes andMax's wide-open eyes met. In a flash Maxrecognized the man. He was of anothercompany, and had risked much to stealinto the dormitory of the Tenth. The fellow

must be desperate! A wave of mingledpity and loathing rushed over Max.Fearing consequences for the wretch,should any one wake, he would mercifullyhave motioned him off in silence; but thewarning gesture was misunderstood. Thethief started back, expecting a blow,stumbled against the nearest bed, rousedFour Eyes, and in a second the wholeroom was in an uproar.

The full moon lit the intruder's face as ifwith a white ray from a police lantern.Pelle and a dozen others recognized theman from the Eleventh, who could havebut one midnight errand in the sleeping-room of the Tenth: the errand of a thief.Like wolves they leaped on him, snappingand growling, swearing the strange oaths

of the Legion. Bayonets flashed in themoonlight; blood spouted red, for asoldier of the Legion may "decorate"himself with a comrade's belt, or bit ofequipment, if another has annexed his: thatis legitimate, even chic; but money or foodhe must not steal if he would live. It is theLegion's law.

All was over inside two minutes. Theguard, hearing shouts, rushed in andstoically bore away a limp, bloodstainedbundle to the hospital. Nobody blamed themen. Nobody pitied the bundle—exceptMax, whose first experience it was of theLegion's swift justice. But nothing, noteven exciting prospects of a march, can beallowed to spoil the Legion's rest; and soit was that in half an hour the raging

avengers had become once more stonefigures carved on narrow tombs in amoonlit mausoleum.

For the first and only time since he hadjoined Max thoroughly hated the Legionand wished wildly that he had never comenear Sidi-bel-Abbés. Yet did he wishthat? If he had not come he would not havemet Colonel DeLisle, his beau ideal of aman and a soldier. He would be a boyagain, it seemed, with his eyes shut in theface of life. And he would miss hissweetest memory of Sanda: that hour inthe Salle d'Honneur of the Legion, whenshe had christened him St. George andcalled him "her soldier." But after all, ofwhat use to him could be his acquaintancewith the Legion's colonel? There was a

gulf between them now. And would it notbe as well or better to forget that littleepisode of friendship with the colonel'sdaughter? She had probably forgotten it bythis time. And a Legionnaire has nobusiness with women, even as friends.Besides, Max was in a mood to doubt allfriendship. He had had a letter that day—his first letter from any one in four months—telling him that Grant Reeves hadmarried Josephine Doran.

Of course, Grant had a right to marryJosephine; but not to write until thewedding day was safely over—as if hehad been afraid Max would try to stop it—and then to confess how he had comewith his mother to meet Josephine atAlgiers! That was secret and unfriendly,

even treacherous. Max remembered verywell how Grant had proposedaccompanying Mrs. Reeves, and he—Max—had rather impetuously vetoed thearrangement, saying it was unnecessary,and guessing instinctively the buddingidea in Grant's mind. It was clear now thatGrant had never abandoned it, that he hadfrom the first planned a campaign to winthe heiress before any other man had achance with her, and that he had carriedout the scheme with never a hitch. Theletter, written on the eve of the wedding,had been three weeks on the way. Grant(the only person except Edwin Reeves towhom Max had revealed himself asMaxime St. George, Number 1033, in theTenth Company, First Regiment of theForeign Legion) wrote that he was telling

nobody where his friend was, or what hehad done. "The day will surely come, dearboy," Grant said—and Max could almosthear his voice speaking—"when you willwish to blot out these pages from yourbook of life. I want to make it easy for youto do so; and I advise you to keep yourpresent resolve: confide in none of yourpals. They might not be as discreet as thegovernor and I."

"He's glad I'm out of the way," thoughtMax. "He wants me to be forgotten byevery one, and he wants to forget mehimself. If I were on the spot, poor, andhustling to get on somehow or other inbusiness, it might worry him a little to beseen spending money that used to bemine."

Perhaps it was morbid to attribute thesemotives to Grant Reeves, who had oncebeen his friend, but he did attribute them;and conscious that he was actuallyencouraging morbid thoughts, Maxwondered if he, too, were getting thecafard, the madness of the Legion? Lyingthere, the only waking one among thesleepers, fear of unseen, mysteriousthings, the fear that sometimes attacks abrave man in the night, leaped at him outof the shadows. He could almost feel thesharp little claws of the dreaded beetlescratching in his brain. Yes, he'd been afool to join the Legion, and to hand overJack Doran's house and fortune to GrantReeves! It was impossible that Grant hadmarried Josephine for love. He hadsimply taken her with the money, and he

meant to have the spending of it.

In the letter, Grant said that they plannedto alter the old Doran house and "bring itup to date." It was he, Grant, who had allthe ideas, apparently. Josephine wasletting him do as he pleased. What shouldshe know about such matters? If she couldhave all the dresses and jewels and furshe wanted, Grant would be allowed to gohis own way with other things. He wasclever enough to understand that, and tomanage Josephine.

With the letter Grant had posted a bundleof Sunday newspapers and illustratedmagazines, such a bundle of old news asone sends to an invalid in hospital. Maxhad glanced through some of the papersbefore going to bed, looking with a sad,

far-off sort of interest at portraits ofpeople whose names he knew. There hadbeen a page of "America's most beautifulactresses" in one Sunday supplement, andamong them, of course, was BillieBrookton. No such page would becomplete without her! It was a newphotograph that Max had never seen. Thesmiling face, head drooped slightly inorder to give Billie's celebrated upwardlook from under level brows, had theplace of honour in the middle of the page.And a paragraph beneath announced thatBillie would leave the stage on hermarriage with "Millionaire Jeff Houston,of Chicago."

No doubt Houston was the man she hadmentioned in her last letter. Round her

neck, in the picture, Max thought herecognized his pearls, and on the prettyhand, raised to play with a rope of biggerpearls—"Millionaire Houston's" perhaps—was the ring Max had given her thenight when the telegram came. Thephotograph, which was large and clearlyreproduced, showed the curiously shapedstone on the middle finger of Billie's lefthand. A large round pearl adorned thefinger on which Max had once hoped shemight wear the blue diamond, a pearl soconspicuous that the original of the pictureappeared to display it purposely."Millionaire Houston" would be flattered;and that was what Billie Brooktonwanted. As for what Max Doran mightthink if he saw the portrait, why shouldshe care? For her, he was numbered with

the dead.

Max was no longer in love with Billie.The shock of Rose Doran's terribleaccident, the story she had to tell, and herdeath, had chilled the fire of what hethought was love. The letter of farewellhad put it out. But the scar of the burnsometimes hurts. To-night was one ofthose times; and Max believed that hisdisappointment in Billie had had itsinfluence in driving him to the Legion. Shestood now as a type of what wasmercenary, calculating, and false inwomankind, just as (almost unknown tohimself) Sanda DeLisle stood for whatwas gentle, yet brave and true. He felt thatBillie Brookton had made him hard, witha hardness that was not good; and that not

only she, but all those he had cared formost in his old life, had deceived andtricked or at best forgotten him. Lying inhis narrow bunk, Max lifted his head andlet his eyes wander over the faces of hiscomrades, turned to gray stone by themoonlight. Not one which was not sad,except that of the Alsatian who had joinedon the day of his own recruitment. The boywas smiling in some dream and lookedlike a child, but a sickly child, for the heatand the severe marching drill for les bleuswere telling upon him. Faces of twentydifferent types, faces which by daymasked their secrets with sullenness,defiance, or stolidity, could hide nothingin sleep, but fell into lines of sadness thatgave a strange family resemblance to thestone soldiers on the tombs. Saddest of

all, after Manöel Valdez, perhaps, was thewrecked visage of Pelle, whose ownparticular cafard had been leading him amerry dance the last few days.

To Sidi-bel-Abbés, with a letter ofintroduction to the colonel, had come anold officer of the British army, a man ofdistinction. Pelle, as an Englishman and anex-soldier, had been honoured by beingappointed his guide. The two hadrecognized one another. Pelle had servedunder the officer years ago. The encounterhad been too much for Quatro Oyos: that,and the money the general gave him atparting. Remembrance of past days wasthe enemy in the Legion. Four Eyes hadbeen half drunk ever since, and hadescaped prison only by a miracle. That,

however, was nothing new for him. Hehad been corporal twice and sergeantonce; each time he had been "broke"because of drink. In spite of all, he hadstuck to the Legion. There was no otherplace for him on earth. The Legion washis country now—his only country and hisonly home. His medals he had asked Maxto keep till he "settled down again." Theymustn't go to the places where the cafardwould take him. They mustn't risk disgracethrough things which the cafard mightmake him do. He looked like the ruin of aman in the revealing moonshine. But to-morrow he would be a soldier again tillnight came, and sooner or later he wouldpull himself together—more or less. Themedals he had won and his love of sportwere his incentives. Yet there were other

men who had no medals and no specialincentives, and to-night Max felt himselfdown on a level with those.

"What incentive have I?" he asked, in aflash of furious rebellion against fate,conscious yet not caring that such thoughtsspawned the beetle in the brain. Fiveyears of this life to look forward to!—thelife he had pledged himself to live. Theofficers did their best. It was vieux stylenowadays for an officer of the Legion tobe cruel. But try as they might to break thesameness of barrack life by changing theorder of drill and exercise—fencing oneday, boxing the next, then gymnastics,target-practice, marching, skirmishing,learning first aid to the wounded, givingall the variety possible, the monotony was

heart-breaking, as Colonel DeLisle hadwarned him it would be. And a greatmarch, when a march meant the chance ofa fight, didn't always come in the way of ayoung soldier, even one whose conductwas unsmirched by any stain. Max did notknow yet whether he would be taken onthe march that all the garrison was talkingof. To-night the beetle in his brain tried tomake him think he would not be taken.There was no luck any more for him! Andas for his corporal's stripe, if he got itsoon, what a pathetic prize for a man whohad been a lieutenant in the —th Cavalry,the crack cavalry regiment of the UnitedStates Army!

Oh, better not to think of future or past!Better not to think at all, perhaps, but do

as some of the other men did when theywanted to forget even as they had beenforgotten: take the few pleasures in theirreach, do the very things he had been prigenough to warn Valdez not to do! Let thebeetle burrow, as a counter-irritant!

"Soldier St. George—my soldier!" a girl'svoice seemed to encourage him.

Max heard it through the scratching of thebeetle in his brain.

Sanda! Yes, Sanda might care a little, avery little, when she had time to think ofhim—Sanda, who loved another man, buthad promised to be his friend. He thoughtof her eyes as they had looked at him thatday in the Salle d'Honneur. He thought ofher hair, her long, soft hair....

"She'd be sorry if I let go," he said tohimself. "Jove! I won't! I'll fight thisdown. And if I'm taken on the march——"

He fell suddenly asleep, thinking ofSanda's hair, her long, soft hair.

And the moonlight turned him also into astone soldier on a tomb.

CHAPTER XVIITHE MISSION

It is the darkest hour that comes before thedawn. Next day Soldier St. Georgebecame Corporal St. George, and feltmore pleasure in the bit of red wool on hissleeve than Lieutenant Max Doran wouldhave thought possible.

It was Four Eyes who brought him thenews, a week later, that his name wasamong those who would go on "the greatmarch." Four Eyes was somehowinvariably the first one to hear everything,good news or bad. Life was not so black

after all. There need be no past for aLegionnaire, but there might be a future.None of the men knew for certain whenthe start was to be made, but it would besoon, and the barracks of the Legionseethed with excitement. Even those whowere not going could talk of nothing else.They swore that there was no doubt of thebusiness to be done. The newly risenleader of the Senussi had summoned largebands of the sect to the village, ElGadhari, of which he was sheikh, callingupon them ostensibly to celebrate a certainfeast. Close to this village was one of themost important Senussi monasteries.Tribes were moving all through the south,apparently with no warlike intention; butthe Deliverer was dangerous. Just such aleader as he—even to the gray eyes and

the horseshoe on his forehead—had beenprophesied for this time of the world. TheLegion would march. And it wouldmaneuver in the desert, in theneighbourhood of El Gadhari. If thewarning were enough—there would be nofighting; but the Legion hoped it might notbe enough. To be the regiment ordered togive this warning was in itself an honour,for wherever work is hardest there theLegion goes. The Legion must sustain itsreputation, such as it is! Desperate men,bad men, let them be called by civilians intimes of peace, but give them fighting andthey are the glorious soldiers who neverturn back, who, even when they fall indeath, fall forward as they rush upon theenemy. All the world knew that of them,and they knew it of themselves. They

knew, also, that when the moment ofstarting came men of Sidi-bel-Abbés whodrew away from them in the streets andthe Place Carnot would take off their hatsas the Legion went by. It would be "Vivela Legion!" then.

With each day of burning heat theexcitement grew more feverish. Surelythis morning, or this night, the order wouldcome! The soldiers whistled as theypolished their accoutrements, whistledhalf beneath their breath the "March of theLegion" which the band is forbidden toplay in garrison. Quarrels were forgotten.Men who had not spoken to each other forweeks grinned in each other's faces andoffered one another their cheap buttreasured cigarettes.

Almost every one seemed to be happyexcept Garcia. He was among those whowould not be taken on the march—he, whocraved and needed to go, as did no otherman in the Legion! Max feared Garciameant to kill himself the night when he losthope, and would not let him go out aloneto walk in the darkness. "I don't want toask if you have any plans," he said. "Butthere's one thing I do ask: share with methe money I've got left. You may need it. Ishan't. And if you'll take it, that'll be proofthat you think as much of me as I do ofyou."

Garcia took it, from the wallet which aman now lying in the hospital had tried toempty the other night. Then Max knew forcertain what the queer light in Manöel's

eyes meant. He could not help a rejoicingthrill in the other's desperate couragewhich no obstacle had crushed.

That same night, when the two hadseparated (St. George reassured, andbelieving that Garcia had use for his lifeafter all), Max met Colonel DeLisle faceto face, for the first time alone andunofficially since they had parted in theSalle d'Honneur. The colonel was walkingunaccompanied, in the street not far fromthe little garden of the officers' club,where the band was to give a concert, andreturning Max's quick salute he turned tocall him back.

"Good evening, Corporal! I should like tospeak with you a minute!" DeLisle criedout cheerfully in English. Max's heart gave

a bound. Surely never could the word"Corporal" have sounded so like finemusic in a poor, non-commissionedofficer's ears!

He wheeled, pale with pleasure that hisbeau ideal should wish to speak with him,and in English, the language they had usedwhen they were still social equals. "MyColonel!" he stammered.

"I want to congratulate you on your quickpromotion," said DeLisle. "It has come toyou in spite of your resolution to take noadvantage in the beginning over yourcomrades. I congratulate you on that, too,and on keeping it, now it has turned out sowell. I hoped and believed it would be so,though I advised you for your good."

"I know that, my Colonel," answered Max,determined not to presume in speech oract upon his superior officer's kindness. "Iknew it then."

"It may seem a pitifully small step up,"DeLisle went on, "but it's the first rewardthe Legion can give a soldier. There willbe others. I shall have to congratulate youagain before long, I'm sure. Meanwhile, Ihave a message for you." He paused for aninstant, slightly hesitating, perhaps. "It isfrom my daughter. She is in the south,visiting the daughter of an Agha who isvery loyal to France as a servant, veryloyal to me as a friend. Because of themarch last spring, and again this one, nowcoming (which I expected for this time,and on which I must go myself), I could

not have a young girl like Sanda living inSidi-bel-Abbés. She is happy andinterested where she is, and she has notforgotten you. In more than one letter shehas wished to be remembered to you, ifpossible. To-night, Corporal, it ispossible, and I'm glad to give themessage."

"I thank you for it, my Colonel," Max said,half ashamed of the deep feeling which hisvoice betrayed. "I—wish I might be ableto thank Miss DeLisle. It is a great deal tome that she should remember me—my——"

"Your chivalry? It would be impossible toforget," DeLisle took him up crisply. Thenhe dismissed the subject, as Max felt."Tell me," he went on in the same cheerful

tone in which he had called out"Corporal!" "Are you happy to escape thecaserne, and get away to the desert?"

Suddenly a wild idea sprang into Max'shead. Desperately, not daring to lethimself stop and think, he spoke. "I shouldbe happy, my Colonel, but for one thing.Have I your permission to tell you what itis?"

"Yes," said DeLisle. "If I can help you inthe matter, I will."

"My Colonel, it's in your power to do mea favour I would repay you for with mylife if necessary, though"—and Max beganto stammer again—"that would be at yourservice in any case. The best friend I havemade in the regiment would give his soul

to go on this march. I know he hasn'talways behaved as a soldier ought, buthe's as brave as he is hot tempered andreckless. If it could be reconsidered——"

"You mean Garcia?" broke in ColonelDeLisle sharply.

Max was astonished. Instantly he saw thatthe colonel must have been watching hiscareer. He might have guessed as muchfrom the reward of merit just given him—friendly congratulations and Sanda'smessage, a thousand times more valuedfor the delay; and he had begun to realizethat he had never been abandoned, neverforgotten. But the colonel's knowledge ofhis friendship with Garcia brought thethrilling truth home, almost with a shock.

"Yes, my Colonel—Garcia," he replied.

"Well, I can make no promise," saidDeLisle, speaking now more in the tone ofan officer with a subordinate, yet showingthat he was not vexed. "But—I should likeyou to go away happy, Corporal. I'll lookinto the affair of your friend, and after that—we shall see. Good-night."

Again the salute was exchanged, and thecolonel was gone, turning in at the gardengate of the Cercle Militaire . The meeting,and all that had passed, seemed like awaking dream. Max could hardly believeit had happened, that Sanda had sent him amessage, that her father had given it, andthat he, scarcely more than a bleu, haddared to speak for Manöel Valdez.

That day it proved not to be a dream, forGarcia learned officially that he was to gowith his comrades. Max hardly knewwhether or not it would be wise to explainhow the miracle had come to pass, butthere was a reason why he wished to tell.When the truth was out, and Valdez readyto worship his friend, Max said: "I did itbefore I stopped to think; if I had stopped,I don't know—for you see, in a way, thismakes me a traitor to the colonel. I beggedhim for a favour and he granted it. Yet youand I understand what your going means.I've been asking him for your chance to—well, we won't put it in words! Only, forGod's sake, try to think of some other wayto do what you've got to do!"

"Even you admit that I have got to do it!"

Valdez argued. "To save a woman—it's tosave her life, you know."

"I know," said Max. "But there may besome other way than this one in yourmind."

"If there is, I'll take it. And now I can giveyou back your money."

"No! You'll need every sou if——"

"You're the best friend a man ever had!"cried the Spaniard.

At midnight the alarm they were allwaiting for sounded, and though it wasexpected at any hour, it came as asurprise.

"Aux armes!" rang out the call of the bugle

from the barrack-yard and waked the stonesoldiers to instant life. The flat, carvedfigures sat up on their narrow tombs in themoonlight, then sprang to their feet. Therewas no need or thought of discipline withthat glorious alarm sounding in their ears!The men yelled with joy and roared fromdormitory to dormitory in the wonderfulLegion language made up of chosen bitsfrom every other language of the world.

"Faites les sacs. En tenue de campagned'Afrique!" bawled excited corporals.Everything had to be done in about tenminutes; and though all soldiers knew theprogramme thoroughly, and young soldiershad gone through it in drill a hundredtimes, the real thing was somehowdifferent. Men stumbled over each other

and forgot what to do first. Corporalsswore and threatened; but to an onlookerthe work of packing would have seemedto go by magic. At the end of the tenminutes the barrack-yard was full of menlined up, ready for marching, and soldiersof all nations thanked their gods forfinding that the cartridges served out tothem from the magazine were not blankones. They had all protested their certaintythat this march was for business; and whenthey had heard that their colonel wasgoing with them they had been doublysure; yet in their hearts they had anxiouslyadmitted that it was guesswork. Nowthese blessed cartridges packed full of theright stuff put an end to furtive doubts.

As the companies formed up, the "Legion's

March" was played, and the youngsoldiers who had never heard it, unlesswhistled sotto voce by old Legionnaires,felt the thrill of its tempestuous strains inthe marrow of their bones.

Nowadays the great marches of theForeign Legion are not what they oncewere, unless for government maneuvers.When there is need of haste the Legiongoes by the railway the Legion has helpedto lay; and only at the end of the linebegins the real business for which theLegion lives. For the Legion is meant forthe hardest marching (with the heaviestkits in the world) as well as the fiercestfighting; and when the Legion marchesthrough the desert, it is "marcher oumourir."

The cry of the bugles reached the ears ofthe heaviest sleepers in town; for thosewho knew the Legion and the Legion'smusic knew that the soldiers were off fora great march, or that wild air would notbe played. Windows flew up and headslooked down as the soldiers tramping thebright moonlit street went to the railwaystation. So the "lucky ones" of the Legionpassed out of Sidi-bel-Abbés, some ofthem never to return. And perhaps thatwas lucky, too, for it's as well for aLegionnaire to rest in the desert as underone of the little black crosses behind thewall of cypresses in the Legion's burialground.

They had to go by the new railway line toTouggourt, as Sanda DeLisle had gone,but instead of travelling by passengertrain, the soldiers went as Max had seenthe batch of recruits from Oran arrive atBel-Abbés: in wagons which could beused for freight or France's humanmerchandise: "32 hommes, 6 cheveaux."After Touggourt their way would divergefrom Sanda's. There was no chance forColonel DeLisle to go and see hisdaughter, but in a letter he had told her thedate of his arrival in the oasis town andthe hope he had—a hope almost acertainty—of hearing from his girl there,or having a message of love to take withhim on the long march, warmed his heart.It was very strange, almost horrible, toremember how he had felt toward his

daughter until the day she came to him, inthe image of his dead love, at Sidi-bel-Abbés. He had not wanted to see her. Hehad even felt that he could not bear to seeher. Unjust and brutal as it was, he hadnever been able to banish the thought that,if it had not been for her, his wife mighthave been with him through the years.Sanda had cost him the happiness of hislife.

He had easily persuaded himself that inany case, even if he had wanted her withhim, for her sake it was far better not.Such an existence as his was not for ayoung woman to share, even after she hadpassed the schoolgirl age. It had seemedto DeLisle that the only place for Sandawas with her aunts, and passing half her

time in France, half in Ireland, gave thegirl a chance to see something of theworld. She was not poor, for she had hermother's money; and because he wished tocontribute something toward his daughter'skeep, rather than because she needed it, healways paid for her education and herboard. What she had of her own, from hermother, must be saved for her dot whenshe married; and half unconsciously hehad hoped that she would marry early.

After he saw her—the lovely young thingwho had run away to him, as her motherhad—all that had been changed in aninstant. His heart was at her little feet, asit had been at the feet of the first Sanda,whose copy she was.

His time for the next few months was so

mapped out that he could not have the girlwith him for more than the first few daysof joy, for she could not be left in Sidi-bel-Abbés while he was away on duty. Hehad done the best he could for his daughterby giving her a romantic taste of desertlife in the house of a tried friend whom hebelieved he might trust; but he thoughttenderly and constantly of la petite, and offuture days when they might be together—if he came back alive from those"maneuvers" near El Gadhari.Approaching Touggourt, the first scene ofhis life's great love tragedy, he couldhardly wait for the letter he hoped forfrom Sanda. He expected another event,also the pleasure of meeting RichardStanton, whom he had not seen for years,and who would be, he knew, at Touggourt,

getting together a caravan for that "madexpedition" (as every one called it) insearch of the Lost Oasis. But if Stantonhad cared as much for his old friend as inpast days, he had protested, he wouldhave given a day or two to go out of hisway and visit the Colonel of the ForeignLegion at its headquarters. He had notdone that, and though DeLisle told himselfthat he was not hurt, his enthusiasm at thethought of the meeting was slightlydampened. He looked forward morekeenly to Sanda's letter than to anencounter with his erratic friend. It wasgood to have something heart-warming tohope for in a place so poignantlyassociated with the past.

There was plenty for the Legionnaires to

do in Touggourt. Having come by rail,their first camp was made in the flat spaceof desert between the big oasis town andthe dunes. They were to stay only a fewhours, for the first stage of their marchwould begin long before sun-up, and mostof their leisure was to be spent in sleep.Yet somehow there was time for a look atthe sights of the place. One of these was alarge Arab café on the outskirts of thetown where the trampled sand of thestreets became a vast, flowing wave ofgold. Four Eyes had been in Touggourtmore than once, having marched all theway from Bel-Abbés, long before therailway was begun or thought of. He urgedMax to come into the low white buildingwhere at dusk the räita and the tomtom hadbegun to scream and throb.

"Prettiest dancing girls of the Sahara," hesaid, "and a fellow there I used to know inBel-Abbés—in the Chasseurs—has justtold me there's a great show for to-night."

There were several cafés in Sidi-bel-Abbés, where the proprietors engagedArab girls to dance, but Max, who hadpaid one visit, in curiosity, thought thewomen disgusting and the dancing dull.He said that he had no faith in theTouggourt attractions, and would rathertake a stroll.

"You don't know what you're talkingabout!" Four Eyes scouted his objections."Haven't you heard the scandal about thisStanton, the exploring man, who's here—our colonel's old pal?"

"No, I've heard that Stanton's atTouggourt. But I've heard no scandal,"answered Max. "What has he got to dowith the dancing girls?"

As he spoke, it was as if he saw Stantonsitting with Sanda DeLisle at one of thelittle tea-tables on the terrace of the HotelSt. George at Algiers; the square, resolute,red-tanned face, and the big, square blueeyes, burning with aggressive vitality.

"Everything to do with one of them," saidFour Eyes. "That's the scandal. SeemsStanton's been playing the fool. They sayhe's half mad, anyhow, about a lot ofthings—always was, but it is a bit worsesince a touch o' the sun he had a year ortwo ago. He's off his head about an OuledNail—don't know whether she came here

because of him, or whether he picked herup at Touggourt, but the story is, he couldo' got away before now, with his bloomin'caravan, on that d——d fool expedition ofhis you read of in the papers, only hecouldn't bring himself to leave thisAhmara, or whatever her crack-jaw nameis. The chap that was talkin' to me saysshe's the handsomest creature you'd see ina lifetime, an' she's going to dance to-nightto spite Stanton."

"To spite him?" Max repeated, notunderstanding.

"Yes, you d——d young greenhorn!Anybody'd know you was new to Africa!These girls, when they get to becelebrated for their looks or any otherreason, won't dance in public as a general

thing. They leave that to the common ones,who need to do something to attract.Anyhow, Stanton wouldn't have let thisAhmara dance in a café before a crowd ofnomads from the desert. She lives with thedancing lot, because there's some law orother about that for these girls, but that'sall, till to-night. There's been a row, myold pal told me, because Stanton gives mylady the tip not to come near or pretend toknow him while his friend the colonel ishere. She's in such a beast of a rage she'sannounced to the owner of the café thatshe'll dance to-night; and I bet every manin Touggourt except Stanton and DeLisle'llbe there. You'll come, won't you?"

"Yes, I'll come," said Max. He wasashamed of himself for so readily

believing the scandal about Stanton, yet hedid believe it. Stanton had struck him asthe type of man who would stop at nothinghe wanted to do. And Max was ashamed,also, because he felt an involuntary rush ofpleasure in thinking evil of Stanton. Heknew what that meant. He had beenjealous of Stanton at Algiers, and hesupposed he was mean enough to bejealous of him still. If Sanda knew thetruth, would she be disgusted and cease tocare for her hero, her "Sir Knight?" Maxwondered. But perhaps she would only besad, and forgive him in her heart. Girlswere often very strange about such things.Max, however, could not forgive Stantonfor ignoring the exquisite blossom of lovethat might be his, and grasping insteadsome wild scarlet flower of the desert not

fit to be touched by a hand that hadpressed Sanda's little fingers. He did notknow whether or not to be equallyashamed of the curiosity which made himsay to Pelle that he would see the dancer;but he yielded to it.

Already the great bare café was filling up.In the dim yellow light of lamps that hungfrom the ceiling, or branched out from thesmoky, white-washed walls, the throng ofdark men in white burnouses, crowdingthe long benches or sitting on the floor,was like a company of ghosts. Theirshadows waved fantastically along thewalls as they strode noiselessly in, wildas spirits dancing to the voice of theirmaster Satan, the seductive räita. At oneend of the room sat the musicians, all giant

negroes, the scars and tattoo marks ontheir sweating black faces giving them avillainous look in the wavering light. Theywere playing the bendir, the tomtom, theArab flute, as well as the räita; but theräita laughed the other music down.

This café was celebrated for the youth andbeauty of its dancers, and one afteranother delicate little sad-faced girls,almost children, danced and wavedgracefully their thin arms tinkling withsilver bracelets, but the ever-increasingcrowd of Arabs and French officers andsoldiers (tourists there were none at thattime of year) scarcely troubled to look atthe dainty figures. They were waiting,eager-eyed. If Max had not knownbeforehand that something was expected,

he would have guessed it. At last shecame, the great desert dancer said to bethe most beautiful Ouled Nail of hergeneration.

Max did not see how or whence shearrived, but he heard the rustling andindrawing of breaths that heralded hercoming. And then she was there, in thesquare left open for the dancing. All thelight in the room seemed to focus uponher, so did she scintillate from head tofoot with spangles. Even he felt a throb ofexcitement as the tall, erect figure stood inthe space between the benches, eying theaudience from under a long veil of greentissue almost covered with sparkling bitsof gold and silver. On her head she wore ahigh golden crown, and under the green

veil fell a long square shawl of somematerial which seemed woven entirely ofgold. Her dress was scarlet as poppypetals, and she appeared to be draped inmany layers of thin stuff that flashed outmetallic gleams. For a long moment shestood motionless. Then, when she hadmade her effect, suddenly she threw up herveil. Winding it around her arm, shesnatched it off her head, and paused again,unsmiling, statue-still, except for herimmense dark eyes, encircled with kohl,which darted glances of pride anddefiance round the silent room. Perhapsshe was looking for some one whom shehalf expected might be there. Max felt thelong-lashed eyes fix themselves on him.Then, receiving no response, they passedon and shot a fiery challenge into the eyes

of a young caid in a gold-embroideredblack cloak, who bent forward from hiscarpeted bench in a dream of admiration.

She was perfect in her way, a living statueof pale bronze, with the eyes of a youngtigress and the mouth of a passionatechild. The gold crown, secured with ascarf of glittering gauze, the rows ofgolden coins that hung from her loopedblack braids over her bosom and down tothe huge golden buckle at her looselybelted waist, gave her the look of an idolcome to life and escaped from someshrine of an eastern temple. As shemoved, to begin the promised dance, sheexhaled from her body and hair andfloating draperies strange, intoxicatingperfumes which seemed to change with

her motions—perfumes of sandalwoodand ambergris and attar-of-rose.

For the first time Max understood themeaning of the Ouled Nail dance. Thischild-woman of the desert, with herwicked eyes and sweet mouth, made it apantomime of love in its first timidbeginnings, its fears and hesitations, itsfinal self-abandon and rapture. Ahmarawas a dangerous rival for a daughter ofEurope with such a man as RichardStanton.

When she had danced once, she refused toindulge the audience again, but staringscorn at the company, accepted a cup ofcoffee from the handsome young caid inthe black mantle. She sat beside him witha fierce air of bravado, and ignored every

one else, as though the dimly lit room inwhich her spangles flamed was emptysave for their two selves. So she wouldhave sat by Max if he had given backglance for glance; but he pushed his wayout quickly when Ahmara's dance wasover, and drew in long, deep breaths ofdesert air, sweet with wild thyme, beforehe dared let himself even think of Sanda.Sanda, who loved Stanton—with thisrecompense!

As he walked back to camp, to take whatrest he could before the early start, he meta sergeant of his company, a tall Russian,supposed to be a Nihilist, who had savedhimself from Siberia by finding sanctuaryin the Legion.

"I have sent two men to look for you," he

said. "The colonel wants you. Go to histent at once."

Max went, and at the tent door metRichard Stanton coming out. Maxrecognized his figure rather than hisfeatures, for the light was at his back. Itshone into the Legionnaire's face as hestepped aside to let the explorer pass, butStanton's eyes rested on the corporal ofthe Legion without interest or recognition.The colonel had just bidden him good-bye, and he strode away with long,nervous strides. "Will he go to the caféand see Ahmara with the caid?" Thethought flashed through Max's mind, but hehad no time to finish it. Colonel DeLislewas calling him into the tent.

The only light was a lantern with a candle

in it; yet saluting, Max saw at once that thecolonel's face was troubled.

"Have I done anything I oughtn't to havedone?" he questioned himself anxiously,but the first words reassured as much asthey surprised him.

"Corporal St. George, I sent for youbecause you are the only one among mymen of whom I can ask the favour I'mgoing to ask."

"A favour—from me to you, my Colonel?"Max echoed, astonished.

"Yes. You asked me for one the othernight, and I granted it because it was easy,but this is different. This is very hard. Ifyou do the thing, you will lose the march

and the fight which we may come in for atthe end. Is there anything that could makeup to you for such a sacrifice?"

"But, my Colonel," answered Max, "youhave only to give me your orders, andwhatever they may be I shall be happy tocarry them out." He spoke firmly, yet hecould not hide the fact that this was ablow. He had looked forward to themarch, hard as it might be, and to theexcitement at the end as a thirsty manlooks forward to a draught of water.

"But I am not going to give you anyorders," said DeLisle. "It would not befair or right. This is a private matter. Ihave just received a letter from mydaughter with rather bad news. I told youshe was staying in the house of one of the

great chiefs of the south, a friend of years'standing, who has a daughter of her age. Ineedn't give you details, but Sanda hasunfortunately offended this man in perhapsthe one way an Arab, no matter howenlightened, cannot forgive. From whatshe tells me I can't wholly blame him forhis anger, but—it's impossible for her tostop longer in his house. Not that she's indanger—no! that's incredible, Ben Râanabeing the man he is. An Arab's ideas ofhospitality would prevent his offering tosend a guest away, no matter how much hemight want to be rid of her. Yet I can'tendure the thought of asking him for acaravan and guard after what seems tohave happened. You realize that it isimpossible for me to go myself. My dutyis with my regiment. Once before, you

watched over my daughter on a journey—watched over her as a brother might watchover a sister. That is why I ask, as afavour from one man to another, whetheryou would be willing to go to the Agha'shouse and escort my daughter here toTouggourt. I know how much I amexacting of a born soldier like yourself."

"My Colonel, you are conferring on me theCross of the Legion of Honour!" Maxcried out impulsively.

"Then you accept?"

"I implore you to accept me for theservice."

"But do you thoroughly understand what itmeans? We go on without you. It will be

hopeless for you to follow us. I give youeight days' leave, which will be ampletime for the engaging of a small caravan—three or four good men and the wife of oneto act as servant to my daughter—going toBen Râana's place at Djazerta, arrivingagain at Touggourt, and returning to Bel-Abbés. I shall have to send you backthere, you see. There's nothing else to do."

"I understand, my Colonel. But though I'msorry to lose the experience, I'd rather beable to do this for you and forMademoiselle DeLisle than anythingelse."

"Thank you. That's settled then, exceptdetails. We'll arrange them at once, foryou must get off to-morrow as soon aspossible after our start. Another man must

be appointed in your place, Corporal. AtSidi-bel-Abbés you shall have specialwork while we are gone. There hasn'tbeen much time for thinking since I got thenews, but I have thought that out. At first, Imay as well tell you, my idea was to askStanton to put off his expedition and go toBen Râana's. But—something I heard to-night turned me against that plan. I shouldlike to have another man with you out ofthe regiment in case of trouble. Not thatthere can be trouble! But I shouldn't feeljustified in asking for a second volunteer.All the men are so keen! It's bad enough tosend one away on a private matter of myown, and——"

In his flush of excitement the soldierinterrupted his colonel.

"Sir, I know of one! My friend would beglad to go with me!"

"You speak of Garcia again?"

"Yes, my Colonel."

"Are you sure of him?"

"I am sure."

"Very well. Talk to him then. Come backto me afterward, and I'll give you allinstructions."

The name of the Agha and the name of theplace where he lived were ringing throughMax's head. Ben Râana—Djazerta!

The father of the girl Manöel Valdezloved and must save was the Agha of

Djazerta. Now Valdez need not desert!

CHAPTER XVIIIGONE

There was keen curiosity and evenjealousy concerning the errand whichsuddenly separated Corporal St. Georgeand his chum Juan Garcia from the marchof the Legion. None of their late comradesknew why they had gone or where, unlessit were Four Eyes, who swaggered aboutlooking secretively wise.

"I told St. George," said he to such youngmen of the Tenth as were admitted to thehonour of speech with the ex-champion, "Itold St. George to fire first at an Arab's

face if he got any fighting. That's the way!The Arab ain't prepared, and he's scaredblue for fear of his head bein' busted offhis body. If that happens only his headgoes to Paradise and can't have any fun.Nobody but old Legionnaires who've seena lot of service have got that tip."

Because of Four Eyes' hints the story wentround that St. George and Garcia had beensent off on special reconnaissance duty.And the Legion marched as only theLegion can, with its heavy kit, itswonderful tricks to cure footsore feet, itsfierce individual desire to bear morefatigue than is human to endure, its wildgayety, its moods of sullen brooding. Fora while it expected to see St. George andGarcia appear as suddenly and

mysteriously as they had disappeared. Butthey did not come back. And days andnights passed by; so at last, as the Legiondrew nearer to El Gadhari, the absent pairwere talked of no more. There was muchto think of and to suffer, and it was notstrange if they were half-forgotten exceptby two men: one who knew the secret andone who pretended to know: ColonelDeLisle and Four Eyes.

When Corporal St. George arrived at theoasis town of Djazerta he had with him inhis small caravan no other man in theuniform of the Legion. He had only camel-drivers in white or brown burnouses,

nomads who live in tents, and whosewomenfolk go unveiled without losing therespect of men. They had come from theblack tents outside Touggourt, all but one,who joined the party after it had started,following on a fast camel. He was a dark-faced man like the rest, and wore suchgarments as the others wore, only lessshabby than theirs, and none but the leaderknew him or why he had come. The Arabfashion of covering the body heavily, andespecially of protecting the mouth in daysof heat as well as cold, was observedreligiously by this tall, grave person. Theone woman of the band, Khadra, wife ofthe chief camel-driver, wondered if thestranger had any disfigurement; but herhusband smiled a superior smile,remarking that women have room in their

minds only for curiosity about what cannever concern them. As for the newcomer,he was as other men, though not aspleasant a companion as some. Accordingto his own account, he had been born inDjazerta, though he had lived in manyplaces and learned French and Spanish inorder to make money as an interpreter.

When the caravan reached Djazerta theyfound the oasis town indulging infestivities because of the marriage of theAgha's daughter. The customary week offeasting and rejoicing was at its height,but, to the disappointment of every one,the bride and all the Agha's family had inthe midst of the celebrations suddenlygone out to the douar, the desertencampment of the tribe over which Ben

Râana ruled as chief. This wasunprecedented for the wedding of greatpersonages that the end of theentertainment should take place in thedouar; but it was said that the bride wasill with over-excitement, and rather thanput off the marriage, her father haddecided to try the effect of desert air.

This was the news which was told to Maxat the Agha's gates after his forced marchfrom Touggourt. It was translated for himinto French by his interpreter, the dark-faced man who covered his mouth evenmore closely than did the dwellers in theblack tents near Touggourt; for Max,though he had studied Arabic of nights inthe Legion's library, and taken lessonsfrom Garcia, could not yet understand the

desert dialects when spoken quickly. Aninterpreter was a real necessity for him ona desert journey with Arabs to command,and as the two talked together outside theopen gate in the high white wall,discussing the situation, neither the Agha'smen nor any man of the caravan couldunderstand a word. The language theyused was a mystery. French, English,Spanish—all were jargons to these peopleof the southern desert.

"At the douar!" Max repeated. "Where isit?"

"Not twenty miles away," answeredManöel, keeping all feeling out of hisvoice, as an interpreter should. "But it'sbetween here and Touggourt. Not exactlyon the way, still we could have reached it

by taking a détour of a few kilometres offthe caravan track and saved hours,precious hours."

"Never mind," said Max, worried thoughhe was because of the delay that meantsomething to him, if not as much as toManöel. "Never mind. We shall be in timeyet. They say the festivities are only halfover. That means she isn't married. Buckup! I know this is a shock; but it isn't asurprise that the wedding feast should beon. You've been expecting that. You'veeven been afraid it might be all over."

"But something has happened, or theywouldn't have taken her away," Manöelsaid.

"Perhaps she tried to escape," Max

suggested. "Would it be harder for her todo that at the douar than here?"

"In a way, yes. Here she might be hiddenfor a while in some house of the village:it's a rabbit warren, as you can see.Whereas, round the douar lies the desertopen to all eyes. Still, it's easier to get outof a tent than a house."

"Well, let's be off and see for ourselves,instead of guessing," proposed his friendwith an air of cheerfulness. Manöel knewthe errand which had brought Corporal St.George (and incidentally himself) toDjazerta at this eleventh hour, but Maxand he had never spoken together ofColonel DeLisle's daughter Sanda exceptcasually, as Ourïeda's guest. Manöel, histhoughts centred upon his own affairs, had

no idea that Mademoiselle DeLisle waspersonally of importance in St. George'slife. If he had seen that Max was anxious,he would have taken the anxiety forsympathy with him, or else thenervousness of a keen soldier who hadonly eight days' leave and small provisionfor delays.

Having finished their discussion, theypolitely refused an invitation, in the absentAgha's name, to spend the night in hisguest house, and started out to retracesome kilometres of the track they had justtravelled. This, thought the Agha's headgatekeeper, was a foolish decision, nomatter how pressing might be the soldier'sbusiness with Ben Râana, for already itwas past sunset, and there was no moon.

These men were strangers, and could notknow their way to the douar except as itwas described to them. But what couldone expect? Their leader was a Roumi, aChristian dog, and all such were fools inthe eyes of God's children who knew thatthe lesson of life was patience.

CHAPTER XIXWHAT HAPPENED AT DAWN

Sanda DeLisle's short life had not beenbrilliantly happy. She had known the acheof feeling herself unwanted by the onlytwo human beings of paramountimportance in her world: her almostunknown father, and her adored "SirKnight" and hero Richard Stanton. Butnever for more than a few hours ofconcentrated pain, like those at Algiers,had she suffered for herself as shesuffered for Ourïeda.

The "Little Rose," defenceless against the

men who had power over her fate (as allArab women are defenceless, unless theychoose death instead of life), appealed tothe latent motherhood that slept in theheart of Sanda, as in the heart of everynormal girl: appealed to the romance inher: appealed to the sympathy born of herown love for Stanton, which seemed ashopeless as Ourïeda's love for ManöelValdez. Would Manöel come in answer toone of those secretly sent letters? Wouldanything happen to save Ourïeda fromTahar? The girl brought up to be a RomanCatholic prayed to the Blessed Virgin.The girl brought up to be a Mohammedanprayed to Allah. And the prayers of both,ascending from different altars, like smokeof incense in a Christian church and in amosque, rose toward the same heaven. Yet

no help came; and the summer daysslipped by, until at last it was September,the month fixed for the wedding.

With the subtlety and soft cowardice ofMussulman women, young or old, Ourïedasaid no word to her father of her loathingfor Tahar. When Sanda begged her to tellhim at least so much of the truth and trustto his love, the girl replied always dullyand hopelessly in the same way: it wouldbe useless. He was very fond of her, forher dead mother's sake and her own. Butthe fire of youth had died down in hisheart. He had forgotten how he felt whenlove was the greatest thing on earth.Besides, his own wife had been theexception to all womanhood, in his eyes.The child she had left had been his dear

plaything, his consolation. Now hecounted upon her to fulfil the ambitions ofhis life, thwarted so far, because she hadbeen a daughter. To have his nephew, hisheir by law, become the father of hisgrandsons, was his best hope now, andnothing except Ourïeda's death or Tahar'sdeath would make him give it up.

"My dear nurse Embarka would kill Taharfor me if she could get at him," the "LittleRose" said one day, calmly. "That wouldend my trouble, but she cannot reach him,and there is no one she can trust amongthose who cook or serve food in the men'spart of our house."

Sanda was struck with horror, but Ourïedacould not at first even understand why shewas shocked. "If a viper were ready to

strike you or one you loved, would youthink harm of killing it?" she asked."Tahar is venomous as a viper. I shouldgive thanks to Allah if he were dead, nomatter how he died. But since Allah doesnot will his death, I must pray for courageto die myself rather than be false toManöel, who has perhaps himself gone toParadise, since he does not answer when Icall; and if a woman can have a soul, Imay belong to him there."

Sanda had forgiven her, realizing if notunderstanding fully the difference betweena heart of the East and a heart of the West,and loving the Arab girl with unabatedlove. Up to the hour when Ben Râanacame into the garden of the harem andbade his daughter praise Allah because

her wedding day was at hand, Sandahoped, and begged Ourïeda to hope, that"something might happen." But even to herthat seemed the end, for the girl listenedwith meekness and offered no objectionexcept that the hot weather had stolen herstrength: she was not well.

"Let the excitement of being a bride bringback thy health, like wine in thy veins,Little Rose," said the Agha, speaking inFrench out of compliment to the guest, andto show her that there was no familysecret under discussion which she mightnot share.

"It is not exciting to marry my cousinTahar," Ourïeda sighed rather thanprotested. "He is an ugly man, dreadful fora girl to look upon as her husband."

"Thou makest me feel that thine aunt isright when she tells me I was wrong everto let thee look upon him or any manexcept thy father," the Agha answeredquickly, with a sudden light behind thedarkness of his eyes like the flash of asword in the night. Sanda, knowing whatshe knew, guessed at a hidden meaning inthe words. He was remembering Manöel,and wishing his daughter to see that he hadnever for a moment forgotten the thing thathad passed. The Agha, despite his eagleface, had been invariably so gentle whenwith the women of his household, and hadseemed so cultured, so instructed in all thetenets of the twentieth century, that Sandahad sometimes wondered if his daughterwere not needlessly afraid of him. But theunsheathing of that sword of light

convinced her of Ourïeda's wisdom. Thegirl knew her father. If she dared to urgeany further her dislike of Tahar he wouldbelieve it was because of Manöel, andhurry rather than delay the wedding.Illness was the only possible plea, andeven to that Ben Râana seemed to attachlittle importance. Marriage meant changeand new interests. It should be a tonic fora Rose drooping in the garden of herfather's harem.

"Thou seest for thyself that it is no use toplead," whispered Ourïeda when herfather had gone, and Leila Mabrouka andher woman, Taous, on the overhangingbalcony, were loudly discussing details ofthe feast. "Now, at last, is the time to tellthe thing I waited to tell, till the worst

should come: the thing thou couldst do forme, which would be even harder to do,and take more courage—oh! far morecourage!—than leaving the letters open."

The look in Ourïeda's eyes of topaz brownwas more tragic, more strangely fatal thanSanda had ever seen it yet, even on theroof in the sunset when the story ofManöel had been told. The heart of herfriend felt like a clock that is runningdown. She was afraid to know the thingwhich Ourïeda wanted her to do; yet shemust know—and make up her mind. Itseemed as if there were nothing she couldrefuse, still——

"What is it you mean?" she whisperedback, the two heads leaning together overa frame of bright embroidery in Ourïeda's

lap, and the tinkle of the fountaindrowning the soft voices, even if thechatter at the door of Leila Mabrouka'sroom above had not covered the secretwords.

"When I said there was a thing I wouldask, if the worst came," Ourïeda repeated,"I meant one of two things. If thou wilt doeither, they are for thee to choosebetween. But thou wilt think them bothterrible, and my only hope is that thoulovest me."

"You know I do," Sanda breathed.

"Enough to do what I am too poor acoward to do for myself, and Embarka hasrefused to do?"

"Not—oh, no, no, you can't mean——"

"Yes, thou hast guessed. No one need eversuspect. I would think of a way. I'vethought of one already. There'd be no painfor me. And yet—I suppose because I amyoung and my blood runs hot in my veins, Ifear—I am sure—I couldn't, when themoment came, do it myself."

"Even for you, I can't be a murderess,"Sanda said miserably, almostapologetically.

"It is thy strange Christian superstitionwhich makes thee call it that. It would beour fate; and thou couldst go away and behappy, feeling thou hadst saved me fromlife which is worse than death sometimes.Still, if thou wilt not, there is the other

thing. Will thou help me to escape?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Sanda.

"Wait till thou hast heard my plan. Maybethou wilt change thy mind."

"I feel sure I shan't change it."

"But the plan may make thee hate me, andthink I am cruel and selfish, caring for noone except myself. Besides, there will belies to tell; and I know thou dost not likelies, though to me they seem no harm ifthey are to do good in the end."

"Tell me the plan."

Ourïeda told it, while overhead on thebalcony her Aunt Mabrouka—Tahar'smother—chatted of the merchants in

Djazerta who sold silks from Tunis andperfumes from Algiers.

The plan was very hateful, very dangerousand treacherous. But—it was to saveOurïeda. The Arab girl proposed to Sandathat she should pretend to have a letterfrom Colonel DeLisle calling her back atonce to Sidi-bel-Abbés, not giving hereven time to wait for the wedding. BenRâana would reluctantly consent to hergoing: he would give her an escort—notTahar, because Tahar must stay for hismarriage—but some trustworthy men ofhis goum, and good camels. On the camelprepared for her would be of course abassourah with heavy curtains: probablythe one in which she had alreadytravelled. It went also without saying that

Sanda would make the journey in Arabdress, such as she had worn during hervisit. Ourïeda would pretend to be ill withgrief because her friend must leave her atsuch a time; already she had prepared theAgha's mind by complaining of weakness.She would take to her bed and refuse tosee any one but her nurse, Embarka. LellaMabrouka, glad to be rid of the Roumiagirl (of whom, beneath her politeness, shehad always disapproved), and hatingillness, would gladly keep out of the wayfor two or three days, while the weddingpreparations went on. It would be easy, oralmost easy, if no accident happened,Ourïeda argued, for her to go away veiledand swathed in the bassourah, whileSanda lay in bed in a darkened room. AtTouggourt the veiled lady would be met

by that Captain Amaranthe and his wife ofwhom Sanda had spoken: they must bewritten to immediately and told to expectMademoiselle DeLisle. Then troublemight come, if they suspected, but perhapsthey would not, if Sanda wrote that shehad been ill with influenza and had nearlylost her voice. They might send her off bytrain, guessing nothing, or, if they didguess, she must throw herself on MadameAmaranthe's mercy. No woman with aheart would give her up! And if the plansucceeded, instead of going to Sidi-bel-Abbés she would go to Oran where shecould find a ship that would take her toMarseilles. Her jewels (some which hadbeen her mother's, and many new onesgiven by her father) would pay theexpenses and keep her in France, hidden

from Ben Râana and beyond his power,until perhaps Manöel found her throughadvertisements she would put into all theFrench papers.

As for Sanda, the result for her when thetrick was discovered (as it ought not to beuntil Ourïeda had got out of Algeria)would be simple. She was the daughter ofBen Râana's friend, a soldier ofimportance in the eyes of France. ColonelDeLisle had entrusted her to the Agha'scare, and she could not be punished asthough she were an Arab woman. IfEmbarka or any member of Ben Râana'shousehold so betrayed him and his dearesthopes the right revenge would be death,and no one outside would ever hear whathad been done, for tragedies of the harem

are sacred. To Mademoiselle DeLisle,however, her host could do nothing,except send her with a safe escort out ofhis home. And that would be her onedesire.

At first it seemed to Sanda that she couldnot do what Ourïeda asked. With tears shesaid no, they must think of some otherway. And the Little Rose did not argue orplead. She answered only that she hadthought, and there was no other way butthe one which Sanda had refused. Thenshe was silent, and the light died out ofher eyes, leaving them dull, almost glazed,as if her soul, that had been gazing throughthe windows, had gone to some darksepulchre of hope.

It was because of this silence and this

look that Sanda changed her mind, afterone day and night, all of which she spent—vainly—in trying to find another plan. Aletter did come from her father, as she andOurïeda had hoped it might (ColonelDeLisle, while still at Sidi-bel-Abbés,found time to scribble off a few lines tohis girl for each camel post that travelledthrough the dunes from Touggourt toDjazerta), and in sickness of heart Sandapretended that she was wanted "at home."The Agha was grieved and astonished,but, great Arab gentleman that he was,would have cut out his tongue rather thanquestion his guest when no informationwas volunteered. He asked only if she hadbeen in all ways kindly treated in hishouse; and when with swimming eyes sheanswered "yes," it was enough. The

caravan was prepared to take her toTouggourt, where she would be met by herformer travelling companions, CaptainAmaranthe and his wife; and the Aghaassured her that only the marriage—anevent unlucky to postpone—prevented himfrom sending his nephew as before, orgoing himself as her escort.

The start was to be made very early in themorning, before dawn, in order that thecaravan might rest during the two hours ofgreatest heat without shortening the day'smarch; and this was in the girl's favour.Sanda had said farewell to LellaMabrouka the night before, that the ladyneed not wake before her usual hour: butnot only did she wake; she rose, veryquietly, and saw Embarka tiptoeing along

the balcony from Sanda's room toOurïeda's with the new gandourah andextra thick veil she herself had given theguest to travel in. When Embarka was outof the way Lella Mabrouka, in her nightrobe, pattered softly to Sanda's closeddoor and knocked. No answer. Shepeeped in and saw the room empty.

Sanda might have gone to bid Ourïedagood-bye at the last minute: that would benatural; and it was the last minute, becausethe sky was changing its night purple forthe gray of dawn, and from the distantcourtyard Lella Mabrouka had heard sometime ago the grunting of the camels. (Shewas a light sleeper always: and afterwardshe told Ben Râana and Tahar that Allahhad doubtless sent some messenger to

touch her shoulder at this hour of fate.)She had had no definite suspicions untilthat moment, except that she was alwaysvaguely suspicious of the girls'confidences; but suddenly an idea leapedinto her mind, the suggestion of just such atrick as she herself would have beensubtle enough to play. If the Roumia wentto the room of her friend to disturb her(though Ourïeda had been ailing for days),why did she not go already dressed, byEmbarka's help, for the start, since it wastime to set out, and the Agha must bewaiting in the courtyard to bid Allahspeed his guest? There might be a simpleand innocent reason for what struck LellaMabrouka as mysterious, but shedetermined to find out. With suddennessshe flung open the door of Ourïeda's room

(which Embarka, believing LellaMabrouka safely asleep, had not locked),and by the light of a French lamp she sawthe old nurse draping Ourïeda in theRoumia's veil. In Ourïeda's green and goldbed from Tunis lay Sanda in a nightdressof Ourïeda's with her head wrapped up asOurïeda's was often wrapped by Embarkaas a cure for headache.

Instantly the whole plot was clear to themother of Tahar. She saw how Ourïedahad meant to go, and how Sanda wouldhave kept her place, guarded fromintrusion by the old nurse, until thefugitive was safely out of reach.

Ourïeda, quick of mind as the older andmore experienced woman, explainedwithout waiting to be asked that she and

her dearest Sanda had exchanged clothing,just for a moment, according to the oldArab superstition that garments changedbetween those who love have the powerof giving some quality of the owner to thefriend. Sanda said nothing at all, knowingthat she would but make matters worse byspeaking. When she understood what thestory was to be (she had given hours ofeach day during the past months tolearning Arabic) she sat up in bed andbegun unwrapping her head as if toprepare for the journey, now that timepressed, and she must again put on herown things. But if she had had the slightesthope that Lella Mabrouka might bedeceived by Ourïeda's plausible excuse,the cold glint of black eyes staring at herin the lamplight would have stabbed it to

death.

A woman of Europe, burning with ragelike Mabrouka's, might have blurted outfierce reproaches or insults; but thewoman of the harem did not even put herdiscovery into words. She looked atOurïeda and the Roumia, and said quietly:"It was a charming idea to wear eachother's clothes so that each might havesomething of the other in her heart forever.Already I can see a likeness. But do nothurry to change now. I came to say that fora reason, to be explained later, thecaravan cannot start to-day. Our LittleWhite Moon will light our sky for a timelonger. Come with me, Embarka, I havework for thee. These dear children mayhave the pleasure of dressing each other."

Ashy pale under her bronze skin, Embarkaobeyed without protest, throwing one lookat her beloved mistress as she followedLella Mabrouka to her fate. Her great,dilated eyes said: "Good-bye forever, oh,thou whom I love, and for whom I havegiven myself without regret."

When they were left alone the girls fellinto each other's arms as if for protectionagainst some terrible fate coming swiftlyto destroy them. Though the Septemberdawn had in it the warmth of summer, theyshivered as they clung together.

"It is all over!" Ourïeda said. "Allah isagainst me."

"What will happen?" asked Sanda, ahorror of the unknown upon her.

"Nothing to thee. Do not be afraid."

"I'm not afraid for myself. I am thinking ofyou."

"For me this is the end."

"You don't mean—surely your father willnot——"

"He will not take my life. He will takefrom me his love. And I shall be watchedevery instant till I have been given toTahar. I shall not even have a chance tokill myself—unless I do it now."

"Ourïeda! No—there's hope still. Who cantell——"

But Ourïeda did not hear. Suddenly shetore herself free from Sanda's arms, and

running to one of the carved cedarwooddoors in the white wall of the bedroom,opened a little cupboard. There, fumblingamong perfumed parcels, rolled as Arabwomen roll their garments, she snatchedfrom a bundle of silk a small stiletto witha jewelled handle. Sanda had seen itbefore, and had been bidden to admire itsrough, square emeralds and queerlyshaped pearls. The thing had belonged toOurïeda's mother, and had been given tothe daughter by the Agha on her sixteenthbirthday, nearly a year ago. Ben Râana'sSpanish wife had worn it in her dark hair;but Ben Râana's daughter, even from thefirst, had thought of it for another purpose.Last night, when Embarka had packed thejewels among Sanda's things for the secretjourney, Ourïeda had kept out the stiletto

in case of failure. Now it was ready to herhand, and before Sanda could reach herthe point of its thin blade pressed the fleshover the heart. But the pin prick of pain asthe skin broke was too sharp a prophecyof anguish for the petted child who knewherself physically a coward. She gave acry, dropped the stiletto as if the handlehad burnt her, and, stumbling against thegirl who tried to hold her up, fell in a limpheap on the floor.

There was no time to hide the stiletto,even if Sanda had thought to do so, beforeTaous, Lella Mabrouka's woman, camequietly into the room. No doubt Mabroukahad meant to send her, but had not told thegirls, because she wished her servant tosurprise them. Gathering up Ourïeda, who

had fainted, or seemed to faint, thenegress's bright eyes spied the dagger.Freeing one hand as easily as if Ourïeda'sweight had been that of a baby, she tookthe weapon and slipped it into her dress.Whether she meant to show the dagger toher mistress, or to keep it for herself, whocould say?

Sanda would not leave Ourïeda when thegirl had been laid on the bed by Taous, butpresently, after half an hour's absence,Lella Mabrouka returned. "Thou mayestgo now," said the formidable woman. "Wewho love and understand her will restoreour Rose with her name's perfume, whichhas the power of bringing back lostsenses. Have no fear for her health, LittleMoon. All will be well with our sweet

bride. Dress thyself, not for a journey, butfor a visit from my brother, the Agha, whowill do himself the honour of calling uponthee when thou art ready to descend to ourreception-room. Thou being a Roumia,with customs different to ours, mayreceive him alone, otherwise I wouldleave our Little Rose to Taous, and gowith thee."

Despite the unbroken courtesy ofMabrouka's manner, or all the morebecause of its frozen calm, Sanda wassick with a deadly fear. She was notafraid that the Agha would do her bodilyharm, but the whole world seemed to havecome to an end because of her treachery.She did not know how she could meet hiseyes, those eyes of an eagle, after what

she had tried to do. She was afraid hewould question her about what she knewof Ourïeda's secrets, and though sheresolved that nothing should make herspeak, her heart seemed turning to water.

CHAPTER XXTHE BEAUTY DOCTOR

"If my father were only here!" Sanda saidas she went down to the great room ofstate where the ladies of the Agha's haremreceived their few visitors. And then shethought of Maxime St. George, her soldier.She recalled the night when she had beenafraid of the storm, and he had sat by herthrough the long hours. Somehow, she didnot know why, it helped a little toremember that.

Ben Râana, graver and sterner than shehad seen him, was waiting in the early

dawn which struck out bleak lights fromthe dangling prisms of the big Frenchchandeliers—the ugly chandeliers ofwhich Lella Mabrouka was proud. Heasked no questions; and somehow thatseemed worse than the ordeal for whichSanda had braced herself. The Agha'svoice, politely speaking French, wasstudiously gentle, but icy contempt was inhis dark eyes when they were notdeliberately turned from the trusted guestwho had betrayed him. He said he hadsummoned her to announce, with regret,that, owing to the illness of the manappointed as conductor of the caravan, itwould not be able to start for some time.At present there was no other personequally trustworthy who could be spared."I am responsible to thy father for thy

safety," he added. "And though we poorArabs are behind these modern times inmany ways, we would die rather thanbetray a trust."

That was a stroke well aimed under theroses of courtesy, and Sanda could butreceive it in silence. She had supposedwhen Lella Mabrouka spoke of thecaravan not going that it was only a threat.Her expectation was to be sent out of thehouse at once, in disgrace, and though hersoul yearned over Ourïeda, all that wastimid in her pined to go. It was surprising—if anything could surprise her then—tohear that she must remain.

"Almost surely I shan't be allowed to seeOurïeda again, and if I can't help her anymore I might as well beg father to send for

me at once," she told herself, when BenRâana, formally taking leave of her, withhand on forehead and heart, had gone. Shewent slowly and miserably to her ownroom to await developments, and whileshe waited, hastily wrote the message toColonel DeLisle which three days laterfound him at Touggourt.

In writing, she feared that her letter mightnever be allowed to reach her father; butshe wronged Ben Râana. He had spokenno more than the truth (though he spoke tohurt) in saying he would rather die thanbetray a trust. At that time he still kept hiscalmness, because the plot arranged by thetwo girls had not succeeded. His daughterwas still safe under his own roof, and itwas not an unexpected blow to him that

she should have wished to escape fromTahar. He knew in his heart that Ourïedawas more to blame than Sanda, and seeingshame on the young, pale face of theRoumia he had no fear of anything GeorgeDeLisle's daughter might report to herfather. Her letter went by the courier, asall her other letters had gone. Mabrouka'sadvice to keep it back, or at least to steamthe envelope open and see what wasinside, was scorned by Ben Râana; and toSanda's astonishment she was actuallysent for to visit Ourïeda.

This was in the afternoon of the daywhose dawn had seen the girls' defeat.Ourïeda was in bed, and Taous sat by theopen door with an embroidery frame. ButTaous understood neither French nor

English. In exchange for the lessonsOurïeda gave Sanda in Arabic, Sanda hadgiven lessons in English; therefore, lestAunt Mabrouka might be listening, andlest she might have picked up more Frenchthan she cared to confess, the two girlschose the language of which Ourïeda hadlearned to understand more than she couldspeak.

"How thankful I am to see you, dearest!"cried Sanda. "Didn't you think, after whatyour aunt said, that I should be sent awaythis morning? Would you have dreamed,even if I stayed, that we should beallowed to meet and talk like this?"

Ourïeda answered, slowly and brokenly,that she had not believed Sanda would bepermitted to go. Aunt Mabrouka had not

stopped to reflect when she had made thatthreat, or else she had hoped to part them,and to make Ourïeda believe Sanda hadgone. "You see," the girl explained in herhalting English, "they—my father and myaunt—shall have too much of the fear tolet you go till after all is finished."

"Finished?"

"When the marrying has been over thoucanst go. Then it too late. My father shallbe sure, thee and me, we know where M—— is, that our plan was for him. I sayno, but he not believe. That is for why theykeep thee here, so thou not tell M——things about me. But my father, he shallnot be mean and little in his mind like myaunt. He not listen to the words she speakwhen she say not let us meet together. My

father know very well now we shall befinded out, it is the end for us. He not havefear for what we do if some person shallwatch to see I not kill myself."

"What has become of poor Embarka?"Sanda asked.

Ourïeda shook her head, unutterablesadness in her eyes. "I think never shall Iknow that in this world."

Ill, without feigning, as the girl was, thewedding was to be hurried on. Theoriginal idea had been for the week ofwedding festivities to begin on the girl'sseventeenth birthday; but now Ben Râanasaid that, in promising his daughter thedelay she asked for, he had alwaysintended to begin the week before and

give the bride to the bridegroom on theanniversary of her birth.

Ourïeda no longer pleaded. She had givenup hope, and resigned herself with thedeadly calmness of resignation which onlywomen of the Mussulman faith can feel. Itwas clear that her will was not as Allah'swill. And women came not on earth forhappiness. It was not sure that they evenhad souls.

"Allah has appointed that I marry mycousin Tahar," she said to Sanda, "and Ishall marry him, because I have notanother stiletto nor any poison, and I amalways watched so that, even if I had thecourage, I could not throw myself downfrom the roof. But afterward—I am notsure yet what I shall do. All I know is that

I shall never be a wife to Tahar.Something will happen to one of us. It maybe to me, or it may be to him. Butsomething must happen."

The Agha himself had caused to be built atDjazerta a hammam copied in miniatureafter a fine Moorish bath in Algiers, atwhich he bathed when he went north toattend the governor's yearly ball. All Arabbrides of high rank or low must go throughgreat ceremonies of the bath in the weekof the wedding feast, and no exceptioncould be made in Ourïeda's case. Theprivacy of the hammam was secured forthe Agha's daughter by hiring it for a day,and no one was to be admitted to thewomen's part of the bath except the fewladies who had enough social importance

to expect invitations. That Lella Mabroukaand Sanda would be there was a matter ofcourse; and, besides them, there were thewives and daughters of two or threesheikhs and caids, all of whom Sandaalready knew by sight, as they had paidceremonious visits to the great man'sharem since her arrival at Djazerta.

The Agha had a carriage, large, old-fashioned, and musty-smelling, but linedwith gold-stamped crimson silk fromTunis. It could be used only between hishouse and the town, or to reach the oasisjust beyond, for there was nowhere else togo; but, drawn by stalwart mules inSpanish harness, for years it had taken theladies of his household to the baths andback. Lella Mabrouka and Taous (both

veiled, though they had passed the age ofattractiveness when hiding the face isobligatory) chaperoned the bride and herfriend, the coachman and his assistantbeing fat and elderly eunuchs.

At the doorway of the domed building, theonly new one in Djazerta, there was muchstately fuss of screening the ladies as theyleft the seclusion of the carriage. Thencame a long, tiled corridor, which openedinto a room under the dome of thehammam, and there the party was met notonly by bowing female attendants, but bythe guests, who had arrived early towelcome them. Ourïeda was receivedwith pretty cries and childlike, excitedchattering, not only by her girl friends, butthe older women. All were undressed,

ready for the bath, or they could not havefollowed the bride to the hot rooms; andthat was the object and pleasure of thevisit. Every one shrieked compliments asthe clothing of the Agha's daughter wasdelicately removed by the beamingnegresses; and gifts of gold-spangledbonbons, wonderfully iced cakes,crystallized fruit, flowers, gilded bottlesof concentrated perfume, mother-o'-pearland tortoise boxes, gaudy silkhandkerchiefs made in Paris for Algerianmarkets, and little silver fetiches werepresented to the bride. She thanked thegivers charmingly, though in a manner sosubdued and with a face so grave that thevisitors would have been astonished hadnot Lella Mabrouka explained that she hadbeen ill with an attack of fever.

From hot room to hotter room the womentrooped, resting, when they felt inclined,upon mattings spread on marble, while thebride, the queen of the occasion, wasgiven a divan. They ate sweets and drankpink sherbet or syrup-sweet coffee, and,instead of being bathed by one of theattendants, Ourïeda was waited upon by agreat personage who came to Djazertaonly for the weddings of the highest.Originally she was from Tunis, where herprofession is a fine art; but having beensuperseded there she had moved toAlgiers, then to Touggourt; and thence theAgha had summoned her for his daughter.She was Zakia, la hennena, a skilledbeautifier of women; and she had beensent for, some days in advance of the greatoccasion, in order (being past her youth)

to recover from the fatigue of the journey.None of the young girls had ever seen her,and exclaiming with joy they fingered herscented pastes and powders.

This bridal bath ceremony, being moreintricate than any ordinary bath, took along time, and when it was over, andOurïeda a perfumed statue of ivory, thecooling-room was entered for the dyeingof the bride's hair. The girl's face showedhow she disliked the process; but it beingan unwritten law that the hair of an Arabbride must be coloured with sabgha, shesubmitted. After the first shudder she satwith downcast eyes, looking indifferent,for nothing mattered to her now. SinceManöel would never see it again, andperhaps it would soon lie deep under

earth in a coffin, she cared very little afterall that the long hair he had thoughtbeautiful must lose its lovely sheen forfashion's sake.

Now and then, as she worked, Zakiastooped over her victim, bringing her old,peering face close to the bowed face ofthe girl to make sure the dye did not touchit. Sanda, who had been grudginglygranted a thin muslin robe for the bathbecause of her strange Roumia ideas ofbaring the face and covering the body,noticed these bendings of la hennena, butthought nothing of them until she happenedto catch a new expression in Ourïeda'seyes. Suddenly the gloom of hopelessnesshad gone out of them: and it could not bethat this was the effect of the compliments

rained upon her in chorus by the guests,for until that instant the most fantasticpraise of hair, features, and figure had notextorted a smile. What could the womanhave said to give back in an instant thegirl's lost bloom and sparkle? Sandawondered. It was like a miracle. But itlasted only for a moment. Then it seemedthat by an effort Ourïeda masked herselfonce more with tragedy. She turned one ofher slow, sad glances toward her aunt; andSanda was sure she looked relieved onseeing Lella Mabrouka absorbed in talkwith the plump wife of a caid.

According to custom in great houses of thesouth, la hennena was escorted, after thewomen's fête at the hammam, to the homeof the bride, where she was to spend the

remainder of the festive week inheightening the girl's beauty. She wasgiven the guest-room of the harem, secondin importance to that occupied by ColonelDeLisle's daughter. This, as it happened,was nearer to Ourïeda's room than Sanda'sor even Lella Mabrouka's; and as, duringthe two days that followed, Zakia wasalmost constantly occupied in blanchingthe bride's ivory skin with almond paste,staining her fingers red as coral with adecoction of henna and cochineal, andsaturating her hair and body with a famouspermanent perfume, sometimes LellaMabrouka and Taous ventured to leave thetwo girls chaperoned only by la hennena.That was because neither had seen thesudden light in Ourïeda's eyes after theface of Zakia had approached hers at the

hammam.

For the first day there was no solution ofthe mystery for Sanda, who had waited tohear she knew not what. But at last, in aroom littered with pastes and perfumebottles, and lighted by the traditional longcandles wound with coloured ribbon,Ourïeda spoke, in Arabic, that thehennena might not be hurt.

"Zakia says I may tell thee our secret," shesaid. "At first she was afraid, but now shesees that she may trust thee as I do. Didstthou guess there was a secret?"

"Yes," answered Sanda.

"I thought so! Well, it is this: At thehammam is employed a cousin of

Embarka's. I feared never to hear ofEmbarka again; but my father is moreenlightened than I thought. He might haveordered her death, and the eunuchs wouldhave obeyed, and no one would ever haveknown. Yet he did no more than send heraway, giving her no time even to pack thatwhich was hers. He did not care whatbecame of her, being sure that she couldnever again enter our house. But he did notknow of the cousin in the hammam. Andperhaps he did not stop to think that Imight have given Embarka jewels forhelping me. She would have helpedwithout payment, because she loved me.But I wished to reward her. She hid thethings in her clothing; and when she wasturned out she still thought of me, not ofherself. She knew I would go to the

hammam before my marriage, and thatZakia had been sent for to bathe me andmake me beautiful. So she gave her cousinthere a present, and all the rest of thejewels she gave to Zakia, for a promiseZakia made. Nothing has Embarka kept ofall my gifts. It was like her! The rest iseasy now. I shall never again knowhappiness, but neither shall I know theshame of giving myself to a man I hatewhen heart and soul belong to one I love."

"Can la hennena help you to escape?"Sanda wanted to know.

"From Tahar, yes. Here is the way,"Ourïeda answered. And she held out forSanda to see a tiny pearl-studded goldbox, one of many quaint ornaments on achain the girl always wore round her neck.

She had explained the meaning or contentsof each fetich long ago, and Sanda knewall about the sacred eye from Egypt, thewhite coral horn to ward off evil, thesilver and emerald case with a text fromthe Koran blessed by a great saint ormarabout, and the pearl-crusted gold boxcontaining a lock of hair certified to bethat of Fatma Zora, the Prophet's favouritedaughter.

"I have put the hair with the text," saidOurïeda. "Look, in its place this tiny bottleof white powder. Canst thou guess what itis for?"

The blood rushed to Sanda's face, thenback to her heart. But she did not answer.She only looked at Ourïeda: a wide-eyed,fascinated look.

"Thou hast guessed," the Agha's daughtersaid in a very little voice like a child's."But I shall not use it if, when I have toldhim how I hate him, he consents to let mealone. If he is a fool, why, he brings hisfate on himself. This is for his lips, if theytry to touch mine."

"But," Sanda gasped; "you would be a——"

"I know the word in thy mind. It is'murderess.' Yet my conscience would beclear. It would be for the sake of my love—to keep true to my promise at any cost.And the cost might be my life. They wouldfind out; they would know how he died.This is no coward's act like smiling at aman and giving him each day powderedglass or chopped hair of a leopard in his

food, which many of our women do, to killand leave no trace. If I break, I pay."

As she spoke the door opened and LellaMabrouka came swiftly into the room,fierce-eyed as a tigress whose cub isthreatened. She was tight-lipped andsilent, but her eyes spoke, and all threeknew that she had listened. Such words asshe had missed her quick wit had caughtand patched together. Ourïeda's wish topropitiate Zakia by not seeming to talksecrets before her had undone them both.But it was too late for regrets, and evenfor lies.

Lella Mabrouka clapped her hands, andTaous came, to be told in a tense voicethat the Agha must be summoned. ThenMabrouka turned to the Roumia.

"Go, thou! This has nothing to do withthee," was all she said.

Sanda glanced at her friend, and ananswering glance bade her obey. She roseand went out, along the balcony to thedoor of her own room. This she left open,thinking with a fast-beating heart that ifthere were any cry she would run back, nomatter what they might do to her. But therewas no cry, no sound of any kind, only thecooing of doves which had flown downinto the fountain court, hoping Ourïedamight throw them corn.

The custom of the house was for the threeladies to take their meals together in aroom where occasionally, as a greathonour, the Agha dined with them. Thatevening a tray of food was brought to

Sanda with polite regrets from LellaMabrouka because she and her niece weretoo indisposed by the hot weather toforsake the shelter of their rooms.Politeness, always politeness, with theseArabs of high birth and manners! thoughtthe Irish-French girl in a passionate revoltagainst the curtain of silk velvet softly letdown between her and the secrets of BenRâana's harem. This time it might be, shesaid to herself, that politeness coveredtragedy. But the same night she receivedanother message from Mabrouka. It wasmerely to say that, the air of Djazerta notbeing healthful at this time of year, theAgha had decided, for his daughter's sake,to finish the week of the wedding feast outin the desert, at the douar.

CHAPTER XXITHE ELEVENTH HOUR

When Max, at the head of his smallcaravan, came in sight of the Agha'sdouar, it was almost noon, and the desert,shimmering with heat, was motionless, asif under enchantment. They had travelledthrough the night, after learning that BenRâana and his family had gone fromDjazerta, with intervals of rest no longerthan those allowed to the Legion onmarch. What they saw was a giant tent aslarge as a circus tent in a village ofAmerica or Europe surrounded at adistance by an army of little tents, black

and dirty brown, so flat and low that theywere like huge bats with outstretchedwings resting on the sand. The great tent ofthe chief with its high roof, its vast spreadof white, red, and amber striped cloth ofclose-woven camel's hair, rose noblyabove all the others, as a mosque risesabove a crowd of prostrate worshippersat prayer. For background, there was aclump of trees; for here, in the far southerndesert, just outside a waving welter ofdunes, lay a region of dayas, where awilderness of sand and tumbled stoneswas brightened by green hollows half fullof gurgling water.

Never before had Max seen a douar ofimportance, the desert dwelling of adesert chief. But Manöel had been here

before; and the camel-drivers, if they hadnot visited this douar, were familiar withothers. Max alone wondered at the greattent, whose many different compartmentssheltered the Agha, his whole family, andservants brought from Djazerta. As thecaravan wound nearer to watching eyes,another tent, not so big, but new andbrilliant of colour, separated itself fromthe vast bulk of the tente sultane.

"What is that?" Max asked Manöel, whorode beside him as interpreter, his dark-stained face almost covered by the whitefolds of his woollen hood, the fire of hisyoung eyes dimmed and aged by a pair ofcheap, silver-rimmed spectacles such aselderly Arabs wear.

"The Agha must have ordered that new

tent to be set up for Tahar," Manöelanswered gruffly; and Max guessed fromthe sharpening of his tone and the brevityof his explanation that this was the desertdwelling appointed for the bridegroomwhen he should take his bride.

In the boldness of their plan lay its hope ofsuccess; for though Ben Râana'ssuspicions were on the alert he would notexpect the banished lover to ride brazenlyup to his tent, side by side with a soldiermessenger from Colonel DeLisle. Therewas an instant of suspense after thecorporal on leave and his Arab interpreterwere received by the Agha in a reception-room whose walls were red woollendraperies; but it was scarcely longer thana heartbeat. Ben Râana had just come out

from another room beyond, where, thecurtains falling apart, several guests in thehigh turbans of desert dignitaries could beseen seated on cushions and waited uponby Soudanese men who were serving ameal.

The Agha scarcely glanced at Max'scompanion, the dark, spectacled Arab, butannouncing in French that no interpreterwould be needed, he clapped his hands tosummon a servant. One of the black menlifted the red curtains higher and came in,received instructions as to the interpreter'sentertainment, and led him away. Maxcould hardly keep back a sigh of relief, forthat had been a bad moment. Now it wasover, and with it his personalresponsibility in his friend's adventure. It

had been agreed between them thatColonel DeLisle's messenger to BenRâana should have no further hand in theplot against the Agha. The rest was forManöel alone, unless at the end helpshould be necessary (and possible) forOurïeda's rescue.

Max delivered a letter from DeLisle, andthe Agha read it slowly through. Then heraised his eyes and fixed them upon theLegionnaire as if wondering how far hemight be in his colonel's confidence.

"My friend has sent thee to escort hisdaughter to Sidi-bel-Abbés," Ben Râanasaid thoughtfully. "Although he cannot bethere himself, he believes the northernclimate will be better for her health at thistime of year. Perhaps he is right; though

my daughter, whom she has visited, wouldhave been delighted as a married womanto keep Mademoiselle DeLisle with her.However, my friend's will is as Allah'swill. It must be done. The day after to-morrow my daughter's wedding feast willbe over and she will go to her husband'stent. Remain here quietly till then as myguest. Thy interpreter and the persons ofthy caravan shall be well cared for, Ipromise thee, by my household. When mydaughter leaves me the daughter of myfriend shall go in peace at the same hour,in thy charge."

As he spoke his eyes remained on themessenger's face, watching for any changeof expression, and noting the flush thatmounted through the soldier-tan.

"I am very sorry," said Max, "but ColonelDeLisle has given me only short leave.There was just enough time to get me toDjazerta, from Touggourt, and to do thejourney comfortably to Sidi-bel-Abbés.He is a prompt man, as you know. Hethinks and acts quickly. It didn't occur tohim that there need be any great delay.Already there has been a day lostreturning from Djazerta, where I heard thatyou were at your douar. A day and a halfhere, much as I should like to be yourguest, would mean overstaying my leave.That, you will see, is impossible."

"If it is impossible, I fear that thou must gofrom here with thy mission unfulfilled andwithout Mademoiselle," replied the Agha,irritatingly calm. "For on my side it is

impossible to let her go before mydaughter is—safely married."

He smiled as he spoke, but the pause andthe emphasis on a certain word weredeliberate. Max was meant to understandit, in case DeLisle had confided in him. Ifnot, it did not matter; he would realize thathe had had his ultimatum. Max did realizethis, and, after a stunned second, acceptedthe inevitable.

"I'll write to Sidi-bel-Abbés and explain.It's all I can do," was the thought whichran through his head as he politelyinformed the Agha that he would, at anycost, wait for Mademoiselle DeLisle.

"May I see her and deliver in person aletter I have from her father?" he asked.

But Ben Râana regretted that this might notbe until all was ready for the start, whichmust be made in the evening after the endof the marriage feast, unless Corporal St.George preferred to wait till the morningafter. The customs of a country must berespected by those sojourning in thatcountry; and the Arab ladies visiting thedouar would be scandalized if a younggirl were allowed to speak with a strangeman. There was nothing for it butsubmission, and Max submitted, inwardlyraging. He wrote explanations to theofficer left in charge at Sidi-bel-Abbés,the man to whom he must report; but noletter could reach DeLisle for manyweeks.

He was entertained as the Agha's guest,

being introduced to Tahar Ben Hadj andseveral caids invited for the bridegroom'spart of the festivities. There was muchfeasting, with music and strange dances inTahar's tent at night, and outside, fantasiafor the douar in honour of the wedding;sheep roasted whole, and "powder play."What was going on in the bride's half ofher father's great tent Max did not know,but he fancied that, above the beating ofTahar's tomtoms and the wild singing ofan imported Arab tenor, he could hearsoft, distant wailings of the ghesbah andthe shrill "You—you—you!" of excitedwomen. He wondered if Sanda knew thathe had come to take her away, andwhether Manöel had contrived to send amessage to the bride.

That same night Khadra Bent Djellab, thewoman who had travelled from Touggourtto return as Sanda's attendant, came fromthe camp of the caravan asking if shemight see her new mistress. All was hurryand confusion in the women's part of thetente sultane, for a great feast was goingon which would last through most of thenight. The excited servants told Khadrathat she must go, and come again to thetent in the morning; but just then the musicfor a dance of love began, and Khadrabegged so hard to stay that she wasallowed to stand with the servants. Shehad never seen Sanda DeLisle, but she hadbeen told by the interpreter ("an orderfrom the master," said he, slipping a five-

franc piece into her hand) that there wouldbe no other Roumia in the company. WhenKhadra caught sight of a golden-brownhead, uncovered among the headswrapped in coloured silks or gauze, shecautiously edged nearer it, behind thedouble rank of serving-women. All wereabsorbed in staring at the dancing-girl, acelebrity who had been brought from anoasis town farther south. She had arrivedat Djazerta and had travelled to the douarwhen the family hastily flitted; but thiswas the night of her best dance. Nobodyremembered Khadra. When she was closebehind Sanda she pretended to drop a bigsilk handkerchief, such as Arab womenlove. Squatting down to pick it up, shecontrived to thrust into a small white handhanging over an edge of the divan a ball of

crumpled paper, and gently shut thefingers over it. A few months, or evenweeks, ago Sanda would have started atthe touch and looked round. But her longstay among Arab women, and the drama ofthe last eight days, had schooled her toself-control. Instantly she realized thatsome new plot was on, and that she was tobe mixed up in it. She was deadly sick ofplotting, but she loved Ourïeda, and hadadvised her not to give up hope until thelast minute. Perhaps something unexpectedmight come to pass. With that soft, secrettouch on her hand, and the feel of thepaper in her palm, she knew that herprophecy was being fulfilled.

Not far away sat the bride, raised highabove the rest of the company on a kind of

throne made of carved wood, painted redand thickly gilded. It had servedgenerations of brides in the Agha's family,and had been brought out from Djazerta.Sanda glanced up from the divan ofcushions on which she and the otherwomen guests reclined to see if Ourïedawas looking her way. But the girl's greateyes were fixed and introspective.

When Sanda was sure that LellaMabrouka and Taous, her spy, were bothintent on the figure posturing in the clearedspace in the centre of the room, shecautiously unfolded the ball of paper.Holding it on her lap, half hidden by theframe of her hands, she saw a fine, clearblack writing, a writing new to her. Thewords—French words—seemed to spring

to her eyes:

"Tell Ourïeda that I am here. Shewill know who. Perhaps you knowalso. There is only one thing to do.She must go, when the time comes,to Tahar's tent, but let her have nofear. At night, when her bridegroomshould come to her, I will comeinstead and take her away. No onewill know till the morning after, sowe shall have a long start. For awhile I will hide her in a house atDjazerta, where I have friends whowill keep us safe until the search isover. No one will think of the town.All will believe that we have joinedyou and the caravan which yourfather has sent in charge of CorporalSt. George. It is with him I havecome, for I, too, am a Legionnaire. I

hope to see St. George and explainmy latest plans, but already heknows that I shall try and reachSpain or Italy. There I can makemyself known without fear ofcapture and imprisonment. I can getengagements and money. If anythingprevents my seeing St. Georgeagain, after I have started, show himthis, or let him know what I havesaid.

Sanda's cheeks, which had been pale,brightened to carnation as she read; but thedancer held all eyes. The girl crumpled upthe letter and palmed it again, wonderinghow to show it to Ourïeda, for they hadnot once been allowed a moment alone in

each other's company since the scene withla hennena. Not that Sanda was suspectedof a hand in that affair, but she might havea hand in another plot. The thing was,politely and kindly, to keep her a prisoneruntil after Ourïeda had gone to herhusband. Then Tahar could protect hisproperty; and once an Arab girl ismarried, she is seldom asked to elope,even by the bravest and most enterprisingof lovers. Some pretext must be thought offor the giving of Manöel's letter. But what—what?

The answer was not long in coming. Afterthe dance all the women, with theexception of the throned, bejewelledbride, sprang or scrambled up from theircushions to congratulate the celebrity.

Some of them testified their admiration byoffering her rings, anklets, or little gildedbottles of attar-of-rose which they hadbeen holding in their handkerchiefs; andeven Aunt Mabrouka's sharp eyes did notsee Sanda slip the ball of paper intoOurïeda's hand when passing the throne togive a gold brooch to the favourite.

The bride herself was forgotten for a fewminutes. Every one was caressing thedancer, patting her much-ringed hands, ortouching her bracelets and counting thealmost countless gold coins of her headornaments and necklace. When Sandadared glance across the crowd towardOurïeda she saw by the look in her eyesthat the girl had read the letter.

CHAPTER XXIITHE HEART OF MAX

Max had resigned himself days ago toJuan Garcia's desertion from the Legion,since the girl must be saved. But he wasfar from happy about his own position.The danger was that the day when he wasdue to report himself at Sidi-bel-Abbéswould come and he would be absent. Hisletter of explanation ought to have arrivedby that time, but it might be considered thetrick of a deserter. And even when heappeared, the news of Garcia's desertionfrom his caravan must be told. The loss ofa man would be a black mark against him,

and he would probably forfeit the stripeon which he had been congratulated by thecolonel.

There was consolation in the thought ofseeing Sanda again, and the certainty thatshe would "stand up" for him; but he didnot realize just how much that consolationwould mean, until, after the delay of a dayand a half, word came that MademoiselleDeLisle was ready to leave her friend.The caravan had been assembled andwaiting for the last hour, and Max knewthat the bride must have gone to herhusband's tent. The music had been wilderthan before, the women's cries of joylouder and more triumphant; and while hehad been examining the trappings ofSanda's camel a procession had gone by

carrying aloft several big boxes drapedwith brocade and cloth-of-gold: thebride's luggage on its way to her newhome. The feasting in the tente sultanewould continue all that night, as on othernights; but Ourïeda and Tahar would beleft quietly in the tent of the bridegroom,alone until after dawn, when Tahar wouldsteal away and the girl's women friendswould rush in to wish her joy. That wouldbe the hour, Max told himself, when allwould be found out, and the chase wouldbegin. He had seen Manöel once since thelast details of the plot to rescue Ourïedahad been settled. He knew that Manöelhad sent a letter to her through Sanda, towhom it had been given; but he was notsure if Sanda had been warned of the partshe would have to play.

It was of this, more than the personality ofSanda herself, that he thought, as hewaited, expecting her to come out from theAgha's tent. But instead, she came fromanother direction, and he did not recognizethe slim figure in Arab dress until thewell-remembered voice spoke through thewhite veil:

"It is—my Soldier St. George!" Sandacried in English, and a thrill ran throughthe young man's blood. He forgot all abouthimself, his risks and his perplexities, andnothing seemed to matter except thatSanda DeLisle had come back into his life—the girl whose long, soft hair brushedhis face in dreams, the girl who had savedhis belief in womanhood and raised up forhim, in his black need, a new ideal.

A tall negro woman, whose forehead wasa strip of ebony, whose eyes were beadsof jet above her snowy veil, accompaniedMademoiselle DeLisle, and the two hadarrived from the bridegroom's tent, wheredoubtless Sanda had been bidding thebride good-bye. Max realized that herattendant would be shocked if he shouldoffer to shake hands with the girl, so heonly bowed, and answered hastily inEnglish that he was glad—glad to see heragain—glad to have the honour of beingher guide. Khadra was brought forward,and Sanda spoke a few words to her inArabic. Then the girl was helped into herbassourah, luggage being brought out byeunuchs from the Agha's tent and packedin to balance the other side. Only when theRoumia had retired behind the blue and

red and purple curtains did Ben Râanaappear to wish his friend's daughter andmessenger the blessing of Allah on theirjourney. The caravan started, and it wasnot until after the douar, with its greendaya and background of trees, was dim inthe distance that Sanda's curtains parted.Max, riding the only horse in the party,saw the trembling of the rainbow-coloured stuff, and glanced up, expectant.He found that his heart and all his pulseswere hammering, and as the girl's gold-brown head appeared, her veil thrown off,something seemed to leap in his breast,something that gave a bound like that of agreat fish on a hook. She looked down andsmiled at him rather sadly, yet moresweetly it seemed to Max than any otherwoman had ever smiled. He had not

realized or remembered how beautiful shewas. Why, it was the most exquisite facein the world! An angel's face, yet the faceof a human girl. He adored it as a manmay adore an angel, and he loved it as aman loves a woman. A great andirresistible tide of love rushed over him.What a fool, what a young, simple fool hehad been to think that he had ever lovedBillie Brookton! That seemed hundreds ofyears ago, in another incarnation, when hehad been undeveloped, when his soul hadbeen asleep. His soul was awake now!Something had awakened it; life in theLegion, perhaps, for that had begun toshow him his own capabilities; or elselove itself, which had been waiting to say:"I am here, now and forever."

Max was almost afraid to look at Sandalest she should read through his eyes thewords written on his heart. But then heremembered in a flash her love forStanton, which would blind her to suchfeelings in other men. He felt sick for aninstant in his hopelessness. Wherever heturned, whatever he did, happinessseemed never to be for him.

"You don't know how glad I am to seeyou!" the girl explained. "I've thought ofyou so often and—" she was going to addimpulsively—"and dreamed about you,too!" but she remembered the Arab sayingwhich Ourïeda had told her: that when awoman dreams of a man, that is the manshe loves. It was a silly saying, anduntrue; yet she kept back the words in a

queer sort of loyalty to Stanton—Stanton,who neither thought nor dreamed of her.

"I was so thankful when I heard my fatherhad sent for me," she quickly went on. "Iheard about it only through that letter—you know the one I mean."

"Yes, I know," said Max. "I felt they didn'tmean to tell you till the last minute, thoughI could see no reason why. I—I was morethan glad and proud to be the one tocome."

He was not hoping unselfishly thatColonel DeLisle mightn't have told in hisletter how the great march and theexpected fight had been sacrificed for hersake. He was not hoping this, because inhis sudden awakening to love he had

forgotten the march. He was thinking ofSanda and the wild happiness that wouldturn to pain in memory of being with herfor days in the desert. If, when he reachedSidi-bel-Abbés, he were blamed for thedelay, and punished by losing his stripe,or even by prison, it would be nothing, oralmost a joy, because he would besuffering for her.

"It was only to-day they gave me father'sletter, which you brought," Sanda wassaying. "It was short, written in a hurry, inanswer to one I sent begging him to takeme away. Yet he mentioned one thing: thathe didn't order you, but only asked if youwere willing, to come. And he told mewhat you answered. I can never thank you,but I do appreciate it—all!"

"It was my selfishness," answered Max. "Isaid that the colonel was giving me theCross of the Legion of Honour. I felt that,then. I feel it a lot more now." There wasmore truth in this than he wished her toguess.

"You are the realest friend!" cried Sanda."Why, do you know, now I come to thinkof it, unless I count my father, you are theonly real friend I have in the world?"

"You forget Mr. Stanton!" Max remindedher, without intending to be cruel.

She blushed, and Max hated himself as ifhe had brought the colour to her face witha blow.

"No," she answered quietly. "I never

forget him. But you understand, because Itold you everything, that in my heart I can'tcall him my friend. He doesn't careenough, and I—care too much."

"Forgive me!" Max begged. "All the sameI know he must care. He wouldn't behuman not to."

"He isn't human! He's superhuman!" Shelaughed, to cover her pain of humiliation."I suppose—long ago—he has started outon his wonderful mission. I keep thinkingof him travelling on and on through thedesert, and I pray he may be safe, andsucceed in finding the Lost Oasis hebelieves in. He told me in Algiers that tofind it would crown his life."

"He hadn't started when I left Touggourt,"

Max said rather dryly.

"What—he was still there? Then my fathermust have seen him. How strange! Hedidn't refer to him at all."

"You mentioned that the colonel wrote ina hurry." Max hinted at this explanation tocomfort her, but he guessed why DeLislehad not been in a mood to speak of Stantonto his daughter. "There is a reason," hehad said, "why I don't want to ask Stantonto put off starting and go to Djazerta." AndMax, having seen the dancer, Ahmara, hadknown without telling what the reasonwas.

"Do you think Richard may be there whenwe get to Touggourt?" she asked,shamefaced, yet not able to resist putting

the question.

"I think it's very likely." Max tried to keephis tone at reassuring level, though hehoped devoutly that Stanton might be gone.He could not bear to think of his seeingSanda again after the Ahmara episode.With a man of Stanton's strange, erraticnature and wild impulses, who could besure whether—but Max would not let thethought finish in his mind.

Sanda suddenly dropped the subject.Whether this was because she saw thatMax disliked it, or whether she had nomore to say, he could not guess.

"Tell me about yourself, now," she said."My father has told me some things inletters, but I long to know from you if I

made a mistake in wanting you to try theLegion."

"You made no mistake. It's one of thethings I have to thank you for—one ofseveral very great things," said Max.

"What other things? I can't think of oneunless you thank me for having a splendidfather."

"That's one thing."

"Are there more?"

"Yes."

"Tell me, please. Anyway, the greatest, orI shan't believe in any."

Max was silent for an instant. Then he

said in a voice so low she could hardlyhear it, bending down from her bassourah,"For giving me back my faith in women."

"I? But you hadn't lost it."

"I was in danger of losing it, with most ofmy mental and moral baggage. Throughyou—I've kept the lot."

"That's the most beautiful thing ever saidto me. And it does me so much good afterall I've gone through and been blamedfor!"

"Who's dared to blame you for anything?"

"I asked you to tell me about yourself.When you have done that I'll tell youthings that have happened here, thingsconcerning Manöel Valdez and Ourïeda—

poor darling Ourïeda, whom I ought to bethinking of every instant! And so I am,only I can't help being happy to get away—with you."

There was sweet pain in hearing those lastwords, and the emphasis the caressinggirl-voice gave. Max hurried through avague list of such events as seemed fit forSanda's ears. They were not many, sincehe did not count his fights among thementionable ones. He told her, with moredetail, about his acquaintance withValdez, whose face she had remarked atthe railway station at Sidi-bel-Abbés; andthen claimed her promise. She must tellhim, if she would (with a sudden dropfrom the happy way of Max Doran withwomen to the humbler way of Max St.

George, Legionnaire), what she had gonethrough in the Agha's house.

She began by asking a question. "Didn'tyou think it queer that no one but a servantcame out to see me off?"

"I did a little, but I put it down to Arabmanners."

"It was because I left in disgrace. Oh! noone was ever rude! They were politealways. It was like being stuffed with toomuch honey. And I don't mean Ourïeda, ofcourse. Ourïeda's a darling. I'd doanything for her. I've proved that! Did myfather give you any idea why he had tosend for me in a hurry, though he has toleave me alone—or rather in charge ofpeople I don't know—at Bel-Abbés? He

must have told you something, as he askedsuch a sacrifice."

"He needn't have told me anything at all.But he took me into his confidence—itwas like him—far enough to say the Aghawas offended somehow, and you wereanxious to leave."

"I should think the Agha was offended! Itried to help Ourïeda to escape, eventhough she hadn't heard from her Manöel.She had lots of jewels, and thought shemight get to France. We failed in ourattempt, and after that we were neveralone together, though they—her fatherand aunt—didn't want me to go till shewas married. The idea at first was—whenI arrived, I mean—that my visit shouldn'tend till father came back. They meant me

to stop on with Ourïeda, as she and herhusband would live at her old home atDjazerta. The last plot wasn't mine. It wasgot up by an old nurse they'd sent away,and a weird woman, a kind of Arabbeauty-doctor. But all the same they wereafraid of me. They longed to have megone, yet, for their own superstitious,secretive reasons, they were afraid to letme go. As I had to stay so long, I'd ratherhave stopped a little longer, so as to knowwhat becomes of Ourïeda. They made mesay good-bye to her in Tahar's tent, whereshe is waiting, all dressed up like a doll,till the hour at night when her husbandchooses to come to her. Instead, we hope—— But I can hardly bear it, not to know!Shall we ever know?"

"It may be a long time before Manöel cansend us any word," said Max. "But weshall hear, I suppose, about Tahar."

"Oh, Manöel doesn't mean to kill him,does he? Ourïeda said he wouldn't do that!But Arab women are so strange, sodifferent from us, I don't believe she'dcare much if he did; except that if he werea murderer they could seize him, even inanother country—Spain, where they bothhope to go when they can get out ofDjazerta."

"Manöel wouldn't care much, either,except for that same reason," Maxadmitted. "But he does care for that. Heintends only to surprise and stun Tahar.He doesn't want his life with Ourïedaspoiled, for he'll be a public character,

you know, if he succeeds in escaping fromAlgeria. He'll be a great singer. He cantake back his own name."

"Why not France?" Sanda wanted toknow. "Surely France would be better fora singer than Spain, or even Italy?"

"Perhaps, but, you see, he has had todesert from the Legion. In France he couldbe brought back to Algeria to the penalbattalion."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that!"

"It was—a hateful necessity, hisdeserting."

Sanda looked at him anxiously. "Will itmake trouble for you?"

"Possibly. I hoped it needn't happen. But ithad to. There was no other way in theend."

"How he must love Ourïeda, to risk allthat for her sake!"

"He risked a great deal more."

"What—but, oh, yes, you told me! Theway he came into the Legion, and all that.I wonder—I wonder if there are many menin the world who would do as much for awoman?"

"I think so," said Max quietly. "You don'tcount the cost very much when you are inlove."

He was to remember that speech beforemany days.

"They're wonderful, men like that!" Sandamurmured. "And there's more risk tocome, for Ourïeda and himself. A little forus, too, isn't there?"

"Not for you, please God! And very littlefor any of us. But I see you know whatManöel expects to happen."

"Oh, yes, that they'll run after us, thinkingthat he has followed with Ourïeda, to joinour caravan. I do hope the Agha will sendhis men after us, for that will make us surethose two have got away. If we hearsounds of pursuit we'll hurry on quickly.Then the chase will have farther to goback, and Manöel and Ourïeda will gaintime. The more ground we can coverbefore we're come up with by the Agha'scamels, who'll be superior to ours, the

better it will be, won't it?"

"Yes, for if the Agha lets Djazerta alone,Manöel may contrive to slip out of thetown sooner than he dared hope, welldisguised, in a caravan of strangers not ofBen Râana's tribe. In that case the Agha ofDjazerta would have no right to searchamong the women. And Manöel's splendidat disguise. His actor's training has taughthim that."

"I feel now that he will get Ourïeda out ofthe country. They've suffered too much anddared too much to fail in the end."

"I hope so; I think so," Max answered. Buthe knew that in real life stories didsometimes end badly. His own, forinstance. He could see no happy ending

for that.

They pushed on as fast as the animalscould go when a long march and not amere spurt of speed was before them.Through the mysterious sapphire darknessof the desert night the padding feet of thecamels strode noiselessly over the hardsand. Sanda asked Max to offer extra payto the men if they would put up with anabbreviated rest. Only three hours theypaused to sleep; and then, in the duskbefore dawn, when all living things are asshadows, the camels were wakened tosnarl with rage while their burdens wereruthlessly strapped on again. As Max gaveSanda a cup of hot coffee (which he hadmade for her, as Legionnaires make it,strong and black) she said, shivering a

little, "Do you think they'll have foundTahar yet if—if——"

"Hardly yet! Not till daylight," answeredMax. "Are you cold? These desert nightscan be bitter, even in summer. Won't youlet me put something more around you?"

"No, thanks. It's only excitement thatmakes me shiver. I'm thinking of Ourïedaand Manöel. I've been thinking of theminstead of sleeping. But I'm not tired. I feelall keyed up; as if something wonderfulwere going to happen to me, too."

Something wonderful was happening toMax. But she had no idea of that. Shewould never know, he thought.

All day they journeyed on, save for a short

halt at noon, and Max was happy. He triedto recall and quote to himself a verse ofTennyson's "Maud"—"Let come whatcome may; What matter if I go mad, I shallhave had my day!" He was having his day—just that one day more, because on thenext they would come to Touggourt, and ifStanton were there he would spoileverything.

At night they went on till late, as before;but the camel-men said that the animalsmust have a longer rest. Luckily it did notmatter now if they were caught. If Manöeland Ourïeda had escaped they had had along start. A little after midnight the vastsilence of the sand-ocean was broken withcries and shoutings of men. The Arabs, notknowing of the expected raid, stumbled up

from their beds of bagging and ran toprotect the camels; but Max, who had notundressed, walked out from the little campto meet a cavalcade of men.

Ben Râana himself rode in advance,mounted on a swift-running camel. In theblue gloom where the stars were nightlights Max recognized the long blackbeard of the Agha flowing over his whitecloak. None rode near him. Tahar was notthere. Max took that as a good sign.

"Who are you?" demanded the uniformedLegionnaire in his halting Arabic. "In thename of France, I demand your business."

Ben Râana, recognizing him also,impatiently answered in French, "And Idemand my daughter!"

"Your daughter? Ah, I see! It is the Aghaof Djazerta. But what can we know ofyour daughter? We left her beingmarried."

"I think thou knowest well," Ben Râanacut him short furiously, "that her marriagewas not consummated. I cherished a viperin my bosom when I entertained in myhouse the child of George DeLisle. Shehas deceived me, and helped my daughterto deceive."

"I cannot hear Mademoiselle DeLislespoken of in that way, even by mycolonel's friend, sir," said Max. "If yourdaughter has run away——"

"If! Thou knowest well that she has runaway with her lover, who has half

murdered the man who should by now beher husband. Thou knowest andMademoiselle knows!"

"You are mistaken," broke in Max, nottroubling to hide his anger. "If you thinkyour daughter——"

"I think she is here! But thou canst notprotect her from me. Try, and thou andevery man with thee shall perish."

"Search our camp," said Max.

As he spoke, Sanda appeared at the doorof the mean little tent hired for her atTouggourt. From the shelter of thebassourah, close by on the sand, Khadrapeeped out. The search was made quicklyand almost without words. If the power of

France had not been behind the soldierand the girl whom Ben Râana now hated,he would have reverted—"enlightened"man as he was—to primitive methods. Hewould have killed the pair with his ownhand, while the men of his goum put theArabs to death, and all could have beenburied under the sand save the camels,which would have been led back toDjazerta. But France was mighty and farreaching, and he and his tribe would haveto pay too high for such indulgence.

When he was sure that Ourïeda andManöel Valdez were not concealed in thecamp, with cold apologies and farewellshe turned with his men and rode offtoward the south—a band of shadows inthe night. The visit had been like a dream,

the desert dream that Sanda had had ofMax, Max of Sanda. Yet dimly it seemedto both that these dreams had meant morethan this. The girl let her "Soldier St.George" warm her small, icy hands, andcomfort her with soothing words.

"You were not treacherous," he said."You did exactly right. You deservehappiness for helping to make that girlhappy. And you'll have it! You must! Youshall! I couldn't stand your not beinghappy."

"Already it's to-day," she half whispered,"to-day that we come to Touggourt. Thegreatest thing in my father's life happenedthere. I thought of that when I passedthrough before, and wondered what wouldhappen to me. Nothing happened. But

—what about to-day?"

"May it be something very good," Maxsaid steadily. But his heart was heavy, asin his hands her own grew warm.

CHAPTER XXIII"WHERE THE STRANGE ROADS GO

DOWN"

Shadows of evening flowed over thedesert like blue water out of whose depthsrose the golden crowns of the dunes. Thecaravan had still some miles of sandbillows between them and Touggourt,when suddenly a faint thrill of sound,which might have been the waking dreamof a tired brain, or a trick of wind, a soundscarcely louder than heart-throbs, grewdefinite and distinct: the distant beating ofAfrican drums, the shriek of räitas, and thesighing of ghesbahs. The Arabs on their

camels came crowding round Max, wholed the caravan, riding beside Sanda'smehari.

"Sidi," said their leader, "this music is notof earth, for Touggourt is too distant for usto hear aught from there. It is the devil. Itcomes from under the dunes. Such musicwe have heard in the haunted desert wherethe great caravan was buried beneath thesands, but here it is the first time, and it isa warning of evil. Something terrible isabout to happen. What shall we do—stophere and pray, though the sunset prayer ispast, or go on?"

"Go on, of course," ordered Max. "As forthe music, it must be that the wind brings itfrom Touggourt."

"It is not possible, Sidi," the camel-man,husband of Khadra, persisted. "Besides,there is no great feastday at this time, noteven a wedding or a circumcision, or weshould have heard before we started awaythat it was to be. Such playing, if from thehands of man, would mean some greatevent."

Even as he spoke the music grew louderand wilder. Max hurried the caravan on asfast as it could go among the sand billows,fearing that the Arabs' superstition mightcause a stampede. With every stride of thecamels' long, four-jointed legs, the musicswelled; and at the crest of a higher dunethan any they had climbed, Sanda, leaningout of her bassourah, gave a cry.

"A caravan—oh! but a huge caravan like

an army," she exclaimed, "or like a troopof ghosts. What if—what if it should beSir Knight just starting away?"

"I think it is he," Max answered heavily. "Ithink it must be Stanton getting off."

"We shall meet him. I can wish him good-bye and Godspeed! Soldier" (this was thename she had given Max), "it does seemas if heaven must have timed our comingand his going for this moment."

"Or the devil," Max amended bitterly inhis heart. But aloud he said nothing. Heknew that if he had spoken Sanda wouldnot have heard him then.

"Let's hurry on," she begged, "and meethim—and surprise him. He can't be angry.

He must be glad for father's sake, if not formine. Oh! come, Soldier, come, or I willgo alone!"

The man whose duty it was to guide hercamel had dropped behind, as had oftenhappened before at her wish and Max'sorder, for the mehari was a well-trainedand gentle beast, knowing by instinct theright thing to do. Now Sanda leaned farout and touched him on the neck. Squattingin the way of camels brought up amongdunes, he slid down the side of a biggolden billow, sending up a spray of sandas he descended. Below lay a valley,where the blue dusk poured in its tide; andmarching through the azure flood a train ofdark forms advanced rhythmically, as ifmoving to the music which they had

outstripped. It was a long procession ofmen and camels bearing heavy loads, solong that the end of it had not yet comeinto sight behind the next sand billow; butat its head a man rode on a horse, alone,with no one at his side. Already it was toodark to see his face, but Max knew who itwas. He felt the man's identity with aninstinct as unerring as Sanda's.

Also he longed to hasten after her andcatch up with the running camel, as hecould easily do, for his horse, though moredelicate and not as enduring, could gofaster. But, though Sanda had cried"Come!" he held back. She had hardlyknown what she said. She did not wanthim to be with her when she met Stanton;and if he—Max—wished to be there, it

was a morbid wish. Whether Stanton werekind or unkind to the girl, he, the outsider,would suffer more than he need let himselfsuffer, since he was not needed and wouldonly be in the way. Riding slowly andkeeping back the men of his own littlecaravan, who wished to dash forwardnow their superstitious fears were put toflight, Max saw Stanton rein up his horseas the mehari, bearing a woman'sbassourah, loped toward him; saw himstop in surprise, and then, no doubtrecognizing the face framed by thecurtains, jump off his horse and strideforward through the silky mesh of sandholding out his arms. The next instant hehad the girl in them, was lifting her downwithout waiting for the camel to kneel, forshe had sprung to him as if from the crest

of a breaking wave; and Max bit back anoath as he had to see Ahmara's lover crushSanda DeLisle against his breast.

It was only for an instant, perhaps, but forMax it was a red-hot eternity. He forgothis resolution to efface himself, andwhipped his horse forward. By the time hehad reached the two figures in the sand,however, the big, square-shouldered manin khaki and the slim girl in white had alittle space between them. Stanton hadreleased Sanda from his arms and set heron her feet; but he held both the littlewhite hands in his brown ones; and nowthat Max was near he could see a look onthe square sunburnt face which might havewon any woman, even if she had not beenhis in heart already. Max himself was

thrilled by it. He realized as he hadrealized in Algiers, but a thousand timesmore keenly, the vital, compellingmagnetism of the man.

No need for Sanda to wonder whether"Sir Knight" would be glad to see her! Hewas glad, brutally glad it seemed to Max,as the lion might be glad after long, lonelyways to chance upon his young andwilling mate.

"Curse him! How dare he look at her likethat, after Ahmara!" thought Max. Hisblood sang in his ears like the wickedvoice of the räita following the caravan.All that was in him of primitive manyearned to dash between the two andsnatch Sanda from Stanton. But the soldierin him, which discipline and modern

conventions had made, held him back.Sanda was Mademoiselle DeLisle, thedaughter of his colonel. He who had beenMax Doran was now nobody saveMaxime St. George, a little corporal in theForeign Legion, with hardly enough moneyleft to buy cigarettes. Ahmara had been anepisode. Now the episode was over, andin all probability Sanda, like most women,would have forgiven it if she knew. Shewas happy in Stanton's overmasteringlook. She did not feel it an insult, ordream that the devouring flame in the blueeyes was only a spurt of new fire in theashes of a burnt-out passion.

She must be mistaking it for love, and herheart must be shaken to ecstasy by thesurprise and joy of the miracle. Max knew

that if he rudely rode up to them in this,Sanda's great moment, nothing he couldsay or do would really part them, even ifhe were cad enough to speak of Ahmara,the dancer. Sanda would not believe, orelse she would not care; and always, forthe rest of her life, she would hate him. Hepulled up his horse as he thought, and satas though he were in chains. He was,according to his reckoning, out of earshot,but Stanton's deep baritone had thecarrying power of a 'cello. Max heard itsay in a tone to reach a woman's heart:"Child! You come to me like a whitedove. God bless you! I needed you. I don'tknow whether I can let you go."

Slowly Max turned his horse's head, andstill more slowly rode back to the caravan

which he had halted fifty feet away. For aninstant he hoped against hope that Sandawould hear the sound of his going, that shewould look after him and call. But deepdown in himself he knew that no girl inher place, feeling as she felt, would haveheard a cannon-shot. He explained to theastonished men that this was the greatexplorer, the Sidi who found newcountries where no other white men hadever been, and the young Roumia lady hadknown him ever since she was a child.The Sidi was starting out on a dangerousexpedition, and it was well that chancehad brought them together, for now thedaughter of the explorer's oldest friendcould bid him good-bye. They must waituntil the farewell had been given, thenthey would go on again.

The camel-men assented politely, withoutcomment. But Max heard Khadra say toher husband, "It is the Sidi who lovedAhmara. One would think he had forgottenher now. Or is it that he tries this way toforget?"

Max wished angrily that his ears wereless quick, and that he had not such auseless facility for picking up words outof every patois.

Half an hour passed, and the blue shadowsdeepened to purple. It was night, andTouggourt miles away. Still the two weretalking, and the darkness had closedaround them like the curtains of a tent.They had halted not only the little caravanreturning from the south, but the greatcaravan starting for the far southeast.

Nothing was of importance to Stanton andSanda except each other and themselves.Max hated Stanton, yet was fascinated bythe thought of him: virile, magnetic,compelling; a man among men; greaterthan his fellows, as the great stars above,flaming into life, were brighter than theirdim brothers.

The music, which still throbbed andscreamed its notes of passion in thedesert, seemed to be beating in Max'sbrain. A horrible irritation possessed himlike a devil. He could have yelled as aman might yell in the extremity of physicaltorture. If only that music would stop!

When he had almost reached the limit ofendurance there came a soft padding offeet in the sand and a murmur of voices.

Then he saw Stanton walking toward himwith the girl. Sanda called to him timidly,yet with a quiver of excitement in hervoice:

"Monsieur St. George, mon ami!"

Not "Soldier" now! That phase was over.Max got off his horse and walked to meetthe pair.

"You know each other," Sanda said. "Iintroduced you last March in Algiers. Andperhaps you met again here in Touggourtwith my father, not many days ago. I'vetold Mr. Stanton all about you now, monami; he knows how good you have been.He knows how I—confided things to you Inever told to anybody else. Do youremember, Monsieur St. George, my

saying how, when I was small, I used tolong to run away dressed like a boy, andgo on a desert journey with RichardStanton? Well, my wish has come true!Not about the boy's clothes, but—I amgoing with him! He has asked me to be hiswife, and I have said 'yes.'"

CHAPTER XXIVTHE MAD MUSIC

Max was struck dumb by the shock. Hehad expected nothing so devastating asthis. What to do he knew not, yetsomething he must do. If he had not lovedthe girl, it would have been easier. Therewould have been no fear then that he mightthink of himself and not of her. Yet shehad been put under his charge by ColonelDeLisle. He was responsible for herwelfare and her safety. Ought he toconstitute himself her guardian and standbetween her and this man? On the otherhand, could he attempt playing out a farce

of guardianship—he, almost a stranger,and a boy compared to Stanton, who hadbeen, according to Sanda, informally herguardian when she was a little girl? Maxstammered a few words, not knowingwhat he said, or whether he were speakingsense, but Stanton paid him thecompliment of treating him like areasonable man. Suddenly Max becameconscious that the explorer wasdeliberately focussing upon him all theintense magnetism which had wonadherents to the wildest schemes.

"I understand exactly what you arethinking about me," Stanton said. "Youmust feel I am mad or a brute to want thischild to go with me across the desert, toshare the fate all Europe is prophesying."

"It's glory to share it," broke in Sanda, in avoice like a harp. "Do I care whathappens to me if I can be with you?"

Stanton laughed a delightful laugh.

"She is a child—an infatuated child! Butshouldn't I be more—or less—than a man,if I could let such a stroke of luck pass byme? You see, she wants to go."

"He knows I love you, and have loved youall my life," said Sanda. "I told him inAlgiers when I was so miserable, thinkingthat I should never see you again, and thatyou didn't care."

"Of course I cared," Stanton contradictedher warmly; yet there was a difference inhis tone. To Max's ears, it did not ring

true. "Seeing a grown-up Sanda, when I'dalways kept in my mind's eye a little girl,bowled me over. I made excuses to getaway in a hurry, didn't I? It was thebravest thing I ever did. I knew I wasn't amarble statue. But it was another thingkeeping my head in broad daylight on theterrace of a hotel, with a lot of dressed-upcreatures coming and going, from what itis here in the desert at night, with that madmusic playing me away into the unknown,and a girl like Sanda flashing down like afalling star."

"The star fell into your arms, and yousaved it from extinction," she finished forhim, laughing a little gurgling laugh ofecstasy.

"I caught it on its way somewhere else!

But how can I let it go when it wants toshine for me? How can I be expected tolet it go? I ask you that, St. George!"

Racked with an anguish of jealousy, Maxfelt, nevertheless, a queer stirring ofsympathy for the man; and strugglingagainst it, he knew Stanton's conqueringfascination. He knew, also, that nothing hecould do or say would prevent Sanda fromgoing with her hero. However, hestammered a protest.

"But—but I don't see what's to be done,"he said, "Mademoiselle DeLisle's father,my colonel, ordered me to take her toSidi-bel-Abbés."

"Not ordered; asked!" the girl cut in withan unfairness that hurt.

"All the blame is mine," Stanton assuredhim with a warm friendliness of manner."My shoulders are broad enough to bearit. And you know, St. George, yourcolonel and I are old friends. If he werehere he'd give his consent, I think, afterhe'd got over his first surprise. I believeas his proxy you'll do the same, whenyou've taken a little time to reflect."

"Why, of course he will!" cried Sanda,sweet and repentant. "He knows that thisis my one chance of happiness in life.Everything looked so gray in the future. Iwas going to Sidi-bel-Abbés to be withstrangers till my father came. And even atbest, though he loves me, I am a burdenand a worry to him. Then, suddenly,comes this glorious joy! My Knight, my

one Sir Knight, wants me, and cares! If Iknew I were going straight to death, I'd gojust the same, and just as joyously."

"We both realized what was in our hearts,and what must happen, when she lookedout between her curtains like the BlessedDamozel, and I took her out of herbassourah and held her in my arms. Thatsettled our fate," said Stanton, attractivelyboyish and eager in the warmth of hispassion. It was genuine passion. Therewas no doubting that, but lit in an instant,like a burnt wick still warm from a flameblown out. How long would it last? Howclear and true a light would it give? Maxdid not know how much of his doubt ofStanton was jealousy, how much regardfor Sanda's happiness.

"To think this should come to me atTouggourt, where my father's happinesscame to him!" Sanda murmuredrapturously, as Max stood silent. "It isFate, indeed!"

"Listen to the music of Africa," saidStanton. "The players followed us for'luck.' What luck they've brought! Child, Iwas feeling lonely and sad. I almost had apresentiment that my luck was out. What afool! All the strength and courage I'veever had you've given back to me withyourself!"

"I could die of happiness to hear you saythat!" Sanda answered. "You see how itis, my friend, my dear, kind soldier? Godhas timed my coming here to give me thiswonderful gift! You wouldn't rob me of it

if you could, would you?"

"Not if it's for your happiness," Max heardsomething that was only half himselfanswer. "But"—and he turned on Stanton—"how do you propose to marry her—here?"

The other hesitated for an instant, thenreplied briskly, as if he had calculatedeverything in detail. This wascharacteristic of him, to map out a plan ofcampaign as he went along, as fast as hedrew breath for the rushing words. Oftenhe had made his greatest impressions, hisgreatest successes, in this wild way.

"Why, you will pitch your camp here forthe night, instead of marching on toTouggourt," he said. "I camp here, too. My

expedition is delayed for one day more,but what does that matter after a hundreddelays? Heavens! I've had to wait for tentsa beast of a Jew contracted to give me anddidn't. I've waited to test water-skins. I'vewaited for new camel-men when old onesfailed me. Haven't I a right to wait a fewhours for a companion—a wife? The firstthing in the morning we'll have the priestout from Touggourt. Sanda's Catholic.He'll marry us and we'll start on together."

"Couldn't we," the girl rather timidlyventured the suggestion, "couldn't we go toTouggourt? There must be a church thereif there's a priest, and I—I'd like to bemarried in a church."

"My darling child! The priest shallconsecrate a tent, or a bit of the desert,"

Stanton answered with decision, which,she must have realized, would be uselessto combat. "He'll do it all right! Marriageceremonies are performed by Catholicpriests in houses, you know, if the man orthe woman is ill; deathbed marriages, and—but don't let us talk of such things! Iknow I can make him do this when I showhim how impossible it would be for us togo back to Touggourt. Why, the men I'vegot together, mostly blacks, would take itfor a bad omen if I left the escort strandedhere in the desert the first day out! Half ofthem would bolt. I'd have the whole workto do over again. You see that, don't you?"

Sanda did see; and even Max admitted tohimself that the excuse was plausible. Yethe suspected another reason behind the

one alleged. Stanton was afraid of thingsSanda might hear in Touggourt; perhaps hefeared some more active peril.

"I thought," Max dared to argue, "that ittook days arranging the legal part of amarriage? You're an Englishman, Mr.Stanton, and Colonel DeLisle's daughter'sa French subject, though she is halfBritish. You may find difficulties."

"Damn difficulties!" exclaimed Stanton,all his savage impatience of oppositionbreaking out at last. "Don't you say so,Sanda? When a man and woman need eachother's companionship in lonely placesoutside the world, is the world's red tapegoing to make a barrier between them? MyGod, no! Sanda, if your church will giveyou to me, and send us into the desert with

its blessing, is it, or is it not, enough foryou? If not, you're not the girl I want.You're not my woman."

"If you love me, I am 'your woman,'" saidSanda.

"You hear her?" Stanton asked. "If it'senough for her, I suppose it's enough foryou, St. George?"

Through the blue dusk two blue eyesstared into Max's face. They put a questionwithout words. "Have you any reason ofyour own for wanting to keep her fromme?"

"Will it be enough for Colonel DeLisle?"Max persisted.

"I promised to shoulder all responsibility

with him," repeated Stanton.

"And father would be the last man in theworld to spoil two lives for aconvention," Sanda added. "Do youremember his love story that I told you?"

Did Max remember? It was not a story toforget, that tragic tale of love and death inthe desert. Must the story of the daughterbe tragic, too? A great fear for the girlwas in his heart. He believed that he couldthink of her alone, now, apart fromselfishness. Realizing her worship ofStanton, had her fate lain in his hands hewould have placed it in those of the otherman could he have been half sure theywould be tender. But her fate was in herown keeping. He could do no more thanbeg, for DeLisle's sake, that they would

wait for the wedding until Stanton cameback from his expedition. Even as hespoke, it seemed strange and almostabsurd that he should be urging legalformalities upon any one, especially a manlike Stanton, almost old enough to be hisfather. What, after all, did law matter inthe desert if two people loved each other?And as Stanton said—patient and pleasantagain after his outburst—they could haveall the legal business, to make thingsstraight in the silly eyes of the silly world,when they won through to Egypt, underEnglish law.

The matter settled itself exactly as itwould have settled itself had Max stormedprotests for an hour. Sanda was to bemarried by the Catholic priest from

Touggourt, as early in the morning as hecould be fetched. The great caravan andthe little caravan halted for the night.Stanton harangued his escort in their ownvarious dialects, for there was no obscurelingo of Africa which he did not know,and this knowledge gave him much of hispower over the black or brown men. Thenews he told, explaining the delay, wasreceived with wild shouts of amusedapproval. Stanton was allowing some ofhis head men to travel with their wives, itbeing their concern, not his, if the womendied and rotted in the desert. It was hisconcern only to be popular as a leader onthis expedition for which it had been hardto get recruits. It was fair that he, too,should have a wife if he wanted one, andthe men cared as little what became of the

white girl they had not seen as Stantoncared about the fate of their strappingfemales.

The mad music of the tomtoms and räitasplayed as Max, with his own hands, set upSanda's little tent. "For the last time," hesaid to himself. "To-morrow night her tentwill be Stanton's."

He felt physically sick as he thought ofleaving her in the desert with that man,whom they called mad, and going on aloneto report at Sidi-bel-Abbés, days after hisleave had expired. Now that Sanda wasstaying behind, his best excuse was takenfrom him. He could hear himself makingfutile-sounding explanations, but keepingMademoiselle DeLisle's name in thebackground. None save a man present at

the scene he had gone through couldpossibly pardon him for abandoning hischarge. After all, however, what did itmatter? He did not care what became ofhim, even if his punishment were to beyears in the African penal battalion, theawful Bat d'Aff, a sentence of death inlife. "Perhaps I deserve it," he said. "Idon't know!" All he did know was that hewould give his life for Sanda. Yet itseemed that he could do nothing.

When all was quiet he went to his tent andthrew himself down just inside theentrance with the flap up. Lying thus, hecould see Sanda's tent not far away, dim inthe starlit night. He could not see her, nordid he wish to. But he knew she wassitting in the doorway with Stanton at her

feet. Max did not mean to spy; but he wasafraid for her, of Stanton, while that musicplayed. At last he heard her lover in goingcall out "good night," then it was no longernecessary to play sentinel, but thoughSanda had slipped inside her tent, perhapsto dream of to-morrow, it seemed to Maxthat there were no drugs in the worldstrong enough to give him sleep. Hesupposed, vaguely, that if a priestconsented to marry the girl to Stanton,after the wedding and the start of theexplorer's caravan, he, Max, would boardthe first train he could catch on the newrailway, and go to "take his medicine" atSidi-bel-Abbés.

Before dawn, when Stanton came to tellSanda that he was off for Touggourt to

fetch the priest, no alternative had yetpresented itself to Max's mind, and he wasstill indifferent to his own future. Butwhen Stanton had been gone for half anhour, and a faint primrose coloured flamehad begun to quiver along the billowyhorizon in the east, he heard a soft voicecall his name, almost in a whisper.

"Soldier St. George!" it said.

Max sprang up, fully dressed as he was,and went out of his tent. Sanda wasstanding near, a vague shape ofglimmering white.

CHAPTER XXVCORPORAL ST. GEORGE, DESERTER

"Is anything the matter?" he asked. A wildhope was in his heart that she might wishto tell him she had changed her mind. Thejoy of that hope snatched his breath away.But her first words put it to flight.

"No, nothing is the matter, except that I'vebeen thinking about you. I could hardlywait to ask you some things. But I had towait till morning. It is morning now thatRichard is up and has gone, even though itisn't quite light. And it's better to talkbefore he comes back. There'll be—so

much happening then—— You're alldressed! You didn't go to bed."

"No, I didn't want to sleep," said Max.

"I haven't slept, either. I didn't try to sleep!I'm so happy for myself, but I'm not allhappy. I'm anxious about you. I see thatI've been horribly, hatefully selfish—abeast!"

"Don't! I won't hear you say such things."

"You mustn't try and put me off. Will youpromise by—by your love for my father—and your friendship for me, to answertruly the questions I ask?"

"All I can answer."

"If you don't answer, I shall know what

your silence means. Mon ami, you made agreat sacrifice for me. You gave up yourmarch to take me safely to Bel-Abbés.You had only eight days' leave to do it in.I know, because my father said so in hisletter. But I, thinking always of myself,gave no thought to that. You lost timecoming back from Djazerta to the douar.Now I've kept you another night. Is there atrain to-morrow going out of Touggourt?"

"I think so," said Max warily, beginning toguess the trend of her questions.

"What time does it start?"

"I don't know precisely."

"In the morning or at night?"

"I really can't tell."

"You mean you won't. But that does tellme, all the same. It goes in the morning.Soldier, I've made you late. I see nowyou've been very anxious all the timeabout overstaying your leave, but youwouldn't speak because it was for mysake."

"I've written to the officer in command atSidi-bel-Abbés, explaining. It will be allright."

"It won't! You're keeping the truth fromme. I see by your face. You've overstayedyour leave already. I calculated it out lastnight. Even as it is, you are a day late."

"What of it? There's nothing to worryabout."

"Do you suppose I can be a soldier'sdaughter and not have learned anythingabout army life? Soldier, much as I'd wantyou to stand by me if it could be right foryou, it isn't right, and you must go! Gonow, and be in time for that train thismorning. One day late won't be so bad.But there won't be another train tillMonday. By diligence, it's two days toBiskra. That means—oh! go, my friend!Go, and forgive me! Let us say good-byenow!"

"Not for the world," Max answered. "Notif they'd have me shot at Bel-Abbés,instead of putting me into cellule for a fewdays at worst. Nothing would induce meto leave you until"—he choked a little onthe words—"until you're married."

"Cellule" she echoed. "You, in cellule!And your corporal's stripe? You'll loseit!"

"What if I do? I value it more for—forsomething Colonel DeLisle said than foritself."

"I know you were an officer in yourAmerican army at home. To be a corporalmust seem laughable to you. And yet, thestripe is more than just a mere stripe. It'san emblem."

"I didn't mean you to think that I don'tvalue it! I do! But I value other thingsmore."

Day was quickening to life; Sanda'swedding day. In the wan light that

bleached the desert they looked at eachother, their faces pale. Max could not takehis eyes from hers. She held them, and hefelt her drawing from them the truth hislips refused to speak.

"You are like a man going to his death,"she sobbed. "Oh, what have I done? It willbe something worse, a thousand timesworse, than cellule. Mon Dieu! I knowwhat they do to men of the Legion whenthey've deserted—even if they come back.I implore you to go away now. Do youwant me to beg you on my knees?"

"For God's sake, Mademoiselle DeLisle!"

"Then will you go?"

"No! I told you nothing could make me

leave you till—after it's over. What wouldbe the use anyhow, even if I would go? Ifthey're going to call me a deserter, I'm thatalready."

"Ah!" she hid her face in her hands,shivering with sobs. "I've made you adeserter. I've ruined you! Your career myfather hoped for! If he were at Bel-Abbéshe'd save you. But he's far away in thedesert." The girl lifted her face andbrushed away the tears. "Soldier, if youdon't go now, don't go at all ! Don't offeryourself up to punishment for what is notyour fault, but mine, the fault of yourcolonel's daughter. Stay with me—staywith us! Keep the trust my father gave you,watching over me. Will you do that? Willyou, instead of going back straight to

prison and spoiling your life? Join us andhelp us to find the Lost Oasis."

The young man's blood rushed to his head.He could not speak. He could only look ather.

"You say that already you've madeyourself a deserter," she went on. "Thendesert to us, I wanted you to join theLegion, and you did join; so I've calledyou 'my soldier.' Now I want you not to goback to the Legion. It would be a horribleinjustice for you to be punished as youwould be. I couldn't be happy even withRichard, thinking of you in prison."

"The world is a prison, if it comes tothat!" laughed Max.

"For some people. Not for a man like you!Besides, some of the cells in the world'sprison are so much more terrible thanothers. Come with us, and by and by, if welive, we shall reach Egypt. There you'll befree, as Manöel Valdez will be freeoutside Algeria and France."

"My colonel's daughter asks me to dothis?" Max muttered, half under his breath.

"Yes, because I am his daughter as wellas your friend. Do you think he'd like youto go back to Sidi-bel-Abbés under acloud, with him far away, not able tospeak for you? I know as well as if you'dtold me that, if they tried you by court-martial at Oran, you wouldn't defendyourself as you would if my father hadordered you to give up the march, instead

of asking you to go on a private errand forhim with your friend. Because he did anirregular thing and trouble has come of it,don't I know you'd suffer rather than letdetails be dragged from you which mightinjure my father's record as an officer?"

"His record is far above being injured."

"Is any officer's? From things I've heard,I'm afraid not! Once I told you that youwere one of those men who think too littleof themselves and sacrifice themselves forothers. I only felt it then. I know it now.I'm so much better acquainted with you,my Soldier! You promised, if youanswered my questions, to answer themtruly. Would you explain in a court-martial that my father took you off duty,and told you, whatever happened, to look

after me?"

"I have already explained in a letter to thedeputy commanding officer. Probably thecolonel has explained, too—more or less,as much as necessary."

"I don't believe father would have thoughtit necessary to say much about me. He'sold fashioned in his ideas of women andgirls. And, you see, he had no reason todream that anything could go wrong. Hesupposed that you would arrive on time.How much did you explain in your letter?"

"I said I had been unavoidably delayed infinishing my official errand."

"What would you say if you were court-martialled for losing Manöel and being

five days late yourself?"

"I don't know. It would depend on thequestions."

"Would you answer in any way that mightdo harm to my father, or would yousacrifice yourself again for him and forme?"

"It wouldn't be a sacrifice."

"Do you think you could save yourselffrom prison?"

"Perhaps not, but I shouldn't care."

"I'd care. It would break my happiness.Father couldn't tell you, as I do, to join us,but I know enough about his interest in youto be sure that in his heart he would wish

it, rather than come back to Sidi-bel-Abbés and find you in the Bat d'Aff. I'veheard all about that, you see."

Max was silent for a moment, thinking,and Sanda watched his face in the growinglight. It was haggard and set for a face soyoung, but there was still in the eyes,which stared unseeingly across the desert,the warm, generous light that had onceconvinced her of the man's heroic capacityfor self-sacrifice. "He is one who alwaysgives," she thought. And something withinher said that Stanton was not of those. Hewas one born not to give, but to take. Yethow glad every one must be, as she was,to give to him!

Max was greatly surprised and deeplytouched by Sanda's care for him at such a

time. And he was almost bewildered bythe strange answer that had come to hisself-questioning. He had felt a passionatereluctance to leave her with Stanton, notonly because he himself loved and wantedher, but because her marriage was to beonly half a marriage, and because Stantonwas what he was. If the man tired of her,if he found her too delicate for the trialsshe would have to endure, the girl's life inthe desert would be terribly hard. Maxdared not think what it might be. He hadfelt that it would tear his heart out to seeher going unprotected except by thatfanatic, to be swallowed up by themerciless mystery of the desert. Butbecause she had decided to go, andbecause she thought she had need of noone in the world except Stanton, Max had

made up his mind that he must stand byand let her go. Now, suddenly, it wasdifferent. She wanted him as well asStanton. True, it was only because shewished to save him, but she would begrieved if he refused. What if he shouldaccept—that is, if Stanton were of thesame mind as Sanda—and let them bothsuppose that his motive in joining themwas to keep out of prison? He knew thathis true reason would be other than that ifhe went. But searching his soul, he sawthere no wrong to Stanton's wife. Hewould not go with that pair of lovers forhis own pleasure, and no suffering hecould endure, even in the Bat d'Aff, wouldbe equal to seeing Sanda day after day,night after night, when she had givenherself to Stanton. All he wanted was to

be near her if he were needed. He couldnever justify himself to Colonel DeLisleor to any one else in the world by tellingthe truth; but because it was the truth, inhis own eyes perhaps he might bejustified.

"Have you thought long enough?" Sandaasked. "Can't you decide, and save myhappiness?"

Save her happiness!...

"I have decided," Max said. "If Mr.Stanton will let a deserter join his caravanI will go."

CHAPTER XXVISANDA'S WEDDING NIGHT

What arguments the explorer used nonesave himself and the priest fromTouggourt would ever know. But thepriest came and married Sanda to Stantonaccording to the rites of the CatholicChurch. In his eyes, as in the eyes of thegirl, it was enough; for was she not, in thesight of heaven, a wife?

Stanton professed himself not only glad,but thankful, to have Max as a recruit forhis expedition. He agreed with Sanda thatit would be Quixotic, in the

circumstances, to go back to Sidi-bel-Abbés.

"You'd be a damn fool, my boy," he saidemphatically, "to go and offer yourself alamb for the sacrifice!" It did not occur tohim that Max was offering himself on thealtar of another temple of sacrifice. Hethought the young man was "jolly lucky" toescape from the mess he had tumbled intoand get the chance of a glorious adventurewith Richard Stanton. It had been a blowand even a humiliation to the explorer thatall the Europeans he had asked toaccompany him had refused, either on thespot, or after deliberation. He believed inhimself and his vision so completely, andhad snatched so many successes out of thejaws of disaster, that it was galling not to

be believed in by others, in this, thecrowning venture of his life. If he couldfind the Lost Oasis he would be the mostfamous man in the world, or so he put it tohimself; and any European with himwould share the glory. It had been almostmaddening to combat vainly, for once inhis career, the objections and sneers ofskeptics.

People had said that if no European, noteven a doctor, would join him in his "madmission," he would be forced to give it up.But he had found a fierce satisfaction indisappointing them and in showing theworld that he, unaided, could carrythrough a project which daunted all whoheard of it. He had triumphed overimmense obstacles in getting together his

caravan, for Arabs and Soudanese hadbeen superstitiously depressed by the factthat the mighty Stanton could persuade noman of his own race to believe in the LostOasis. It was only his unique force ofcharacter that had made the expeditionpossible at last; that and his knowledge ofmedicine, even of "white and black"magic, his mastery of desert dialects, hiseloquence in the language of those whohesitated, working them up to his ownpitch of enthusiasm by descriptions ofwhat he believed the Lost Oasis to be: aland of milk and honey, with wives andtreasure enough for all, even the humblest.Napoleon, the greatest general of theFrench, had wished to search for the LostOasis, marching from Tripolitania toEgypt, but had abandoned the undertaking

because of other duties, not because heceased to believe. The golden flower ofthe desert had been left for Stanton and hisband to pluck. Threats, persuasion, bribes,had collected for him a formidable force.If he had lingered at Touggourt, aftergetting the necessary men together, no onehad dared to suggest in his hearing that itwas because a desert dancing-woman wasbeautiful. He had always had weightyreasons to allege, even to himself: thestores were not satisfactory; the oilprovided was not good; camels fell ill andsubstitutes had to be got; he was obligedto wait for corn to be ground into theAfrican substitute for macaroni;Winchester rifles and ammunitionpromised for his fighting men did not turnup till long after the date specified in his

contract. But now he was off on the greatadventure; and, gloriously sure that allcredit would be his, he was sincerely gladto have Max as a follower, humble yetcongenial.

His meeting with Sanda seemed to Stantona good omen. Since Ahmara had desertedhim in a fury, because of the humiliationput upon her during DeLisle's visit, he hadbeen in a black rage. Days had been lostin searching for her, because she haddisappeared. He had dreamed at night ofchoking the dancer's life out, and shootingthe man who had stolen her from him, forhe had no doubt of the form her revengehad taken. In the end, he had decided toput her from his mind, persuading himselfthat he was sick to death of the tigress-

woman whom he had thought of carryingwith him on the long desert march. Still,he had been sad and thwarted, and themusic of the tomtoms and räitas, instead oftributes to his triumph, had been likevoices mocking at his failure. Then Sandahad magically appeared in the desert: fairand sweet as the moon in contrast with theparching sun. He had held out his arms onthe impulse and she had fallen into them.Her youth, her white beauty in the bluenight, lit a flame in him, and he fanned itgreedily. It was good to know that he wasyoung enough still to light another fire sosoon on half-cold ashes. He revelled inmaking himself believe that he loved thegirl. He respected and admired himself forit, and he drank in eagerly the story shetold him in whispers, at the door of her

tent in the night: the story of childish,hopeless hero-worship for her "SirKnight." He was so confident of heradoring love that jealousy of Max wouldhave seemed absurd, though Max wastwenty-six and Stanton twenty years older.If it had occurred to him that Max might beromantically in love with Sanda, the ideawould not have displeased him or madehim hesitate to take the younger man as amember of his escort. There was a cruelstreak running through Stanton's naturewhich even Sanda dimly realized, thoughit did not diminish her love. There weremoods when he enjoyed seeing pain andinflicting it; and there were stories told ofthings he had done in such moods: storiestold in whispers; tales of whipping blackmen to death when they had been caught

deserting from his caravans; tales ofstriking down insubordinates and leavingthem unconscious to die in the desert. Itwould have amused Stanton, if the ideahad presented itself, to think of a love-sickyoung man helplessly watching him teachan uninstructed young girl the art ofbecoming a woman. But the idea did notpresent itself. He was too deeplyabsorbed in himself, and in trying to thinkhow infinitely superior was a white dovelike Sanda to a creature of the Ahmaratype. He wished savagely that Ahmaramight hear—when it was too late—of hismarriage within a few days after theirparting.

When the wedding ceremony was over thecaravan started on at once, in order to

reach, not too late, a certain small oasison the route where Stanton wished tocamp on his marriage night. He describedthe place glowingly to Max. There was notown there, he said, only a few tentsbelonging to the chief of a neighbour tribeto Ben Râana's. The men there guarded anartesian well whose water spouted up likea fountain. Though the oasis was small, itspalms were unusually beautiful, and thegroup of tall trees with their spreadingbranches was like a green temple set inthe midst of the desert. Altogether, Stantonremarked, it was an ideal spot for thebeginning of a honeymoon. His eyes weremore brilliant than ever as he spoke, andMax turned his head away not to see theother man's face, because the look on itmade him want to kill Stanton. The

martyrdom he knew awaited him hadalready begun.

Before starting into the unknown Maxbought from the leader of his own camel-men some garments which Khadra hadwashed for her husband at Ben Râana'sdouar. They were to be ready for hisreturn to Touggourt, and were still asclean as the brackish water of the desertcould make them. Dressed as an Arab,Max made a parcel of his uniform with itstreasured red stripes of a corporal; andhaving addressed it for the post, paid thecamel-driver to send it off for him fromTouggourt to Sidi-bel-Abbés. Theunpardonable sin of a desertingLegionnaire is to rob France of theuniform lent him for his soldiering. But

returning her property to the Republic,Max sent no letter of regret or apology. Hewas a deserter, and to excuse himself fordeserting would be an insult to the Legion.Nobody except DeLisle could possiblyunderstand, and Max did not mean to offerexplanations, even to his colonel. If in hisheart Sanda's father could ever secretlypardon a deserter, it must be of his ownaccord, not because of what that deserterhad to say on his own behalf.

Out of the little caravan Max had todischarge, Stanton kept the mehari withthe bassourah which Sanda had riddenduring the journey from Ben Râana'sdouar. It was, he said, laughing, a presentdirect from Providence to his bride, sincenot without delay could he have provided

her with anything so comfortable fortravelling. The finely bred camel andmany other animals of the escort might failor die en route, but there were places onthe way where others could be got, aswell as men to replenish vacancies madeby deaths. Stanton was too old an explorernot to have calculated each step of theway, as far as any white man's story orblack man's rumour described it. And hetalked stoically of the depletion of hisranks. It was only his own failure or deathwhich appeared to be for him incredible.

Stanton rode all day at the head of thecaravan, with Sanda, on her mehari,looking down at him, "like the BlessedDamozel" as he had said, between hercurtains. Max, on a strong pony which

Stanton had bought as an "understudy" forhis own horse, kept far in the rear. Thedesert had been beautiful for himyesterday. It was hideous to-day. Hethought it must always be hideous afterthis. They saw the new moon for the firsttime that afternoon. Sanda, lost in a dreamof happiness, pointed it out to Stanton, buthe was vexed because they caught aglimpse of it over the left shoulder. It wasa bad sign, he said, and Sanda laughed athim for being superstitious. As if anythingcould be a bad sign for them on that day!

"Little White Moon," Ourïeda and theother Arab women had called her atDjazerta. Stanton said it was just the namefor her, when she told him. The girl wasperfectly happy now that Max was

rescued. She had no regrets, no cares; for,though she dearly loved her father, itwould have been long before she saw himagain even if she had gone to Sidi-bel-Abbés; and she knew he had hated thenecessity for leaving her there withouthim. She believed it would be a greatrelief to such a keen soldier as he was notto be burdened with a girl. Often she felt ithad been wrong and selfish of her to runaway from the aunts and throw herselfupon his mercy. Their few weeks together,learning to know and love each other, hadbeen delicious, but the future might havebeen difficult if she had stayed.

Surely her father would be glad to haveher married to his friend, and, even ifthere were dangers to be feared in the

unknown desert, why, Colonel DeLislewas a soldier, and she was a soldier'sdaughter.

She wrote a letter to her father and gave itto the priest who had married her. Someday it must reach its destination, and therewere things in it which would makeColonel DeLisle happy. Sanda believedthere would be tender romance for him, asfor her, in the thought of the marriage nearTouggourt, where his love had come tohim from half across the world.

Not a rap did the girl care for thehardships in front of her. She laughed andthought it a great adventure that she had no"trousseau," but only the few clotheswhich were wearable after her long visitto Djazerta. And if they were never to find

the Lost Oasis, or if they themselves wereto be lost, she would go forth with thesame untroubled heart.

The crescent moon had dropped behindthe horizon, like a bracelet in the sea,before they came in sight of the oasiswhere they were to spend the weddingnight; but the sky glittered with encrustingstars that spread a silver background forthe tall, dark palms. As the caravandescended into a wide valley betweendunes, Max heard Stanton's voice shoutingto him. He rode forward to the side of the"Chief," as the explorer was called by hismen.

"Like a good chap, gallop ahead with myfellows and see that our tent is set up inthe best place," said Stanton in his deep,

pleasant voice. "I should like Sanda tofind it all ready when she gets there. Haveit put where my wife would think itprettiest; you'll know the right place; placeyou'd choose yourself if it was yourhoneymoon!"

There was no conscious malice in thewords, but they cut like a lash in a rawwound. Max had the impulse to strike hishorse with the whip, but he was ashamedof it and stroked the animal's neck instead,as with a word he urged it on.

"I must watch myself if this isn't to turn meinto a beast," he thought. "It shan't, or I'llbe worse than useless to her. She shan'tfall between two brutes."

Stanton had already selected the men who

were to pitch his bridal tent, and Maxrode ahead with them and their loadedcamels. He chose a spot between aminiature palm grove separated from themain oasis and the artesian well, farenough from the gushing water for itsbubbling to be heard through canvas wallssoothingly, like the music of a fountain.

Fortunately for the comfort of theunprepared-for bride, Stanton was a manwho "did himself well" when he could,though he had always been ready to facehardship if necessary. He had notconsidered it necessary to stint himselfwhen starting on this expedition, although,later on, he would be quite ready to throwluxuries away as encumbrances. Therewere cushions and thick rugs and fine

linen and soft blankets. There was alsosome folding furniture; and one objectwhich revealed itself among the rugs atfirst surprised, then unpleasantlyenlightened, Max. It was a rather largemirror with a gilded French frame, such asArab women admire. For himself, Stantonwould have had a shaving-glass a footsquare, and the gaudy ornament madeMax's blood boil. Stanton had certainlybrought it for a woman: Ahmara. Beforethe quarrel, then, he had intended to takeher with him! It was only by a chance thathe had gathered a fair white lily instead ofa desert poppy.

Max would have liked to break the mirror,but, instead, he saw that it was safely hungon one of the tent-hooks and supported by

a brightly painted Moorish chest.

As he stepped out of the tent when all wasfinished and ready for the bride—even toa vase of orange blossoms brought by thepriest from Touggourt—the caravan,which had been moving slowly at the last,had not yet arrived. Two elderly Arabshovered near, however, the men wholived in the oasis to guard the well and thedate palms in season. As Max spoke tothem in his laboured Arabic he saw in thedistance the form of a woman. Standing asshe did, in the open ground with no treesbetween her and the far silver horizon, shewas a noble and commanding figure,slender and tall like a daughter of thepalms. She was for Max no more than agraceful silhouette, majestically poised,

for he could not see her face, or even besure that the effect of crown and plumeson her high-held head was not a trick ofshadow. Indeed it seemed probable that itwas a mere illusion, for crowns andwaving plumes were worn by desertdancers, and it did not appear likely that awife or daughter of the well-guardiansshould be so adorned.

As he exchanged elaborate complimentswith the Arabs the woman's figurevanished and he thought no more of it, forSanda and Stanton were arriving. Maxturned away his eyes as Stanton took thebride out of her bassourah and half carriedher toward their tent without waiting tothank the man who had placed it. Maxbusied himself feverishly in

superintending the arrangements of thecamp, which Stanton had asked him as his"lieutenant" to undertake that night.

The kneeling camels were tethered in longlines. No zareba would be raised, forthere would be many a long march beforethe caravan reached perilous country.Here a fire could be built, for there wasno danger in showing smoke and raising arose-red glow against the silver. Theunveiled women, whom Stanton haddiplomatically allowed to accompanytheir husbands, began to cook supper forthe men; couscous and coffee and thin,ash-baked bread. It was a long time sinceStanton had taken Sanda to the tent underthe little grove of palms, but he had givenno orders yet for food to be prepared.

Max thought it unlikely that he should beasked to eat with them, but if he wereinvited he intended to refuse. In spite ofhimself, he could not help glancing nowand then toward the tent. The door-flapshad not been let down, but there was nolight inside. Turning involuntarily thatway, as iron turns to a magnet, at last hesaw a man and woman come out of thetent. But the woman was not Sanda!

Max realized this with a shock. He sawboth figures for an instant painted in blue-black against the light, khaki-colouredcanvas. The woman was very tall, as tallas Stanton, and on her head was somethinghigh, like a crown set with plumes.Stanton led her away, walking quickly.They went toward the low, black tents of

the guardians of the oasis.

Max stood still with a curious sensation ofbeing dazed after a stunning blow halfforgotten. How long he remained withoutmoving he could not have told. His eyeshad not followed the two figures very far.They returned to the tent and focussedthere in anguish. Some scene there musthave been between those three. He wasnot surprised when, after a short time—ora long time, he did not know which—Sanda appeared. He wondered if his soulhad called her, and she was coming inanswer to the call.

She hesitated at first, as if not sure whereto go. Then catching sight of him at adistance, with the light of the fire ruddy onhis face, she began to run. Almost

instantly, however, she stopped, pausedfor a second or two, and it seemed to Maxthat she swayed a little as if she might fall.He started toward her with great strides;but he had not taken more than three orfour when he saw that she was walkingslowly but steadily straight toward him.He felt then, with a mysterious butcomplete certainty, that she wished him togo no farther, but to wait. He stopped, andin a moment she was by his side. She didnot speak, but stood with her headdrooping. Max could not see her face.After the first eagerly questioning glancehe turned his eyes away. She did not wishhim to look at her or break the silence. Heheld his tongue, but he was afraid shemight hear the pounding of his heart andhis breath coming and going. If she did she

would guess that he knew somethingwhich, perhaps, she did not mean to lethim know. At last, however, he could bearthe strain no longer; besides, Stantonmight come back. If there were anything hecould do for her, if she wanted him to takeher away—God! how his blood sang atthe thought of it!—there was no more timeto waste.

His tone sounded flat and ineffectual in hisown ears as he spoke. The effort to keep itdown to calmness made it almost absurd,as it would have been to mention theweather in that tingling instant. He askedsimply: "Is there something—something Ican do?"

"No," she said. "Nothing, thank you.Nothing any one can do."

The voice was not like the voice of Sanda,which Max had once compared in hismind to the ripple of a brook steeped insunshine. It was thin and weak, almost likethe voice of a little, broken old woman.But, praise heaven, she was young, sovery young that she would live this down,and, some day, almost forget. If she wouldlet him take her back to Sidi-bel-Abbésafter all! This marriage by a priest withoutsanction of the law need not stand. Shewas not a wife yet, but a girl, oh! thankGod for that! It was not too late. If only hecould say these things to her. But itseemed that he must stand like a block ofwood and wait for her to point the way.

"Are you—perhaps you're homesick?" hedared to give her a cue.

"Homesick?" Her voice broke and,instead of being like an old woman's, itwas like a little child's. "Yes, that's it, I'mhomesick! And—and I think I'm not verywell. I want my father, I want him somuch!"

The heart of the man who was not herfather yearned toward the girl.

"Shall I take you back?" he panted. "We'renot far past Touggourt. To-morrow it willbe too late, but now—now——"

"Now it's already too late. Oh, Soldier! tohave yesterday again!"

He did not ask her what she meant. He didnot need to ask.

"It can be yesterday for you," he urged.

"No. Yesterday I was Sanda DeLisle. To-day I'm Sanda Stanton. Nothing can changethat."

"If you're unhappy your father can changeit. You see, it's only the church that——"

"Only the church!"

"Forgive me. But the law would say——"

"It doesn't matter to me what the lawwould say. It's the thing what you don'tthink matters that matters entirely to me.And even if it were so—even if I were—unhappy instead of only homesick, andsomehow ill, I wouldn't go back if I could.I've written to my father. And that priestfrom Touggourt will have told theAmaranthes. Every one knows. It would

be a disgrace to——"

"No! Not to you."

"I think it would. And to Richard. I havetaken him by storm and almost forced himto marry me. I would die and be left alonein the desert rather than disgrace him inthe world's eyes just when he's starting outon the crowning expedition of his life."

"Who put such an idea into your head thatyou'd taken him by storm, that——"

"Never mind. It is in my head, and it'strue. I know it. Soldier, I'm glad, oh, soglad, that you're here! Will you help me?"

"You know I will," Max said, his heartbursting. If he had needed payment forwhat he had done, he had it in full

measure. She was glad he was with her!

"Well, I've told you that I'm ill. It's myhead—it aches horribly. I hardly knowwhat I'm doing or saying. I can't be—inthat tent to-night!"

"You shall have mine," Max assured herquickly. "It's a good little tent, got for theFrench doctor Stanton was telling usabout, who decided at the last minute notto come."

"Oh, thank you a thousand times. Butyou?"

"I shall rig up something splendid.They've got more tents than they knowwhat to do with. Several men fell out afterStanton had bought his supplies."

"You are good. Could I go to your tentnow?"

"Of course. I'll take you there, and fetchyour luggage myself. But you're sure youwon't go back while there's time?"

"Sure."

"If you're ill you can't ride on with thecaravan."

"I shall be better to-morrow. God willhelp me, and you will help me, too. I shallbe able to go on for a while. Maybe itneed not be for long. People die in thedesert. I've always thought it a beautifuldeath. When you promise to marry aperson it's for better or worse. And I'venever said I was not happy, Soldier! Only

a little homesick and tired."

"Come with me to my tent," Max said,realizing that all his persuasions would bein vain. "Come quietly now, and I'llexplain to—to Stanton."

"He knows I feel ill," she answered. "Itold him. He will understand."

CHAPTER XXVIITHE ONLY FRIEND

When Stanton returned to his tent andfound it empty he went out quickly againand called for St. George.

This was one of the few possibilities ofwhich Max had not thought. He hadimagined Stanton remaining sullenly in histent as if nothing had happened, orsearching for Sanda and ordering, perhapseven forcing, her to go back with him. Inthat eventuality, and that only, Maxintended to interfere. One side of hisnature, the violent and uncontrolled side,

which every real man has in him, wantedto "smash" Stanton; yearned for an excuseperhaps even to kill him and rid Sandaforever of a brute, no matter what theconsequences to himself. But the side ofhim where common sense had taken refugewished to keep neutral for Sanda's sake, inorder to watch over her and protect herthrough everything. When he heardStanton's call he was not far from the tenthe had lent Sanda. She, and everything ofhers which she could need for the night,was already there, but she had not lightedthe candle he had given her. The littlekhaki-coloured tent was an inconspicuousobject in sand of the same colour. Makingan excuse of settling a dispute betweentwo camels which disturbed the peace,Max had kept near the tent, and intended,

unobtrusively, to play sentinel all night.

He answered the "Chief's" call on theinstant, braced for any emergency.

"St. George, do you know where my wifeis?" Stanton asked.

"She told me she felt ill, and that youwouldn't object to my lending her mytent," answered Max promptly.

"I felt sure she'd go to you," said Stanton,without the signs of anger Max expected.Then still greater was the younger man'ssurprise when the elder laughed. It was aslightly embarrassed laugh, but not ill-natured. "What else did she tell you?"Stanton wanted to know.

"She told me—nothing else." To save his

life, Max could not resist that telltaleemphasis which flung a challenge.

Stanton laughed again and thrust his handsdeep into his pockets.

"I see you've drawn your ownconclusions. Fact is, St. George, I'm in adeuce of a damned scrape, and the only bitof luck is having a sensible chap of myown colour, a friend of both sides, agentleman and a soldier like you, to talk itout with. You'd like to help, wouldn't you,for the father's sake if not the daughter's?"

"Yes," said Max, after a hair's breadth ofhesitation. He was so taken aback byStanton's attitude that he feared the otherman might be drawing him out in somesubtle way detrimental to Sanda.

"I was sure you would. Well! I'm going totell you the facts.

"You're a man of the world, I expect, oryou wouldn't have found your way into theLegion. Before I had any idea of marriageI thought of carrying along a—companion,only an Arab dancing-girl, but I'd take myoath there hasn't been a more fascinatingcreature since Cleopatra. A gorgeouswoman! No man on earth—not if he werean emperor or king—but would lose hishead over her, if she tried to make him.No treachery to Sanda in the plan. Thechild didn't enter into my calculationsthen. It struck me, after I'd asked you tosee to my tent, you might spot something—from that mirror."

"I did," Max admitted.

"Oh, well, anyhow, to make a long storyshort, the girl flew into one of those blackrages of the petted dancer men have madea damned fuss over, and she disappeared.Lucky for Sanda! If Ahmara'd been withme I'd have had to see Mademoisellewend her way to Touggourt with you. Butas it was, in all good faith, I let myself go—one of my impulses that carry me along.I attribute most of my success in life toimpulses; inspirations I call them. Ihonestly thought this was one, and that itwould make for my happiness. But byjove, St. George, when I took Sanda intomy tent an hour ago if there wasn't Ahmarawaiting for me!"

He stopped an instant, as if expecting Maxto speak, but when only dull silence

answered he hurried on.

"She hadn't got the news of my marriage.She wanted to give me a pleasant surpriseby forgiving me, and coming out heresecretly, ahead of the caravan, to hide inmy tent. Her arms were round my neckbefore I knew what was up—and thesmell of 'ambre' that's always in that longhair of hers—God, what hair!—was in mynose. Unfortunately Sanda had beenpicking up Arabic; so she understoodsome things Ahmara blurted out before Icould stop her. She got on to the fact thatthere'd been a row—a sort of lover'squarrel—and if it hadn't been for amisunderstanding, Ahmara would havestarted out with me in her place—practically in her place. No need to tell

you more except that Sanda and I had afew words, after she'd refused to see thesituation in the right light. I was sure she'dappeal to you. I am glad you thought ofoffering her your tent. I shall leave her tostew in her own juice to-night, and comeslowly to her senses. She's too fond of menot to do that before long."

"When you've sent that woman away to-morrow——" Max began. But Stanton cuthim short.

"I shan't send her away to-morrow."

"What? You——"

"Sanda had the childish impudence to tellme to-night that nothing could ever makeany difference between us after what had

passed. Perhaps it was partly my fault, forI lost my head for a minute when sheaccused me of tricking her into marryingme, or words to that effect. I'm afraid Isaid she had forced me into it—thrownherself at me—taken me unawares—something of that sort. In a way it's true.Heart caught in the rebound! But Iwouldn't have been cad enough to throw itup to her if she hadn't said things so sillythat a saint would have been wild. Thegirl vows she won't live with me as mywife. Well, I shall hold Ahmara as a threatover her head till she sees the error of herways. It's the one thing to do, as I look atit. Besides, if I try to pack Ahmara back toTouggourt she'll screech like a hen withher head cut off. I won't be made alaughing stock before my men, at the start,

before I've shown them what sort of aleader they've got. Ahmara comes from thesouth. If Sanda decides to behave herselfI'll drop the dancer at her own place, enroute. Meanwhile, I'll have time forbargaining over her with my wife, andAhmara can travel with the other women.Several men with their wives have agreedto go only part of the way and get newfellows to join when they leave. That's theonly way to shed Ahmara without trouble,as she's landed herself on me. And that'sthe way I'll take—as I said, if Sandabehaves herself."

"And if—not? I suppose you'll send—Mrs. Stanton back?"

"Damnation, I can't do that, St. George,and you know it. It would mean a duel

with her father, and all the world wouldbe down on me just at the time I'm biddinghighest for its applause. If Sanda travelswith me, whether she lives with me or not,she'll keep her mouth shut. She's that kindof girl. Don't you, as her friend—oranyhow, her father's friend—know herwell enough to understand that?"

"I may think I'd know what she'd do," Maxflung back at the other. "But God knowswhat I'd do if you insulted MademoiselleDeLisle—Mrs. Stanton, I mean—bykeeping that woman in the caravan. Ibelieve I'd kill you!"

Stanton stared. "Good Lord!" heexclaimed, in a change of mood, lookingsuddenly like a great helpless schoolboyarraigned, "I thought I was talking to a

friend. I was asking your advice, and youturn on me like a tiger. See here, St.George, if you're going to bite the hand Ioffer, you'd better be the one to go."

Max was staggered. He had made a falsemove. He could not go. Now, more thanever, a thousand times more, Sandaneeded a friend, and he was the only onewithin reach. Perhaps he could not alwayshelp, but he could at least keep near. Onlythese unexpected confidences fromStanton could have made him so lose gripupon himself; and it must not happenagain.

"I've just given you my advice," Maxreminded the other more quietly.

"I can't take it."

"Then don't. We'll leave it at that."

"I ask no better. Do you want to go orstay?"

"I want to stay."

"Very well, then. I need a man like you,and I want you to stay, if you'll mind yourown business."

"I will," Max promised fervently.

But as to what his business was, theremight be different opinions.

As the long days passed and the caravantoiled on through dunes and alkali deserts

and strange, hidden mountainlands, it washard to keep before his eyes the best wayof "minding his own business"—the bestway for Sanda. That which was highest inhim prayed for peace between her andStanton. That which was lowest wishedfor war. And it was war. Not loud, openwarfare, but a silent battle never ceasing;and the one hope left in Sanda's heart forher own future was death in the desert.She had determined to go on, and shewould go on; but blinding, blessed suns ofnoon might strike her dead; she might takesome malarial fever in the swampy,saltpetre deserts through which thecaravan must travel. There were alsoscorpions and vipers. These things shehad heard of as among the minor perils ofStanton's expedition, and there were many

more formidable, of course, such asTouaregs and Tibbu brigands. She madeMax swear that, if they were attacked, andthere were danger for the women, hewould shoot her with his own hand. Thatwould not be a bad solution. And therewere others. Her father had said thatnearly all experts prophesied annihilationfor Stanton and his men.

Sanda did not "behave herself." Nothingless than force could have dragged her toStanton's tent, and the man openly foundconsolation with Ahmara; at first, perhaps,partly in defiance, but, as time went on,because such love as he had to give wasfor the "most fascinating creature sinceCleopatra." For the men of the caravanthere was nothing very startling in this

arrangement. The law of their religion andcountry gave each of them four wives, ifhe could afford to keep them. Ahmara,darkly beautiful and bejewelled,condescended to travel with the otherwomen of her race, but when the campwas made she moved about proudly, likean eastern queen, and went wherever itwas her will to go. Sometimes she passednearer than was necessary to Sanda's tent,and turning her crowned head on its fullround throat let her long eyes dwell on therival who ignored her existence.

The life she had undertaken would havebeen impossible for Sanda without Max. Ifhe had not been there, a self-appointedwatchdog, Ahmara would certainly haveinsulted Stanton's white bride, or might

even have attempted to kill her. ButAhmara was afraid of Max St. George.She had caught a murderous glint in hiseye more than once, and knew that if shecrossed a certain dead line which thatlook defined he would not hesitate to dealwith her as with a wildcat.

As for Sanda, if she ever thought thatAhmara might stab her some night whenMax was off guard, she told herself thatshe did not care. She longed for death asthe one way out of the cage into which shehad foolishly flown, and would haveprayed for it, if such a prayer were not toher mind sacrilegious. She was too youngto realize that to wish is to pray. Sandawas always hoping that something mighthappen to put an end to everything for her.

She disregarded precautions which otherstook against sunstroke. If there came up asandstorm she stole away and faced itwhile the rest sheltered, longing to beoverwhelmed and blotted out of existence.But it seemed extraordinarily difficult todie. And then, there was always Max.Unfailingly he was on the spot to ward offdanger, or to save her from the effects ofwhat he called her "carelessness," thoughhe must have guessed the meaningunderneath alleged imprudences.

Sanda never confided in Max, yet she wasaware that he could not help knowing whyshe refused to live with Stanton. She couldnot bear to speak of her humiliation, andMax would have cut his tongue out ratherthan let slip a word concerning it after his

first vain appeal.

As time went on and the caravan advancedon its march across the desert, Stantonignored the presence of Sanda as sheignored Ahmara's. She ate and slept in herown tent, which had been Max's. He itwas who saw that she had good food andfiltered water. Wherever fruit could begot, by fair means or foul, there was somefor her, whether others had it or not. Maxmade coffee and tea for Sanda. He tendedthe camel she rode in order that it might bestrong and in good health. When thecaravan came into the country of theTouaregs he rode near her day by day, andat night lay as close to her tent as hedared. Sometimes he noticed that Stantoneyed him cynically when he performed

unostentatious services for Sanda, butoutwardly the only two white men wereon civil terms. Stanton even seemed gladof Max's companionship, and discussedroutes and prospects with him, asking hisadvice sometimes; and once, when theexplorer was attacked by a Soudanesemaddened by the sun and Stanton'sbrutality, Max struck up the black man'sweapon; almost before he knew what hewas doing he had saved the life of Sanda'shusband.

"Why did I do it?" he asked himselfafterward. Yet he knew some strange"kink" in his nature would compel him todo the same thing again under likecircumstances.

Stanton, at his best, was an ideal leader of

men. Many a forlorn hope he had led andbrought to success through sheer self-confidence and belief in his star. Butwhether the failure of his mad marriagehad disturbed his faith in his ownpersistent luck, or whether Ahmara'sinfluence made for degeneration, in anycase, a blight seemed to have fallen on theonce great man's mentality. It had been aboast of his that, though he drank freelywhen "resting on his laurels" in Europe,he was strong enough to "swear off" at anymoment. He had accustomed himself totaking tea and water only in blazingAfrican heat; and since the serious illnessthat followed his sunstroke he had beenforbidden to touch alcohol anywhere, inany circumstances. For a time he had beenfrightened into obedience to doctors'

orders; but gradually he had drifted backinto old habits; and after his quarrel withAhmara at Touggourt he found oblivion inmuch Scotch whisky, his favourite drink.

Perhaps if all had gone well with Stanton,if Ahmara had not come again into his lifeand lost him Sanda's childlike worship, hemight have pulled himself together afterthe starting of the caravan. But, as it was,there were black thoughts to be chasedaway, and the simplest receipt forreplacing them with bright ones was to fillhis head with fumes of whisky.

When Sanda, riding behind her curtains,or shrinking in her tent, heard Stantoncursing the negro porters, and roaringprofane abuse at the camels and camel-drivers, she did not know that he was

drunk; but the men knew, and, being soberby religion, ceased to respect him. Amongthemselves, they began to question thewisdom of his orders, and suspect him oftreachery toward themselves. Losing faithin the leader, they lost faith in thewonderful hidden oasis he sought, theoasis peopled by rich Egyptians who hadvanished into the desert to escapepersecution after the Sixth Dynasty. Arabsand negroes said it must be true after allthat the "Chief" was mad, and they hadbeen mad to trust themselves to him, or tobelieve in the mysterious city lost beyondunexplored mountains and shifting duneswhich were but shrouds for dead men. Hewas either deliberately leading them all todeath, for the insane pleasure of it, or elsehe had some plan for making his own

fortune by selling his escort as slaves.Men began to desert whenever they cameto an attractive stopping-place wherethere was food and water. They feignedillness, or fled in the night with theircamels into the vastness of the desert,their faces turned once more to the west.For soon, if they stayed, they would passbeyond the zone of known oases, into theterrible land of mystery, charted by noman, a land where it was said the sun haddried up all the springs of water. So thecaravan dwindled as slowly, painfully itmoved toward the east; and even while hehated him, Max was sometimes moved topity for the harassed leader. Stanton grewhaggard as the desert closed in round himand his disaffected followers; but therewere days when, instead of sympathizing

reluctantly, Max cursed the explorer for abrute, and cursed himself for saving thebrute's life. There were days when Stantonshot or whipped a Soudanese for animpudent word, or ordered a forced marchbecause Sanda had sent to beg respite forsome wretch struck down with feverwhom she was nursing.

As the men lost faith in Stanton and hisvision of the Lost Oasis they attachedthemselves fanatically to the wife of theirChief, the "Little White Moon," whoseldom spoke to her husband save todefend one of their number from his fits ofanger, and who, with her golden hair andher skin of snow that the fierce sun couldnot darken, was like the shining angel whowalks at the right hand of a good

Mohammedan. They saw no wrong inAhmara's presence; but she was haughtyand high-tempered, and took part againstthem with Stanton. The whisper ran thatthe dancing-woman had brought bad luckto the expedition for so long as she waswith the caravan; whereas, if fortune wereto come, it would come through the whitegirl who nursed the sick and had a smileor a kind word for the humblest porter.This whisper reached Ahmara's earsthrough the wives of the camel-drivers,and at first she was anxious to keep itfrom Stanton lest it should prejudice himand put into his head the idea of leavingher at one of the far apart oasis townswhere the caravan took supplies. But themore she turned over the thought in herunenlightened mind, the more impossible

it seemed to her that Stanton would giveher up. Besides, he was very brave, evenbraver than the great chiefs of her ownrace, for they feared unseen things andomens, whereas he laughed at theirsuperstition. She used every art of theprofessional charmer upon Stanton for thenext few days, while she asked herselfwhether to tell what she had learnt, or notto tell, were wiser.

When she was convinced that she hadmade herself more indispensable thanever, Ahmara put the story into the formthat seemed to her very good. She said thatnothing which passed in the caravan couldescape her, because the life of the leaderwas her life. She wished to be for him likea lighted candle set at the door of his tent,

the flame her spirit, which felt each breathof evil threatening his safety. The menwho hated the Chief for his power orbecause he had punished them hated heralso because she was true to him as theblood that beat in his heart.

"Those who are cowards and find thegreatness of thy adventures too great forthem, now they have tasted hardship,mutter in secret against thee," Ahmarasaid. "There are some who mean to bandtogether and refuse to follow thee past thelast-known oasis which is marked on thymaps. They say, that from what they haveheard, thou art indeed mad to think that acaravan can live in unknown desertswhere there is no water. Once theybelieved in thee so firmly if thou hadst

told them thou couldst cause water tospout from dry sand they would have takenthy word for truth. But now the white girl,who is too proud to be thy wife becausethy faithful one followed thee into thedesert, has bewitched the men. They thinkshe is a marabouta, a saint endowed withmagic power, and that her spirit isstronger than thine. They will offerthemselves to her man, when we come tothe place where the known way ends, if hewill promise to lead them straight toEgypt, without wandering across the opendesert to seek thy Lost Oasis."

"Her man!" echoed Stanton, the bloodsuffusing his already bloodshot eyes as inan instant it reddens those of an angry St.Bernard. "What do you mean?"

"Thou knowest without my telling, myChief. The man whose idol she is. Thereis but one man—the man who watchesover her by day and night, and makeshimself her slave."

"You're a fool, Ahmara," Stanton saidroughly. "Don't you suppose I've got senseenough to see why you want to put suchideas into my head? You're jealous of mywife. St. George and she are nothing toeach other. As for the men, like as not theygrowl in your hearing because they hopeyou'll repeat their nonsense to me and giveme a fright. That's all there is in it."

"I know thou art a lion and fearestnothing," Ahmara meekly answered. Butnext day she saw that Stanton watchedMax.

On the following night they came to theoasis of which she had spoken. It wascalled Dardaï, and lay between twodanger-zones. The first of these—dangerfrom man—was practically passed atDardaï, Stanton calculated, and knew thathe had been lucky to bring his caravanthrough the land of the Touaregs (which hehad risked rather than face almost certaindeath along the shorter, more northern wayof Tripolitania) with only a few theftsfrom marauders and no loss of life byviolence. Perhaps the formidable size ofthe caravan and the arms it carried hadbeen its protection, rather than the reputeof its leader; but Stanton took the credit tohimself. He told himself that, after all, hehad triumphed over difficulties as no otherman in his place could have done. It was

monstrous and incredible that the spirit ofthe caravan should have turned againsthim. He said this over and over, but in hisheart he knew that he had lost prestigethrough faults in his own nature, andbecause of mistakes he had made eversince the bad beginning. He knew that,although he had brought his followersthrough the first danger-zone without toomany accidents, the second zone, theuncharted zone of Libyan desert whichstretched before them now, had ten timesmore of danger in it than the zone ofdanger from men. Whisky could not chaseaway his gloom that night when he hadcome to camp from the house of the sheikhwho had entertained him at dinner in thevillage, and to whom he had givenvaluable presents in exchange for help

expected. But if the liquor could not cheerhim, it made him conscious of his ownbulldog tenacity.

"I'll show the ungrateful devils who ismaster," he thought as he looked out fromhis tent door to the glow of the fire roundwhich his men had been watching somenaked male dancers of Dardaï. Thedancers had gone, but the watchers had notyet moved. They were talking togethermore quietly than usual, in groups. Stantonwondered what they were saying; and hestared, frowning, over their heads towardthe east, where lay the Libyan desert. Theywere practically out of the Sahara now.

As he gazed, Ahmara came flitting acrossa moonlit space of sand that lay like asilver lake between the tent and the rest of

the camp.

"Thou art back, O master of my heart,from thy visit to the sheikh," she said."Did it pass off well?"

"Well enough," Stanton answeredmechanically. For the moment he wasindifferent to Ahmara, though her strangeface was tragically beautiful. In the palelight the figure of Max St. George becamesuddenly visible to him. It moved out frombehind the tents and walked over to thefire. Stanton, on a quick impulse, calledout to Max harshly:

"Come here, St. George! I want you; hurryup!"

Ahmara slipped behind Stanton, who took

a step forward, and, as he forgot her, shedarted into his tent.

CHAPTER XXVIIISANDA SPEAKS

It was Max's policy, for Sanda's sake,never to give Stanton a pretext to send himaway. He kept his temper underprovocations almost intolerable; and nowhe obeyed the truculent summons.

"What do you want?" he asked stifflywhen he had come near enough to speak inan ordinary tone.

"I'll tell you inside my tent," the exploreranswered, stalking in first and leaving hisguest to follow. Stanton was somewhatsurprised to see Ahmara sitting on her

feet, her ringed hands on her knees, hercrowned head thrown back against thecanvas wall; but on the whole, he was notsorry that she was there. She might beuseful. He only smiled sarcastically when,at sight of her, Max stopped on thethreshold.

"Don't be afraid to come in," Stantonlaughed; "the lady won't mind."

"But I do," Max returned, with the curtpoliteness of tone which irritated Stanton."I'll stand here if you please."

"All right. My orders won't take long togive. I want you to go to your friend's tentwith a message from me."

"My friend's tent?" Max's eyes sent out a

spark in the dull yellow light.

"My wife's tent, then, if you think thename's more appropriate. I believe she'slikely to favour you as a messenger, andshe hasn't gone to bed, for her tent's lit up.Tell her from me, I find it subversive ofdiscipline in this caravan for a woman toset her will up against the leader and liveapart from her husband. Entirely for thatreason and not because I want anything todo with her, after the way I've beentreated, I've made up my mind that she andI must live together like other marriedpeople. I wish the change to be made withthe knowledge of the whole caravan. Goand tell her to come here; and then givemy orders to Mahmoud and Zaid to bringanything over she may need."

If eyes could kill, Stanton would havedropped like a felled ox. But Max wouldnot give him the satisfaction of a blow oreven of a word. With a look of disgustsuch as he might have thrown at awallowing drunkard in a gutter, St.George turned his back on the explorerand walked away. Before he could escapeout of earshot, however, the Chief wasbawling instructions to Ahmara.

"Since that fellow is above taking amessage, go you, and deliver it," roaredStanton, repeating in Arabic the ordersflung at Max. "Her ladyship knows enoughof your language to understand. Say to her,if she isn't at my tent door in ten minutesI'll fetch her. She won't like that."

Max had not meant to go near Sanda, but

fearing insult for her from the Arabwoman, he changed his mind, and puthimself between Ahmara and Sanda's tent.As the tall figure in its full white robescame floating toward him in themoonlight, he blocked the way. But thedancer did not try to pass. She paused andwhispered sharply: "Thinkest thou I wantthe girl to go to him? No, I'd kill hersooner. But he is watching. Let me onlytell her to beware of him. If she is out ofher tent when he searches, what can hedo? And by to-morrow night I shall havehad time to make him change his mind."

"You shan't speak to Mrs. Stanton if I canhelp it," said Max. "Besides, I won't trustyou near her. You're a she-devil andcapable of anything."

"Speak to her at the door thyself, if thouart afraid my breath will wither thy frailflower," Ahmara sneered. "Tell her toescape quickly into the shadows of theoasis, for the master will not care to losehis dignity in hunting her. As for thee, thoucanst run to guard her from harm, as thouhast done before when she wandered, andI will carry word to the Chief that theWhite Moon refuses to shine for him. Inten minutes he will set out to fetch her,according to his word; but when he findsher tent empty he will return to his ownwith Ahmara, I promise thee, to plan someway of punishment. Shelter thy flowerfrom that also if thou canst, for it may notbe to my interest to counsel thee then, as itis now."

Max turned from the dancer withoutreplying, and she hovered near while hespoke at the door of Sanda's tent, withinwhich the light had now gone out.

"Mrs. Stanton!" he called in a low voice."Mrs. Stanton!"

Sanda did not answer; and he called forthe third time, raising his voice slightly,yet not enough for Stanton to hear at hisdistance.

Still all was silence inside the tent, thoughit was not five minutes since the light hadbeen extinguished, and Sanda could hardlyhave fallen asleep. Could she have heardwhat he and Ahmara were saying? Hewondered. It was just possible, for he hadstepped close to the tent in barring the

dancer away from it. If Sanda had heardhurrying footsteps and voices she mighthave peeped through the canvas flaps; andhaving made an aperture, it would havebeen easy to catch a few words ofAhmara's excited whispers.

"Perhaps she took the hint and has gone,"Max thought; and an instant later assuredhimself that she had done so, for the pegsat the back of the tent had been pulled outof the sand. The bird had flown, but Maxfeared that it might only be from onedanger to another. In spite of the friendlyreception given to the caravan at Dardaï, ayoung woman straying from camp into theoasis would not be safe for an instant ifseen; and in the desert beyond Sandamight be terrified by jackals or hyenas.

Bending down Max saw, among the largertracks made by himself and the men whohad helped him pitch the tent, smallfootprints in the sand: marks of little shoeswhich could have been worn by nobodybut Sanda. The toes had pressed in deeply,while the heelprints were invisible afterthe first three or four. As soon as she wasout of the tent, Sanda had started to run.She had gone away from the direction ofthe dying fire, in front of which the men ofthe caravan still squatted, and had takenthe track that led toward the oasis. Therewas a narrow strip of desert to becrossed, and then a sudden descent overrocks, down to an oued or river-bed,which gave water to the mud village highup on the other side. This was the way theoasis dwellers had taken after a visit of

curiosity to the camp; and as the night wasbright and not cold, some might still belingering in the oued, bathing their feet inthe little stream of running water amongthe smooth, round stones. Max followedthe footprints, but lost them on the rocks,and would have passed Sanda if a voicehad not called him softly.

The girl had found a seat for herself indeep shadow on a small plateau betweentwo jutting masses of sandstone.

"I saw you," she said as he stopped. "Iwondered if you would come and look forme."

"Weren't you sure?" he asked. "When Ifound the tent-pegs up, I knew you'd gone;and I followed the footprints, because it's

not safe for you to be out in the nightalone."

"Safer than in my tent, if he——" shebegan breathlessly, then checked herself inhaste. She was silent for a minute, lookingup at Max, who had come to a stand on theedge of her little platform. Then, for thefirst time since she had begged him to jointhe caravan instead of going back to Bel-Abbés, she broke down and cried bitterly.

"What am I to do, Soldier?" she sobbed."You know—I never told you anything,but—you know how it is with me?"

"I know," said Max.

"I've been always hoping I should diesomehow, and—and that would make an

end," the girl wept. "Other people havedied since we have started: three strongmen and a woman, one from a viper's biteand the others with fever. But I can't die!Soldier, you never let me die!"

"I don't mean to!" Max tried to force a ringof cheerfulness into his voice, thoughblack despair filled his heart. "You've gotto live for—your father."

"I hope I shall never see him again!" shecried sharply. "He'd know the instant helooked into my eyes that I was unhappy. Icouldn't bear it. Oh, Soldier, if only I hadlet you take me back when you begged to,even as late as that morning—beforeFather Dupré came out from Touggourt.But it makes things worse to think of thatnow—of what might have been!"

"Let's think of what will be, when we getthrough to Egypt," Max encouraged her.

"I don't want to get through. The rest ofyou, yes, but not I! Soldier, what am I todo if he tries to make—if he won't let mego on living alone?"

"He shall let you," said Max between histeeth.

"You mean that you—but that would bethe worst thing of all, if you quarrelledwith him about me. You've been sowonderful. Don't you think I've seen?"

Max's heart leaped. What had she seen?His love, or only the acts it prompted?

"Don't be afraid, that's all," he said. Hisvoice shook a little. As her face leaned

out of the shadow looking up to him, lily-pale under the moon, he feared hersweetness in the night, feared that it mightbreak down such strength as he had andmake him betray his secret. How he wouldhate himself afterward, if in a madmoment he blurted out his love for thispoor child who so needed a faithfulfriend! In terror of himself he hurried on."Better let me take you back now," hesuggested almost harshly. "You can't stayhere all night."

"Why can't I?"

"Because—it's best not. I'll walk with youas far as the camels, and then drop behind—not too far off to be at hand if—anythingdisturbs you. Did you hear all that womansaid to me?"

"About his looking into my tent and thengoing back to his own—that she'd promisehe should go back? Yes, I listened beforeI ran away. Those were the last words Iwaited for."

Max was glad she had not overheard thethreat of future punishment.

"Well, then, your tent will be safe."

"Safe?" she echoed. "Safe from him—from my hero! What fools girls can be!But perhaps there was never one sofoolish as I. It seems æons since I was thatperson—that happy, silly person. Well! Itdoesn't bear thinking of, much less talkingabout; and I never did talk before, did I?We'll go back, since you say we must. Butnot to my tent. I'd rather sit by the fire all

night, if the men have gone when we getthere. After dawn I can rest, as we're notto travel to-morrow."

She held out both hands to be helped upfrom her low seat, and Max fought downthe impulse to crush the slender whitecreature against his breast. Slowly theywalked back over the rocks and throughthe moon-white sand, until they could seenot only the glow of the fire, but thesmouldering remnants of palm-trunks.Dark, squatting figures were stillsilhouetted against the ruddy light, andSanda paused to consider what she shoulddo. She stopped Max also, with a hand onhis arm.

"It's a wonderful picture, or would be ifone were happy!" she muttered; and then

Max could feel some sudden new emotionthrill through her body. She started, orshivered, and the fingers lying lightly onhis coat-sleeve tightened.

"What is it?" he asked, but got no answer.The girl was standing with slightly liftedface, her eyes closed, as if behind the shutlids she saw some vision.

"Sanda!" he breathed. It was the first timehe had called her by that name, thoughalways in his thoughts she was Sanda."You're frightening me!"

"Hush!" she said. "I'm remembering adream; you and I in the desert together,and you saving me from some danger, Inever found out what, because I woke uptoo soon. Just now it was as if a voice

told me this was the place of the dream."

What caused Max to tear his eyes from therapt, white face of the girl at that instant,and look at the sand, he did not know. Buthe seemed compelled to look. Somethingmoved, close to Sanda's feet; somethingthin and long and very flat, like a piece ofrope pulled quickly toward her by anunseen hand. Max did not stop to wonderwhat it was. He swooped on it and seizedthe viper's neck between his thumb andfinger and snapped its spine before it hadtime to strike Sanda's ankle with itspoisoned fang. But not before it had timeto strike him.

The keen pin-prick caught him in the ballof the thumb. It did not hurt much, but Maxknew it meant death if the poison found a

vein; and he did not want to die and leaveSanda alone with Stanton. Flinging thedead viper off, he whipped the knife in hisbelt from its sheath, and with its sharpblade slit through the skin deep into theflesh. A slight giddiness mounted like thefumes from a stale wine-vat to his head ashe cut down to the bone and hacked off ableeding slice of his right hand, thencauterized the wound with the flame of amatch; but he was hardly conscious of thepain in the desperate desire to save a lifenecessary to Sanda. It was of her hethought then, not of himself at all as anentity wishing to live for its own pleasureor profit; and he was dimly conscious, asthe blood spurted from his hand, of hopingthat Sanda did not see. He would havetold her not to look, but the need to act

was too pressing to give time for words.Neither he nor she had uttered a soundsince his dash for the viper had shaken herclinging fingers from his arm; and it wasonly when the poisoned flesh and the burntmatch had been flung after the dead snakethat Max could glance at the girl.

When he did turn his eyes to her, it waswith scared apology. He was afraid hehad made her faint if she had seen thatsight; luckily, though, blood wasn't quiteso horrid by moonlight as by day.

"I'm sorry!" he stammered. But the wordsdied on his lips. She was looking straightat him with a wonderful, transfiguringlook. Many fleeting expressions he hadseen on that face of his adoration, butnever anything like this. He did not dare to

think he could read it, and yet—yet——

"Have you given your life for me thistime?" she asked, in a strange, deadlyquiet tone.

"No, no. I shall be all right now I've gotrid of the poison," he answered. "I'll bindmy hand up with this handkerchief——"

"I'll bind it," she cut him short; and takingthe handkerchief from him she tore itquickly into strips. Then with practisedskill she bandaged the wound. "That mustdo till we get to my tent," she told him."There I've lint and real bandages that Iuse for the men when they hurt themselves,and I'll sponge your hand withdisinfectant. But, my Soldier, my poorSoldier, how can I bear it if you leave

me? You won't, will you?"

"Not if I can possibly help it," said Max.

"How soon can we be sure that you've cutall the poison out?"

"In a few minutes, I think."

"And if you haven't, it's—death?"

"I can't let myself die," Max exclaimed.

"It's for my sake you care like that, Iknow!" Sanda said. "And I can't let youdie—anyhow, without telling yousomething first. Does the poison, if you'vegot it in you, kill very quickly?"

"It does, rather," Max admitted, stillapologetically, because he could not bear

to have Sanda suffer for him. "But it's apainless sort of an end, not a bad one, if itwasn't for—for——"

"For leaving me alone. I understand. Andbecause you may have to—very soon,though I pray not—I shall tell you what Inever would have told you except for this.Only, if you get well, you must promisenot to speak of it to me—nor even to seemto remember; and truly to forget, if youcan."

"I promise," Max said.

"It's this: I know you care for me, Max,and I care for you, too, dearly, dearly. Allthe love I had ready for Richard flowedaway from him, like a river whose coursehad been changed in a night by a

tremendous shock of earthquake.Gradually it turned toward you. You wonit. You deserve it. I should be a wretch—Ishouldn't be natural if I didn't love you!That's all I had to tell. I couldn't let you gowithout knowing. And if you do go, I shallfollow you soon, because I couldn't livethrough a day more of my awful lifewithout you."

"Now I know that I can't die!" Max's voicerang out. "If there was poison in my blood,it's killed with the joy of what you've saidto me."

"Joy!" Sanda echoed. "There can be nojoy for us in loving each other, onlysorrow."

"There's joy in love itself," said Max.

"Just in knowing."

"Though we're never to speak of it again?"

"Even though we're never to speak of itagain."

So they came to Sanda's tent; and Stanton,sitting in his open doorway, saw themarrive together. With great strides hecrossed the strip of desert between thetwo tents, and thrust his red face close tothe blanched face of Max. His eyes spokethe ugly thing that was in his mind beforehis lips could utter it. But Sanda gave himno time for words that would beunforgivable.

"I had gone to the river," she said, with ahint of pride and command in her voice

that Max had never heard from her. Itforbade doubt and rang clear withcourage. "Monsieur St. George was afraidfor me, and came to bring me back. On theway he killed a viper that would havebitten me, and was bitten himself. He hascut out the flesh round the wound andcauterized it; and he will live, pleaseGod, with care and rest."

Taken aback by the challenging air of onewho usually shrank from him, Stanton wassilenced. Sanda's words and mannercarried conviction; and even before shespoke he had failed in goading himself tobelieve evil. Drunk, he had for the momentlost all instincts of a gentleman; but,though somehow the impulse to insultSanda was beaten down, the wish to

punish her survived. Max's wound and thefever sure to follow, if he lived, gaveStanton a chance for revenge on bothtogether, which appealed to the cruelty inhim. Besides, it offered the brutal openinghe wanted to show his authority over thesullenly mutinous men.

"Sorry, but St. George will have to do thebest he can without rest," Stantonannounced harshly. "We start at four-thirty. It is to be a surprise call."

"But we were to stop till to-morrow andrefit!" Sanda protested in horror.

"I've changed my mind. We don't need torefit. In five hours we shall be on themarch."

"No!" cried Sanda. "You want to kill myonly friend, but you shall not. You knowthat rest is his one chance, and you'd takeit away. I won't have it so. He stays here,and I stay with him."

"Stay and be damned," Stanton bawled.

The men sitting by the distant fire heardthe angry roar, and some jumped to theirfeet, expecting an alarm.

"Stay and be damned, and may the vulturespick the flesh off your lover's bones,while the sheikh takes you to his harem.He's welcome to you," Stanton finished.

Before the words were out Max leaped atthe Chief's throat. All the advantage ofyouth was his, against the other's bulk; but

as he sprang Ahmara bounded on him frombehind, winding her arms around his bodyand throwing on him all her weight. Itmade him stagger, and, snatching up theheavy campstool on which he had beensitting, Stanton struck Max with it on thehead. Weakened already by the anguish inthe torn nerves of his hand (most painfulcentre for a wound in all the body), Maxfell like a log, and lay unconscious whileAhmara wriggled herself free.

"He asked for that, and now he's got it,"said Stanton, panting. "Serve him right,and nobody will blame me if he's dead.But he isn't, no fear! Fellows like himbelong to the leopard tribe, and have asmany lives as a cat. Good girl, Ahmara,many thanks."

And without another glance toward Max,beside whom Sanda was on her knees,Stanton threw the campstool into the tentand yelled to the men by the fire. Hecalled the names of two who were hisspecial servants, but most of the bandfollowed, knowing from the roar of rageand the one sharp cry in a woman's voicethat something important had happened.

Stanton was glad when he saw the darkcrowd troop toward him, though in hisfirst flush of excitement he had not thoughtto summon every one.

"Come on, all of you!" he shouted. "Nowhalt! You see the man lying there—at myfeet, where he belongs. He was my trustedlieutenant, but he took too much uponhimself. I knocked him down for

insubordination. He doesn't go fartherwith the caravan. And we start in fivehours. Zaid and Mahmoud, put this carrionout of my sight. I've shown you all whathappens when black or white men disobeymy orders."

No one came forward. From her kneesbeside Max Sanda rose up slim andstraight and stood facing the Arabs andnegroes.

"Men," she cried to them, "I've done mybest for you. I've defended you, when Icould, from injustice. When you have beensick with fevers or with wounds I havenursed you. Now my father's friend, andmy friend, who to-night has saved my life,lies wounded. If you leave him, you leaveme, too, for I stay as his nurse. What do

you decide?"

Stanton was on her in two strides. Seizingher arm he twisted it with a savagewrench and flung her tottering behind him.The pain forced a cry from the girl, andAhmara laughed. That was more than themen could stand, for to them Sanda wasalways the White Angel, Ahmara theBlack; and over there by the fire they haddiscussed a deputation to Stanton,announcing that, since starting, they hadheard too much evil of the haunted Libyandesert to dare venture across its waterlesswastes. The spirit of mutiny was in them,having smouldered and flashed up,smouldered and flamed again at Stanton'scruelty. This was too much! The sparkwas fired. A Senegalese whom Sanda had

cured of a scorpion bite—a black giant towhom Max had lent his camel whenStanton would have left him in the desert—leaped like a tiger on the Chief. Steelflashed under the moon, and Stanton fellback without a groan, striking the hardsand and staining it red.

For an instant there was silence. Thenburst forth a wild shout of hate and joy....

CHAPTER XXIXOUT OF THE DREAM, A PLAN

Stanton was dead, hacked in pieces by themen he had cursed and beaten. Ahmarahad fled to Dardaï to live as she could byher beauty; and the murderers, taking withthem, in a rage of haste and terror, camels,water, and provisions, had disappeared.The caravan of the great explorer hadvanished like a mirage; and the Lost Oasislay hidden forever from despoiling eyesand hands in the uncharted Libyan desert.

At dawn Sanda sat beside Max in his tent,where two of the few men who remained

had carried him. Through the hideoushours he had lain as one dead. But light,touching his eyelids, waked him with ashuddering start.

"You!" he whispered. "Safe! I've hadhorrible dreams."

"Only dreams," she soothed him.

"How pale you are!" He stared at her, stillhalf dazed.

"Perhaps it's the light."

"No, it's not the light. I remember now....What happened after he—I——"

"I'll tell you when you're stronger."

"I'm strong enough for anything. Only a

little odd in my head."

"And your poor wounded hand? I bathed itand bandaged it again, and you neverknew."

"Queer! I thought if I were dead I shouldhave known if you touched me!" He spokemore to himself than to Sanda, and she didnot answer. His eyelids drooped, andpresently he slept again. Hours later, whenhe woke, she was still there. It seemed tothe girl that the world had fallen to pieces,leaving only her and this man in the ruins.All around them lay the vast desert. To goback whence they had come wasimpossible. To go on seemed equallyimpossible. There was nowhere to go. Butthey were together. She knew that nothingcould part them now, not life, and even

less death, yet she could see no future.Everything had come to a standstill, andtheir souls might as well be out of theirbodies. It would be so much simpler!

She gave Max tea that she had made; andwhen she had looked at his hand andbandaged it again, she told him all that hadhappened. How the Senegalese, whosebrother Stanton had shot for pilfering, amonth ago, had stabbed Stanton in thebreast, and fifty others in blood-madnesshad rushed to finish his work. HowAhmara had run shrieking to the village,and the men, still in madness, had stolenthe camels and gone off into the desert; notthe murderers only, but their friends whosaw that it was well to disappear, that itmight never be known who were the men

that saw Richard Stanton die.

Two months and more ago, when thecaravan left Touggourt, there were over ahundred men who marched with it.Between that time and reaching Dardaïthirty had deserted, and a few had died.Now all had flown except a dozen of theoldest and most responsible who refusedto be carried away by their comrades'vague fear of reprisals. Just these twelvewere left with fifteen camels and a smallstore of arms and provisions. There wasmoney also, untouched in Stanton's tent,and some bales of European rugs, clocks,and musical boxes, which the explorer hadbrought as gifts for native rulers. Thequestion pressed: what was to be done?Sanda could find no answer; but Max had

two. They might turn back and go the waythey had come. Or they might go on, nottrying to cross the Libyan desert in thedirection of Assouan, as Stanton hadhoped to do, but skirting southward by alonger route where the desert was chartedand oases existed. After a journey ofseventy or eighty days they might hope tofind their way through Kordofan toOmdurman, and then across the Nile tocivilized Khartoum. It was this idea thatthe leading mutineers, frightened by talesof the terrible Libyan desert, had meant tosuggest to Stanton; and if he refused theirintention had been to desert. The murder,Max felt sure, had not been premeditated;but he did not believe that it wasregretted.

"I will not go back to Touggourt," Sandasaid, when he had described to her thetwo plans.

"Why? Because you are thinking of me?"he asked.

"Partly that. But it would be as bad for meas for you, now, if you were to be arrestedas a deserter. And besides," Sanda wenton hurriedly, determined to show him itwas for her sake more than his that sheobjected, "I've suffered so much I couldn'tgo again along that Via Dolorosa. I wantto get away from the very thought of it.New scenes will be better. How manymiles must we journey to Omdurman andKhartoum?"

"Nearly a thousand," Max confessed.

"More than we've come with our greatcaravan! It's not possible."

"It must be possible!" said Max. "We'llmake it possible."

"Surely such a thing has never been done!"

"Maybe not, but we'll do it. I feel now thatI have the strength of a hundred men inmyself."

"You haven't even the strength of one. Wemust stay here till you are stronger." Yetshe shivered and grew cold at the thoughtof staying on, even with Max, close to thegrave the men had dug for Stanton in thesand.

"I shall be better travelling," Max urged.He would not tell Sanda, but he felt it

unsafe to stay long near Dardaï with sofew men. The sheikh had been hospitableto Stanton, but things were different now.Ahmara would tell about the money andthe boxes and bales full of presents. Thetemptation virtuously to punish those whowere left, for the fate of the explorer,would be too great, and the excuse toogood.

"We shall have to get off after the heat ofthe day," Max insisted. "I've lain here longenough, for, you see, I must be leader nowfor you. I must talk to the men and tellthem what we've decided."

"How little we are in this great desert, totalk of 'deciding,'" the girl exclaimed. "Itis the desert that will decide. But—youwill be with me always ... as in my

dream!"

"And mine," Max added.

Then followed day upon day of the desertdream. Some days were evil and somewere good, but none could ever beforgotten. The man and the girl whosedreams had come true never spoke of thefuture, though waking or sleeping thethought was seldom out of their minds.

" I can't give her up now, whateverhappens," Max said to himself sometimes.Yet he did not see how he should be able,in justice to the girl, to keep her. In Britishterritory he would be safe from arrest as adeserter from the Legion. But the verythought of himself as a deserter wastorture from which he could never escape.

He regretted nothing. What he had done hewould do again if he had it to do, even inignorance of the reward—her love. But heremembered how he had tried to puzzleout some other way for Valdez, and howimpossible it would have seemed then,that he should ever follow Manöel'sexample. He loved Colonel DeLisle andhe had loved the Legion with all itstragedies, and been proud of his place init. He looked upon himself as a mandisgraced, and did not see how he shouldever be able to make a position in theworld worthy to be shared by Sanda.Besides, it would be disastrous forColonel DeLisle, as an official, if hisdaughter should marry a deserter. Thatwas one of the things that "would not do."Yet Sanda loved the deserter, and fate had

bound them together. The spirit of thedesert was making them one. Max did notknow that out of Sanda's dreams had beenborn a plan.

CHAPTER XXXTHE PLAY OF CROSS PURPOSES

When Max St. George, with sevenemaciated Arabs and five dilapidatedcamels, crawled into Omdurman, bringingRichard Stanton's young widow, theirarrival made a sensation for all Egypt.Later, in Khartoum, when the history of themurder and the subsequent march of ninehundred miles came out, it became asensation for Europe and America.

Rumours had run ahead of the little party,from Kordofan, birthland of the terribleMahdi; but the whole story was patched

together from disjointed bits only, whenthe caravan arrived in civilization. Verylittle was got out of the fever-stricken,haggard young man who (according toMrs. Stanton) was the hero of the greatadventure, impossible to have beencarried through for a single day withouthim. It was Sanda who told the tale, told itvoluntarily, even eagerly, to every onewho questioned her. She could not giveMax St. George—that mysterious youngman who apparently had no country and nopast—enough praise to satisfy hergratitude. There had been terriblesandstorms in which they would havegiven themselves up for lost if it had notbeen for his energy and courage. Oncethey had strayed a long way off their trackand nearly starved and died of thirst

before they could find an oasis they hadaimed for and renew exhausted supplies.But Max St. George's spirit had neverflagged even after the mosquito-riddenswamp where he had caught a touch ofmalarial fever. Through his presence ofmind and military skill the party had beensaved from extinction in a surprise attackby a band of desert marauders twice theirnumber. Every night he had protected thelittle camp by forming round it a hollowsquare of camels and baggage, andkeeping a sentinel posted, generallyhimself. It was through these precautionsthey had been able to withstand thesurprise and drive the robbers off with theloss only of a few men and some of thecamels. They had fought and conqueredthe enemy under a flag of the Legion, a

miniature copy given by Colonel DeLisleto his daughter. There had not been onedesertion from their ranks, except bydeath, and all was owing—Sanda said—to the spirit Max St. George had infusedinto his followers. He insisted that thelatter were the only heroes, if any, and theArabs from far-off Touggourt enjoyedsuch fame as they had associated with thedelights of a paradise reserved forwarriors. But of himself Max St. Georgewould not talk; and people said to eachother, "Who is this young fellow who wasthe only white man with Stanton? Heseems at home in every language. Wheredid he come from?"

Nobody could tell. Not a soul knew whathis past had been. But as for his future, it

seemed not unlikely that it might belimited on this earth; for having finishedhis mission, and taken Mrs. Stanton as faras Cairo on her way back to Algeria, hesuccumbed to the fever he had resistedferociously while his services wereneeded. When there was nothing to do herelaxed a little and the flame in his bloodburned unchecked.

Mrs. Stanton's exhibition of gratitude,however, was admirable in the eyes of theworld focussed upon her. If RichardStanton had not been a magnificent man,celebrated for his successes with women,and having the added attraction of fame asan explorer, people might have suggestedthat the widow's remaining in Cairo tonurse St. George was not entirely

disinterested. But as it was, nobody saiddisagreeable things about the beautiful,pale young creature, and the haggardskeleton of a man who had pioneered hersafely through the Sahara and Libyandeserts.

It was as much because of her beauty,which gave a glamour of almost classicromance to the wild business, as becauseof Stanton's reputation and the amazingmadness of his last venture, thatnewspapers all over the civilized worldgave columns to the story. Somehow,snapshots of Max St. George, as well asseveral of Sanda, had been snatched byenterprising journalists before St. Georgefell ill in Cairo. These were telegraphedfor and bought by newspapers of England,

Spain, Italy, France, America, Algeria,and even Germany, which had not lovedStanton. The next thing that happened wasthe report in Algerian papers that Max St.George, "le jeune homme de mystère,"was a missing soldier of the Legion, whohad deserted from an important mission tojoin Stanton's caravan. Sensationeverywhere! Paragraphs reminding thepublic of a curious fact: that young Mrs.Stanton was the daughter of the colonel ofthe Legion. Strange if she had not knownfrom the first that the recruit to herhusband's expedition was a deserter fromher father's regiment. And what a situationfor the colonel himself! His daughterprotected during a long desert journey ofincalculable peril by a man whom itwould be her father's duty to have arrested

and court-martialled if he were on Frenchsoil.

Journalists argued the delicate question,whether, in the circumstances, it would bepossible for Colonel DeLisle to doanything officially toward obtaining apardon for St. George—whose nameprobably was not St. George, since noman wore anything so obvious as his ownname in the Foreign Legion. Retiredofficers wrote letters to the papers andpointed out that for DeLisle to work in St.George's favour, simply because accidenthad enabled the deserter to aid a memberof his colonel's family, would beinadmissible. If St. George were the rightsort of man and soldier he would notexpect or wish it. As a matter of fact, he

did neither; but then, at the time, he was ina physical state which precludedconscious wishes and expectations. Hedid not know or care what happened;though sometimes, in intervals of seeingmarvellous mirages of the Lost Oasis, andfighting robbers, or prescribing for sickcamels, he appeared vaguely to recognizethe face of his nurse; not the professional,but the amateur. "Sanda, Sanda!" he wouldmutter, or cry out aloud; but as fortunatelyno one knew that Mrs. Stanton, néeCorisande DeLisle, was called "Sanda"by those who loved her, the doctor and theprofessional nurse supposed he wasbabbling about the sand of the desert. Hehad certainly had a distressing amount ofit!

Max would have been immenselyinterested if he could have known at thistime of three persons in different parts ofthe world who were working for him indifferent ways. There was Manöel Valdezin Rome, where he had arrived withOurïeda by way of Tunis and Sicily,instead of getting to Spain according to hisearlier plan. Manöel, singing withmagnificent success in grand opera,proclaimed himself Juan Garcia, a fellow-deserter with St. George, in order to gildSt. George's escapade with glory. Notonly did he talk to every one, and permithis fascinating Spanish-Arab bride to talk,but he let himself be interviewed bynewspapers. Perhaps all this was a goodadvertisement in a way; but he wasmaking a succes fou, and did not need

advertisement. Genuinely and sincerely hewas baring his heart and bringing his wifeinto the garish limelight because of hispassionate gratitude to Max St. George.

The interview was copied everywhere,and Sanda read it in Cairo, learning forthe first time not only many generous actsof St. George of which she had neverheard, but gathering details of Ourïeda'sescape with Valdez, at which till then shehad merely been able to guess. The entireplot of Manöel's love drama, from the firstgrim scene of stunning the prospectivebridegroom on the way to his unwillingbride, to the escape from the douar in thequiet hours when Tahar was supposed tobe left alone with the "Agha's Rose," on tothe hiding at Djazerta, and stealing away

in disguise with a caravan while the hunttook another direction, all had playeditself out according to his plan. Valdezattributed the whole success to St.George's help, advice, and gifts of money,down to the last franc in his possession.And now Manöel began to pay the debt heowed, by calling on the world's sympathyfor the deserter, who might not set foot onFrench soil without being arrested. Thusthe singer's golden voice was raised forMax in Italy. In Algeria old "Four Eyes"was working for him like the demon thathe looked; having returned with hiscolonel and comrades to Sidi-bel-Abbésafter the long march and a satisfactoryfight with the "Deliverer," he soonreceived news of the lost one. With roarsof derision he refused to believe in the

little "corporal's" voluntary desertion, andfrom the first moment began to agitate.What! punish a hero for his heroism? That,in Four Eyes' vilely profane opinion,expressed with elaborate expletives in theLegion's own choicest vernacular, waswhat it would amount to if St. Georgewere branded "deserter." Precisely whyMax had joined Stanton's caravan insteadof returning to Sidi-bel-Abbés, perhaps afew days late, Four Eyes was not certain;but there was no one better instructed thanhe in pretending to know things he merelyconjectured. He had seen Ahmara, thedancer, and had told Max the scandalconnecting her with the explorer. "Whatmore natural than that a soldier of theLegion should, for his colonel's sake,sacrifice his whole career to protect the

daughter from such a husband as Stanton?No doubt the boy knew that Stanton meantto take Ahmara with him, and had lefteverything to stand between the girl andsuch a pair."

In his own picturesque and lurid languageFour Eyes presented these conjectures ofhis as if they were facts; and to do himjustice he believed in them. Also, he tookpains to rake up every old tale of cruelty,vanity, or lust that had been told in thepast about Richard Stanton, and embroiderthem. Beside the satyr figure which heflaunted like a dummy Guy Fawkes, MaxSt. George shone a pure young martyr.Never had old Four Eyes enjoyed suchpopularity among the townfolk of Sidi-bel-Abbés as in these days, and he had the

satisfaction of seeing veiled allusions tohis anecdotes in newspapers when hecould afford to buy or was able to stealthem. On the strength of his triumph he gotup among his fellow Legionnaires apetition for the pardon and reinstatementof Corporal St. George. Not a man refusedto sign, for even those who might havehesitated would not have done so longunder the basilisk stare of the ex-champion of boxing.

"Sign, or I'll smash you to a jelly," was hisremark to one recruit who had not heardenough of St. George or Four Eyes to dashhis name on paper the instant he saw apen.

While the petition was growing ColonelDeLisle (who gave no sign that he had

heard of it) obtained ten days' leave, thefirst he had asked for in many years, andtook ship for Algiers to Alexandria to seehis daughter. But that did not discourageFour Eyes; on the contrary, "The Old Mandoesn't want to be in it, see?" said Pelle."It ain't for him, in the circus, to do thetrick; it's for us, ses enfants! And damn allfour of my eyes, we'll do it, if we have tomutiny as our comrades once did beforeus, when they made big history in theLegion."

The third person who, unasked, took anactive interest in Max St. George's affairswas, of all people on earth, the last whomhe or any one else would have expected tomeddle with them. This was BillieBrookton, married to her Chicago

millionaire, and trying, tooth and nail,with the aid of his money, to break into theinner fastnesses of New York andNewport's Four Hundred. It was allbecause of a certain resistance to herefforts that suddenly, out of revenge andnot through love, she took up Max's cause.The powder train was—unwittingly—laidmonths before by Josephine Doran-Reeves, as she preferred to call herselfafter her marriage with the son of theDorans' lawyer. Neither she nor Grant—who had taken the name of Doran-Reevesalso—liked to think or talk of the manwho had disappeared. On consideration,the Reeveses, father and son, had decidednot to make public the story of Josephine'sbirth which Max had given to them. Theyfeared that his great sacrifice would

create too much sympathy for Max androuse indignation against Josephine andher husband for accepting it, allowing themartyr to disappear, penniless, into space.At first they said nothing at all about him,merely giving out that Josephine Doranwas a distant relative who had beenbrought to the Doran house on Rose'sdeath; but all sorts of inconvenientquestions began to be asked about MaxDoran, into whose house and fortune thestrange-looking, half-beautiful, half-terrible, red-haired girl had suddenly,inexplicably stepped.

Max's friends in society and the army didnot let him pass into oblivion without aword; therefore some sort of story had toeventually be told to silence tongues, and,

still worse, newspapers. Grant wassingularly good at making up stories, andalways had been since, as a boy, he hadunobtrusively contrived to throw blameoff his own shoulders on to those of Maxif they were in a scrape together.

Half a lie, nicely mixed with a few truths,makes a concoction that the publicswallows readily. Max was too young,and had been too much away from NewYork, to be greatly missed there, despiteRose Doran's popularity; and when suchan interesting and handsome couple asGrant and Josephine Doran-Reeves beganentertaining gorgeously in the renovatedDoran house, the ex-lieutenant of cavalrywas forgotten comparatively soon. Itseemed, according to reluctant admissions

made at last by Grant and Josephine totheir acquaintances, that Max had hadsecret reasons for resigning hiscommission in the army and vanishing intospace. It was his own wish to give up theold house to Josephine, his "distant cousinfrom France," and in saying this theycarefully gave the impression that he hadbeen well paid. Nobody dreamed that themoney Mr. and Mrs. Grant Doran-Reevesspent in such charming ways had oncebelonged to Max. He was supposed tohave "come a cropper" somehow, as somany young men did, and to havedisappeared with everything he had, out ofthe country, for his country's good. Whenpeople realized that there was a secret,perhaps a disgraceful one, many weresorry for poor Grant and Josephine, mixed

up in it through no fault of their own; andthe name of Max Doran was dropped fromconversation whenever his innocentrelatives were within hearing distance.Then, by and by, it was practicallydropped altogether, because it had passedout of recollection.

This was the state of affairs when thebeautiful Billie (Mrs. Jeff Houston)arrived, covered with diamonds andpearls (the best of the latter were Max's),to storm social New York. She hadalready won its heart as an actress, but asa respectable married woman who hadleft the stage and connected herself bymarriage with a sausage-maker she was adifferent "proposition."

"You ought to know some woman in the

smart set," advised a friend in the half-smart set who had received favours fromBillie, and had not been able to give theright sort of return. "Oh, of course, you doknow a lot of the men, but they're worsethan no use to you now. It must be awoman, 'way high up at the top.'"

Billie racked her brains, and thought ofJosephine Doran-Reeves. Josephine was"way up at the top," because she was aDoran and very rich, and so queer that sheamused the most bored people, whethershe meant to or not. Unfortunately, Billiedid not know her, but the next best thing,surely, was to have known Max Doran.

Billie had made capital out of Max in theshape of a famous blue diamond and astring of uniquely fine pearls, and her idea

had been that she had got all there was tobe got from him. In fact, she had notmentioned this little love-idyll even to herhusband. Suddenly, however, sheremembered that they two had been dear,dear friends—perfectly platonic friends,of course—and she felt justified in writinga sweet letter to Josephine asking tactfullyfor news of Max. She put her pointcharmingly, and begged that she might beallowed to call on dear Mrs. Doran-Reeves, to chat cozily about "that darlingboy," or would Mrs. Doran-Reeves rathercome and have tea with her one day, anyday, at the Plaza Hotel? She was stayingthere until the house her husband hadbought for her (quite near the Doranhouse) should be out of the decorator'shands.

But the last thing that appealed toJosephine was the thought of a cozy chatabout "that darling boy" Max. Besides, themoment was a bad one with her. Captainde la Tour had got long leave and come toAmerica, she did not know why at first,and had been inclined to feel ratherflattered, if slightly frightened. But soonshe found out. He had come to blackmailher. There were some silly letters she hadwritten when they were in the thick oftheir flirtation at Sidi-bel-Abbés, and theheight of her ambition had been to marry aFrench officer, no matter how poor.Captain de la Tour had kept those letters.

He did not threaten to show them to GrantDoran-Reeves. He judged the other manby himself and realized that, having

married a girl for her money, Grant wouldnot throw her over, or even hurt herfeelings, while she still had it.

What Captain de la Tour proposed was tosell the letters and tell the romantic storyof Mrs. Doran-Reeves's life in a littleAlgerian hotel if she did not buy up thewhole secret and his estates in France atthe same time. For the two together heasked only the ridiculously small price ofthree hundred thousand francs—sixtythousand dollars.

Josephine had raged, for Grant, even morethan she, hated to spend money where ashow could not be made with it. ButCaptain de la Tour was rather insistentand got on her nerves. In an hysterical fit,therefore, she made a clean breast of the

story to her husband. When she haddescribed to him as well as she couldwhat was in the letters, and what aBohemian sort of life she had led in Bel-Abbés, Grant decided that it would beromantic as well as sensible to buy theChâteau de la Tour. Josephine hadactually been born there; and they couldeither keep the place or sell it when it hadbeen improved a bit and made famous bya few choice house-parties.

So the Doran-Reeveses bought the châteauand got back the letters, and hoped thatCaptain de la Tour would take himself andhis ill-gotten gains out of the UnitedStates. But he lingered, looking out for anAmerican heiress, while Josephineexisted in a state of constant irritation,

fearing some new demand or anindiscretion. And it was just at this timethat she received Mrs. Jeff Houston'sletter. Naturally it gave her great pleasureto snub some one, especially a womanprettier than herself. She took no notice ofBillie's appeal, and when Mrs. Houston,hoping somehow that it had not reached itsdestination, spoke to her sweetly one nightat the opera, Josephine was rude beforesome of the "best people" in New York.

After that, Billie said to every one thatMrs. Doran-Reeves was insane as well asdeformed; but that "cut no ice," as JeffHouston remarked, and when the snapshotof Max St. George, deserter from theForeign Legion, appeared with thenewspaper story of Sanda Stanton, Billie

did what Jeff described as "falling overherself" to get to the office of Town Tales.

She told nothing damaging to the late MissBrookton in mentioning Max Doran, andof him she spoke with friendly enthusiasm.He had been so good, so kind to her, andso different from many young men whowere good to actresses. It broke her heartto think of his fate, for there was no doubtthat Max St. George, the Legionnaire, andMax Doran were one. Billie told how, toher certain knowledge, Max hadsacrificed himself for Josephine Doran,who (for some reason he was too noble toreveal, but it had to do with a secret ofancestry) seemed to him the rightfulheiress.

Penniless, Max had been forced to resign

from an expensive regiment, where helived expensively. He had done this forJosephine's sake, though he had loved hiscareer better than anything else in theworld. And then, last of all, he hadeffaced himself rather than accept pity orfavours. He had enlisted in the ForeignLegion, and now he had further shown thenobility of his nature by the very way inwhich he had fallen into disgrace. Butwhat did the Doran-Reeveses do, thoughthey owed everything to him? They toldlies and ignored his existence. Mrs. JeffHouston said that she felt it her duty asMax Doran's only faithful friend to bringthis injustice to public notice.

Town Tales was delighted to help her dothis, because she was Billie Brookton, a

celebrity, and because it was "goodcopy." Other papers—many other papers—took up the hue and cry which TownTales started; and the Doran-Reeveses'life became not as agreeable as it hadbeen.

They defended themselves to friends andenemies and newspaper men, and thoughtof suing Town Tales for libel, but weredissuaded from doing so by old Mr.Reeves. Then it occurred to Josephine tolet every one know that, though she wasbeing cruelly maligned, she wished, as aproof of her admiration for Max's desertexploits, to present him with all herFrench property, the magnificent oldvineyard-surrounded Château de la Tour,where he could cultivate grapes and make

his fortune.

The papers pointed out that this wassomething like sending coals toNewcastle, as St. George, alias Doran,was debarred from entering France unlesshe wanted to go to prison. But Josephineand Grant quickly retorted that therecipient of their bounty need not live inFrance in order to benefit. He could sellor let the Château de la Tour through someagent.

Not an echo of all this play of crosspurposes reached Max at the nursing homein Cairo, where he had been carried bySanda's orders after breaking down. ButSanda, who took in a dozen papers to seewhat they had to say about the "deserter,"read what was going on at New York as

well as in Rome and at Sidi-bel-Abbés.She saw that Max had been presented withestates in France by the woman who hadtaken everything and given nothing; andbecause of queer things Max had let dropin his delirium she understood more of thepast than he would have revealed of hisown free will. For one thing, she learntthat a certain Jack and Rose Doran hadhad a child born to them at the Château dela Tour. This enabled her to put otherthings together in her mind, and lovingMax as she did, she saw no harm in thususing her wits, while she respected himwith all her heart for not telling the secret.Besides, she had met Captain de la Tourin Sidi-bel-Abbés, and she had guessedthat it was partly because of him and oneor two others like him that her father had

sent her to the Agha's rather than leave herat Bel-Abbés alone.

"It would be the most wonderful sort ofpoetic justice," she reflected, sitting atMax's bedside one day while he slept, "ifthe old place of his ancestors should comeback to him at last."

This thought reminded her of her plan. Notthat she ever forgot it; but she had to put itinto the background of her mind until shewas sure that Max was going to get well.Until then, she could not and would notleave him. But at last she was sure; andshe was waiting only to find out if herfather could help; or if not, till his leavewas over and she was left to act forherself without compromising the Legion'scolonel.

If Sanda had loved her father in their daystogether at Bel-Abbés, she loved him athousand times more in those few days ofhis visit at Cairo. He forgave her withoutbeing asked for leaving him "in the lurch,"as she repentantly called it, and lettingherself be carried away by Stanton. "Youthought you loved him, my darling,"DeLisle said. "And I could forgiveanything to love."

It was in his arms, with her face buried onhis breast, that she told what her marriagehad been, and then came the confession(for it seemed to her a confession, thoughshe was not ashamed of it, but proud)about Max.

"He didn't speak one word of love to me,"the girl said. "He tried not even to let his

eyes speak. But they did, sometimes, inspite of him. And no man could possiblyendure or do for a woman the things heendured and did for me, every one ofthose terrible days, if he didn't love her.So when I was afraid he might die fromthe viper's bite, I wanted him to have onehappy moment in this world to rememberin the next. I told him that I cared, and hekissed my hand and looked at me. That'sall, except just a word or two that I keeptoo sacredly to tell even you. Andafterward when Richard was dead, andMax and I were alone in the desert, savefor a few Arabs, he never again referredto that night, or spoke of our love. I wassure it was only because we were aloneand I depended on him. But after thoseweeks and months of facing death

together, it seems that we belong to eachother, he and I. Nothing must part us—nothing."

She was half afraid her father mightremind her of the situation which hadarisen between Max as a deserter andhimself as colonel of the regiment fromwhich Max had deserted.

But Colonel DeLisle did not say this oranything like it. He knew that love was thegreatest thing in the world for hisdaughter, as it had been for him, and hecould not cheat her out of it. He was sadbecause it seemed to him that in honour hecould do nothing for this deserter who haddone everything for him—nothing, that is,save give him his daughter, and abandonwhat remained of his own career by

resigning his commission. As colonel ofthe Legion, his child could not be allowedto marry a deserter, a fugitive who darenot enter France. As for him, DeLisle,though the Legion was much to him, Sandawas more. But she said she and Maxwould not take happiness at that price.They must think of some other way. Andthe other way was the plan.

When the colonel returned to Algeria andhis regiment Max had not yet gainedenough strength to be seen and thanked forwhat he had done, even if DeLisle hadfound it compatible with his official dutyto say to a deserter what was in his heartto say to Sanda's hero. And perhaps,Sanda thought, it was as well that they didnot meet just then. Irrevocable things

might have been spoken between them.

The day after her father's ship sailed forAlgiers she took another that went fromPort Said to Marseilles. From Marseillesshe travelled to Paris, which was familiarground to her. What she did there gave anew fillip to the Stanton-DeLisle-St.George sensation, though at the same timeit put an extinguisher on all discussions: ablow to those retired officers who likedwriting to the papers.

Lest what the papers said should beprematurely seen by the convalescent'seyes, however, Sanda hurried back toEgypt.

CHAPTER XXXITHE GIFT

Max was sitting up in a reclining chair, forthe first time, on the day of Sanda's returnto Cairo.

He knew that she had gone to France onbusiness of some sort, but he had no ideawhat it was. It did not occur to him that itmight have to do with his affairs. Probably(he thought) it was connected withStanton, who had left money, and who had"geographical investments," as he calledthem, all over the world, in France,perhaps, among other places. But

somehow Max could not imagine Sandaaccepting money for herself that camefrom Stanton, even if it were legally hers.

Although Max was still weak, he hadbegun to think urgently, insistently, aboutthe future. All the objections that ColonelDeLisle could see to the marriage ofSanda Stanton with the deserter St.George, the deserter St. George saw, andmany more. It was caddish to think ofmarrying her, and monstrous to think ofgiving her up. His anxious thoughts toiledround and round in a vicious circlewhence there seemed no way out.

In the morning the doctor came in and laiddown on the table, with his hat, gloves,and stick, a newspaper. As he examinedhis patient, the nurse picked up the journal

and began to glance quickly from columnto column in order to have absorbed thenews by the time the doctor wanted herservices—or his paper. Suddenly, notbeing possessed of great self-controlexcept in professional emergencies, shegave vent to a shrill little squeak ofexcitement.

Max and the doctor both turned theirheads; and when the latter saw hisnewspaper open in the young woman'shand, he guessed instantly what hadexcited her. He anathematized himself forputting the paper where she could get at it;for without doubt Mrs. Stanton wouldwant to tell the great news herself. Shemust not be defrauded of the pleasure, forshe would certainly make a point of

getting back for a "look at the patient" to-day or to-morrow. If to-day, she mightappear at any minute, for a P. & O. boat-train had arrived at Cairo late the nightbefore, Doctor Taylor had heard, and itwas now nine-thirty in the morning—nottoo early to expect her.

Nurse Yorke must not blurt out the tidingsin her common way! But how to stop herwithout arousing St. George's curiosity?

"Oh, I suppose you've got hold of theadvertisement of that sale I told you of,"he said, glaring over the top of Max'shead.

"Why! I've found——" the nurse beganbriskly, but withered under DoctorTaylor's forbidding gaze.

"I knew nothing else could have excitedyou so much," he went on masterfully, stillhypnotizing her with his eyes, until even aduller woman would have grasped hismeaning. But maybe he wanted to read outthe news himself? Nurse Yorke handedhim the paper.

"Perhaps Mr. St. George will beinterested in the advertisement of thissale," she suggested, with a coy emphasiswhich made Doctor Taylor want tosmother the well-meaning creature with apillow.

"We'll let Mrs. Stanton read it to himwhen she comes," he said waspishly; andat that moment Mrs. Stanton came.

They both knew her knock, and Nurse

Yorke flew to open the door.

She had a smile and a word for them, andthen went straight to Max. "How splendid!You're sitting up," she said. "This is worthtravelling fast for, if there were nothingelse. But there is. There's something nextbest to your getting well." Then she caughtsight of the open paper in the nurse's hand."Have you—has any one been telling you—or reading you to-day's news?" sheasked, breathless.

"Nurse Yorke was just beginning to readsomething about a sale, I think," Maxanswered, hardly knowing what he saidbecause his eyes were upon her—this girlof girls, this pearl of pearls, whom honourwas forcing him to give up, and at thesame time bidding him to keep. He thought

that he had never seen her so lovely as to-day, in the simple travelling dress and hatall of black, yet not mourning. There wasa look of heaven in her eyes, and theyseemed to say that this heaven was forhim. Could he refuse it? He gave her backlook for look; and neither he nor she knewwhat they said when Doctor Taylorinvited Nurse Yorke to go with him intothe next room and examine the chart.

"Are you glad I'm back?" Sanda asked,drawing a chair close up to the chaiselongue.

"Glad? You're worth all the doctor'smedicines and tonics. I'm well now!"

"Aren't you dying to hear my news?"

"It's such wonderful news that you'vecome, I can't think of anything else," Maxassured her, gazing at her hair, her eyes,her mouth—her sweet, sweet mouth.

"All the same I'm going to tell you," Sandainsisted, panting a little over herheartbeats. "My news is not about a 'sale,'it's about a gift. Yet I think it's the verysame news Nurse Yorke almost read you.Oh, I should have been thwarted, cheated,if she had! This is for me to tell you, mySoldier, me, and no one else, for the gift isto me, for you. The President of the FrenchRepublic has given it to me for Max St.George of the Tenth Company, FirstRegiment of the Legion; Max St. George,owner of the Château de la Tour, home ofhis far-off ancestors—where he and his

Sanda will go some day together whenhe's tired of soldiering—and Sanda'sfather, Max's grateful colonel, will visitthem. And that wonderful old Four Eyes,who has almost worked the Legion into amutiny for the Soldier's sake, will livewith them, if he can ever bear to leave theLegion. Now, can't you guess what thePresident's gift is?"

"Not—not pardon?" Max's lips formed thewords which he could not speak aloud.But it was as if Sanda heard.

"Pardon, and a lieutenant's commission inthe Legion."

"Sanda!"

All the worship of a man's heart and soul

were in that name as it broke from himwith a sob.

"My Soldier!" she answered, in his arms.And then they spoke no more; for againthey were living through in that minute allthe long months of agony and bliss in thedesert, when their dream had been comingtrue.

Four months later Max left his bride to gowith a French, English, and Russiancontingent of the Legion to fight with theAllies in France, in the War of the World.

Sanda waits, and prays—and hopes.

THE END

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N.Y.

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