A Soldier of the Legion

BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHORS

CAR OF DESTINY

THE CHAPERON

GOLDEN SILENCE

GUESTS OF HERCULES

HEATHER MOON

IT HAPPENED IN EGYPT

LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER

LORD LOVELAND DISCOVERS AMERICA

MOTOR MAID

MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR

PORT OF ADVENTURE

PRINCESS VIRGINIA

ROSEMARY IN SEARCH OF A FATHER

SET IN SILVER

A Soldier of the Legion

BYC. N. & A. M. Williamson

GARDEN CITY NEW YORKDOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. 1914

_Copyright, 1914, by_

C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON

_All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreignlanguages, including the Scandinavian_

TOTHE LEGION

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The Telegram 3

II. The Blow 15

III. The Last Act of "Girls' Love" 34

IV. The Upper Berth 45

V. The Night of Storms 58

VI. The News 71

VII. Sir Knight 80

VIII. On the Station Platform 95

IX. The Colonel of the Legion 106

X. The Voice of the Legion 117

XI. Four Eyes 132

XII. No. 1033 143

XIII. The Agha's Rose 148

XIV. Two on the Roof 163

XV. The Secret Link 173

XVI. The Beetle 189

XVII. The Mission 203

XVIII. Gone 223

XIX. What Happened at Dawn 228

XX. The Beauty Doctor 242

XXI. The Eleventh Hour 254

XXII. The Heart of Max 263

XXIII. "Where the Strange Roads Go Down" 278

XXIV. The Mad Music 285

XXV. Corporal St. George, Deserter 294

XXVI. Sanda's Wedding Night 302

XXVII. The Only Friend 317

XXVIII. Sanda Speaks 332

XXIX. Out of the Dream, a Plan 346

XXX. The Play of Cross Purposes 351

XXXI. The Gift 368

A Soldier of the Legion

CHAPTER I

THE TELEGRAM

It was the great ball of the season at Fort Ellsworth. For a specialreason it had begun unusually late; but, though the eighth dance was on, the great event of the evening had not happened yet. Until that shouldhappen, the rest, charming though it might be, was a mere curtain-raiserto keep men amused before the first act of the play. 

The band of the --th was playing the "Merry Widow" waltz, still afavourite at the fort, and only one of the officers was not dancing. Allthe others--young, middle-aged, and even elderly--were gliding more orless gracefully, more or less happily, over the waxed floor of the big, white-walled, flag-draped hall where Fort Ellsworth had its concerts, theatricals, small hops, and big balls. Encircled by their uniformedarms were the wives and sisters of brother officers, ladies whom theysaw every day, or girls from the adjacent town of Omallaha, whom theycould see nearly every day if they took the trouble. Some of the girlswere pretty and pleasant. They all danced well, and wore their newestfrocks from Chicago, New York, and even, in certain brilliant cases, from Paris. But--there was a heart-breaking "but". Each army woman, each visiting girl from Omallaha knew that at any minute her star mightbe eclipsed, put out, as the stars at dawn are extinguished by therising sun. Each one knew, too, that the sun must be at the brink of thehorizon, because it was half-past eleven, and it took more than twentyminutes to motor to Ellsworth from Omallaha. Besides, Max Doran, whoused to love the "Merry Widow" waltz, was not dancing. He stood near thedoor pretending to talk to an old man who had chaperoned a daughter fromtown to the ball; but in reality he was lying in wait, ready to pounce. 

It was a wonder that he hadn't gone to meet her; but perhaps she hadrefused his escort. A more effective entrance might be made by adazzling vision alone (the "stage aunt" did not count) than with a man, even the show young man of the garrison. 

The show young man talked jerkily about the weather, with his eyes onthe door. They were laughing eyes of a brilliant blue, and accounted fora good deal where girls were concerned; but not all. There were otherthings--other advantages he had, which made it seem quite remarkablethat a rather dull Western fort like Ellsworth should possess him. Hisfamily was high up in the "Four Hundred" in New York. He had as muchmoney as, with all his boyish extravagances and wild generosity, he knewwhat to do with. He was exceedingly good to look at, in the dark, thin, curiously Latin style to which he seemed to have no right. He was arather popular hero in the --th, for his polo, a sport which he hadintroduced and made possible at Fort Ellsworth, and for his boxing, hisfencing, and his marksmanship. He had been graduated fourth in hisclass at West Point three years before, so that he might have chosen theengineers or artillery; but the cavalry was what he preferred; and herehe was at old Fort Ellsworth, enjoying life hugely and so well helpingothers to enjoy life that every one liked him, no one was jealous orgrudged him what he had. 

There he stood, this "show young man, " well-groomed and smart in hisfull-dress uniform of second lieutenant of cavalry, the stripes andsplashes of yellow suiting his dark skin: a slim, erect figure, not verytall, but a soldier every inch of him, though the wide-apart blue eyesgave the square-chinned face a boyish air of wistfulness, even when hesmiled his delightfully childlike, charming smile. Girls glanced at himas they swung past in their partners' arms, noticing how tense was thelook on the brown face, and how the straight eyebrows--even blacker thanthe smooth dark hair--were drawn together in expectant concentration. 

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

It seemed wonderful that the band could keep presence of mind to go onplaying the "Merry Widow, " instead of stopping short with a gasp andcrash of instruments, to start again with the "Tango Trance, " _her_dance in "Girls' Love. "

She flashed into the ballroom like a dazzling fairy thing, all white andgold and glitter. Because she knew that--so to speak--the curtain wouldring up for her entrance, and not an instant before, in the fondness ofher heart for young officers she had not even delayed long enough tochange the dress she wore as the Contessa Gaëta in the third act of"Girls' Love. " The musical comedy had been written for her. In it shehad made her first almost startling success two years ago in London, where, according to the newspapers, all young men worth their salt, fromdukes down to draymen, had fallen in love with her. She had captured NewYork, too, and now she and her company were rousing enthusiasm andcoining money on their tour of the larger Western cities. 

The Gaëta dress looked as if it were made of a million dewdrops turnedto diamonds and sprinkled over a lacy spider-web; the web swathing thetall and wandlike figure of Miss Billie Brookton in a way to show thatshe had all the delicate perfections of a Tanagra statuette. 

Despite the distraction of her entrance, followed by that of the littlegray lady engaged as her aunt, the musicians had the self-control to goon with their "Merry Widowing, " irrelevant as it now seemed. The dancerswent on dancing, also, though the dreaded dimness of extinction hadfallen upon even the brightest, prettiest girls, who tried to lookparticularly rapturous in order to prove that nothing had happened. Theyfelt their partners' interest suddenly withdrawn from them and focussedupon the radiance at the door. No use ignoring that Radiance, even ifone had in self-defence to pretend that it didn't matter much, andwasn't so marvellously dazzling after all!

"There goes Mr. Doran to welcome her--of course!" said an Omallaha girllately back from New York. "I wonder if they really are engaged?"

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

"Well, for one thing, she doesn't seem the sort of woman who'd care togive up her career. She's so self-conscious that she must be selfish, and then--she's older than he is. "

"Good heavens, no! She doesn't look nineteen!"

"On the stage. "

"Or off, either. "

"Anyhow, some people in New York who know her awfully well told me thatshe'd never see twenty-nine again. An actress of twenty-nine who can'tlook nineteen had better go into a convent! Though, when you notice, hermouth and eyes are hard, aren't they? What _would_ Max Doran's wonderfulmother say if her son married Billie Brookton?"

"Miss Brookton's father was a clergyman in Virginia. She told me soherself, " said the married partner. 

"She _would_---- Oh, I don't mean to be catty. But she must have abackground that's a contrast--like that aunt of hers. I don't believeshe'd want to marry for years yet--a man who'd make her leave the stage. She has the air of expecting the limelight to follow her everywherethrough life, and I'm sure Max Doran's gorgeous mother wouldn't let herdaughter-in-law go on acting, even if Max didn't mind. "

"Max would mind. He'd never stand it, " Max's brother officer informedthe girl who had been to New York. "Though he's so simple in his manner, he's proud, I guess. But whether she's nineteen or twenty-nine, I don'tsee how Billie could do better than take Max Doran, unless she couldsnap up an English duke. And they say there aren't any unmarried onesgoing at present. She'd be an addition to this post as a bride, wouldn'tshe?"

"Ye-es, " answered the girl, giving wonderful dramatic value to herpause. 

Just then the reign of the "Merry Widow" came to an end, and as soonafter as could be, the "Tango Trance" began. The band had practised itin Miss Brookton's honour; and it had been ordered as the first danceafter her arrival. The aunt sat down, and Billie Brookton began"tangoing" with Max Doran. They were a beautiful couple to watch; but ofcourse people had to keep up the farce of dancing, too. This was not, after all, a theatre. One was supposed to have come for something elsethan to stare at Billie Brookton without paying for a place. 

"Your pearls, " she whispered, as she and Doran danced the tangotogether, taking graceful steps which she had taught him during thefortnight they had known each other. "How do they look?"

"Glorious on _you_!" he answered. "And the ring 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 be possible that I shall have you for mine--all mine?It seems too wonderful to be true. "

"I've promised, haven't I?" She laughed half under her breath, a pretty, tinkling laugh. "Honour bright, Max dear, you're the first man I eversaid 'yes' to. I hope I shan't be sorry!"

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

"If anything or anybody could make me do that, it would be you, " sheanswered, under cover of the music. "I believe you must be veryfascinating, or else I--but never mind---- Now let's stop dancing andyou'll show me the ring. I'm engaged for the next--and I can't wait tillyou and I have another together. "

Max took her to sit down at an end of the room uninfested by chaperons. No one at all was there. He had the ring in some pocket, and, by dint ofsitting with his "back to the audience, " hoped to go through the sacredceremony without being spied upon. The ring Billie had asked for was afamous blue diamond, of almost as deep a violet as a star-sapphire, andfull of strange, rainbow gleams. It had belonged to a celebrated actresswho had married an Englishman of title, and on her death it had beenadvertised for sale. Billie Brookton, who "adored" jewels, and whosebirthstone conveniently was the diamond, had been "dying for it. " "Shewas not superstitious, " she said, "about dead people's things. " Now theblue diamond, with a square emerald on either side, and set in a band ofplatinum, was hers. She took it between thumb and finger to watch thesparks that came and went, deep under the sea-like surface of blue. Asshe looked at the ring, Doran looked at her eyelashes. 

Never, he thought, could any other woman since the world began have hadsuch eyelashes. They were extraordinarily long and thick, golden brown, and black at the tips. The Omallaha girl who had been to New Yorkthought that Billie Brookton herself had had more to do than heaven inthe painting of those curled-up tips. But such a suggestion would havebeen received with contempt by Max Doran, who at the threshold oftwenty-five considered himself a judge of eyelashes. (He was not; nor ofa woman's complexion; but believing in himself and in Billie, he washappy. ) Miss Brookton had a complexion nearly as white, and it seemed tohim--more luminous, more ethereal, than the string of pearls he hadgiven her a month in advance of her birthday. She said it would be hertwenty-third, and Max had been incredulous in the nicest way. He wouldhave supposed her to be nineteen at the most, if she had not been sofrank. 

"Now, if you've looked at the ring enough _off_ your finger, will youlet me put it on?" he begged. "I'll make a wish--a good wish: that youshall never grow tired of your bargain. For it _is_ a bargain, isn't it?From the minute this ring is on your finger you're engaged to me. "

"What will your beautiful mother say?" asked Billie, hanging backdaintily, and doing charming things with her eyelashes. 

"Oh, she'll be surprised at first, " Max had to admit. "You see, she's soyoung herself and such a great beauty, it must be hard for her torealize she's got a son who has grown up to be a man. I used to thinkshe was the most exquisite creature on earth, but now----"

His words broke off, and he looked up from the gleaming line ofgold-and-black lashes. An orderly had come quickly and almostnoiselessly to him. "For you, Lieutenant, " the man announced with asalute, holding out a telegram. 

"May I?" murmured Doran, and perfunctorily opened the envelope. 

Billie went on gazing at the ring. She was faintly annoyed at the delay, for she was anxious to see how the blue diamond would look on herfinger, and Max had asked to wish it on. The lights in the stone were sofascinating, however, that for an instant she forgot the interruption. Then, sensitive to all that was dramatic, something in the quality ofMax Doran's silence struck her. She felt suddenly surrounded by achilling atmosphere which seemed to shut her and Max away from thedancers, away from music and life, as if a thick glass case had been letdown over them both. She glanced up quickly. No wonder she had felt socold. Doran's face looked frozen. His eyes were still fixed on thetelegram, though there had been time for him to read it over and overagain. He was so lost in the news it had brought that he had forgotteneven her--forgotten her in the moment when she had been consenting to aformal engagement, she, the illusive, the vainly desired one, run afterjust to the foot of her unclimbable mountain by the nimblest, therichest, everywhere!

Her small soul was stirred to resentment. She wanted to punish Max Doranfor daring to neglect her at such a time, even for a few seconds; but ahalf-angry, half-frightened study of the dark, absorbed face changed hermood. No man could look like that unless something awful had happened. 

What, that was awful, could happen to Max Doran? Why, he could lose allhis money!

Billie's heart leaped, and then seemed to fall back heavily in thelovely bosom sheathed like a lily with a film of sparkling dew. Would heever speak? She could not wait. Besides, it was right to be sympathetic. "Max, what is it--_dear_ Max?" she whispered in the honey-sweet voice ofGaëta in "Girls' Love. "

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

Almost, Billie sighed out her intense relief in words; but she had justpresence of mind and self-control enough to hold them back. Gently shetook the telegram from him, and he let her do it. Meanwhile, however, she had slipped the ring on to her own finger--but not the engagedfinger. Evidently this was no time for an announcement, orcongratulations and sensations. But it was just as well to have the bluediamond safe on one's hand, even if it were the right hand instead ofthe left. 

 * * * * *

"'Your mother dangerously injured in motor accident, '" she read. "'Asking to see you. 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 love for her solicitude. He got up, not frozen now, but a little dazed. It occurred to Billie that he hadnever looked so handsome, so much a man. She felt that he was gatheringhimself together. "I'll telephone to Omallaha for a special train toconnect with the limited at Chicago, " he said. "By the time I can seethe Colonel and get off it ought to be ready. Yes, I ought to catch thelimited that way. It's awful 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, slightly injured, for not ten minutes agohe had been looking at her card. He ought to have remembered every nameon it and in the right order. 

"Well, he'll come to you in a minute. Trust him not to lose a second!And--you'll write to me?"

"Of course; you'll wire as soon as you can, how your mother is--andeverything? On Monday I shall be back in Chicago. "

"I'll wire the moment I can, " Max assured her. "You know the address inNew York?"

"Oh, yes, everybody knows the beautiful Mrs. Doran's address. I'll writeor telegraph _every_ day. My heart will be with you. "

He squeezed her hand so desperately that she could have screamed withpain from the pressure of the blue diamond. But with touchingself-control she only smiled a strained, sympathetic little smile. AndMax had forgotten all about the ring!

"Thank you, my beautiful one, my angel, " he said. And Billie's largebrown eyes (so effective with her delicate dark brows and ripplingyellow hair) gave him a lovely look. She had been called many things bymany adoring men, but perhaps never before an "angel. " Max Doran wasvery young, in some ways even younger than his years. "Good-bye, " shemurmured. "But no--not 'good-bye. ' That's a terrible word. _Au revoir. _You'll come to me when you can, I know. I shall be in Chicago afortnight. But if you can't leave Mrs. Doran, why, in six weeks I shallbe in New York. "

"Don't speak of six weeks!" he exclaimed. "It's like six years. I _must_see you before that. But--my mother is before everything just now. "

They bade each other farewell with their eyes. Then he took her to Mrs. Liddell, the small gray aunt, and hardly was Billie seated when MajorNaylor dashed up to claim her for Gaëta's waltz in the first act of"Girls' Love. "

After that, things happened quickly with Max Doran. He seemed to dreamthem, and was still in the dream, tearing toward Chicago in a specialtrain whose wheels rushed through the night in tune with that first-actmusic from "Girls' Love. "

CHAPTER II

THE BLOW

The name that signed the telegram was that of Mrs. Doran's lawyer andman of business. It was that also of Max Doran's old-time chum, GrantReeves, Edwin Reeves' son. And when Max stepped out of the limited inthe Grand Central Station of New York, among the first faces he saw werethose of the two Reeveses, who had come to meet him. He shook hands withboth, warmly and gratefully with Grant. He had never been able really tolike his friend's father. But it was to him he turned with the question:"How is she?"

The elder, tall, thin, clean-shaven, with carrot-red hair turning gray, had prominent red eyebrows over pale, intelligent eyes that winkedoften, owing to some weakness of the lids, which had lost most of theirlashes. This disfigurement he concealed as well as he could with rimless_pince-nez_, which some people said were not necessary as an aid toeyesight. They were an aid to vanity, however; and the care Edwin Reevesbestowed on his clothes suggested that he was a vain as well as a cleverman. 

The son was a young and notably good-looking copy of his father, whosepartner in business he had lately become. They were singularly alikeexcept in colouring, for Grant was brown-haired and brown-eyed, withplenty of curled-back lashes which gave him an alert look. 

Both men started forward at the sight of Max, Grant striding ahead ofEdwin and grasping Max's hand, "I _had_ to come, old chap, " he said, with a pleasant though slightly affected accent meant to be English. "Iwanted just to shake hands and tell you how I felt. "

"Thank you, Grant, " said Max. "Is she--is there hope?"

"Oh, there's always hope, you know; isn't there, governor?"

Grant Reeves appealed to his father, who had joined them. "Who can tell?She's wonderful. "

Edwin Reeves took the hand Max held out, and then did nothing with it, in the aloof, impersonal way that had always irritated Max, and made himwant to fling away the unresponsive fingers. Now, however, for the firsttime in his life he did not notice. He was lost in his desire for andfear of the verdict. 

"It would only be cruel to raise his hopes, " the father answered theson. "The doctors (there are four) say it's a miracle she's kept alivetill now. Sheer will-power. She's living to see you. "

Max was dumb, his throat constricted. And then, there was nothing tosay. Something deep down in him--something he could not bear tohear--was asking why she should suddenly _care_ so much? She had nevercared before, never really cared, though in his intense admiration ofher, almost amounting to worship, he had fought to make himself believethat she did love him as other mothers loved their sons. Yet his heartknew the truth: that she had become more and more indifferent as hegrew up from a small boy into a young man. Since he went to West Pointthey had spent very little time together, though they were always onaffectionate terms. She had never spoken a disagreeable word to him, never given him a cross look. Only--there had been nothing of the motherabout her. She had treated him like a nice visiting boy who must beentertained, even fascinated, and then gently got rid of when he beganto be a bore. In his first term at West Point she had sailed for Europe, and stopped there for two years. When he was graduated she had goneagain, and stayed another year. They had met only once since he had beenstationed at Fort Ellsworth: last Christmas, when he had run on to NewYork and surprised her. She had been in great beauty, looking not a dayover thirty. And now--Max could not make it seem true. But, at least, she wanted him. Max clutched at the thought with passion, and scarcelyheard Grant saying that he must hurry on to the office; he had come onlyfor a word and a handshake: it was better that the governor alone shouldgo with dear old Max to the house. 

Mrs. Doran's town automobile was waiting with a solemn chauffeur andfootman who bent their eyes reverently, not to look the stricken youngsoldier in the face. Max had a sick thrill as he saw the smart bluemonster, with its row of glittering glass eyes; it had been hisChristmas present to his mother by request. When the telegram told himbriefly that she had been hurt in a motor accident, he had thought withagony that it might have been in the car he had given. He was thankfulthat it had not been so. That would have seemed too horrible--as if hehad killed her. Now he would hear how it had really happened. Everynerve was tense as if he were awaiting an operation without anesthetics. 

There were not many blocks to go from the Grand Central to the FifthAvenue home of the Dorans, an old house which had been remodelled andmade magnificent by Max's father to receive his bride. In less than tenminutes the blue automobile had slipped through all the traffic andreached its destination; but many questions can be asked and answered ineight minutes. Between the moment of starting, and the moment when Max'sone hastily packed suitcase was being carried up to the door, he hadheard the whole story. The fated car had been a friend's car. There hadbeen a collision. The two automobiles had turned over. For half an hourshe had lain crushed under the weight of the motor before she could begot out. Her back was broken, and she had been horribly burnt. Even ifshe could have lived--which was impossible--she would have beenshockingly disfigured. Edwin Reeves had been with her once, for a fewminutes: she had wanted to speak to him about certain things, matters ofbusiness, and the doctors, who never left her, had stopped giving heropiates on purpose. From the first she had said that she must be keptalive till Max could come, and that no matter what she had to suffer hermind must be clear for a talk with him. After that, nothing mattered. She wanted to die and be out of her misery. When Mr. Reeves had beentaken into her room her face had been covered with a white veil, and Maxmust prepare himself to be received in the same way. It was better thathe should know this beforehand and be spared a shock. 

Never to see that beautiful face again in this world! Max felt like onedead and galvanized as he walked into the house and was received by adoctor--some great specialist whose name he had heard, but whom he hadnever chanced to meet. Not once did his thoughts rush back to BillieBrookton, and the night when he had meant to put on her finger the bluediamond in the platinum ring. Billie was in another world, a world amillion miles away, as following the doctor Max walked softly into hismother's room. 

There he had once more that insistent feeling of unreality. The gay roomwith its shell-pink melting into yellow and orange looked so unsuited toany condition but joy that it was impossible to believe tragedy hadstalked in uninvited. Even with the morning light shut out by the drawnyellow curtains, and the electricity turned on in the flower orgauze-shaded lamps, it looked a place dedicated to the joy of life andbeauty. But when, with a physical effort, Max turned his eyes to thebed, copied from one where Marie Antoinette had slept, he saw that whichseemed to throw a pall of crape over the fantastic golden harmonies. Afigure lay there, very straight, very flat and long under the coverletpulled high over the breast. Even the hands were hidden: and over theface was spread a white veil of chiffon, folded double, so that no gleamof eye, no feature could even be guessed at. 

Until that moment, Max had kept his self-control. But at sight of thatpiteous form, and remembering the radiant face framed with great bunchesof red-gold hair, which he had kissed good-bye, in this very bed notthree months ago, the dam which had held back the flood of anguishbroke. It was as if his heart had turned to water. Tears sprang from hiseyes, and the strength went out of his knees. It was all he could do notto fall at the side of the bed and to sob out his mother's name, tellingher that he would give his life a hundred times for hers if that couldbe, or that he would go out of the world with her rather than she shouldgo alone. But something came to his help and kept him outwardly calmsave for a slight choking in the throat as he said softly, standing bythe bedside, "Dearest, I am here. "

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

Max thought, with a sharp stab of pain, that he would not haverecognized the voice if he had not known that it was his mother's. Itsounded like the voice of a little, frail, very old woman; whereas RoseDoran had been a creature of glorious physique, looking and feeling atleast fifteen years younger than her age. 

"I started the minute I had the telegram, " Max said, wanting to makesure that she realized his love, his frantic haste to reach her. "It hasseemed a hundred years! Darling, if I could bear this for you. If----"

"Please, don't, " the little whining voice under the veil fretfully cuthim short. "I can't see very well. Has the doctor gone out?"

"Yes, dearest. We're alone. "

"I'm glad. There isn't much time, and I've got a story to tell you. Iought to call it a confession. "

That swept Max's forced calmness away. "A confession from you to me!" hecried out, horrified. "Never! Darling One, whatever it is I don't wantto hear it--I don't need to hear it, I know---- Rest. Be at peace. Justlet us love each other. "

"You don't know what you are talking about. " The veiled voice grewshrill. "You only do harm trying to stop me. You'll kill me if you do. "

"Forgive me, dear. " Max controlled himself again. "I'll not say anotherword. I----"

"Then don't--don't! I want to go on--to the end. I'd rather you satdown. I can see you standing there. It's like a black shadow between meand the light, accusing--no, don't speak! It needn't accuse. Youwouldn't have had the life you've had, if--but I mustn't begin likethat. Where are you now? Are you near enough to hear all I say? I can'traise my voice. "

"I'm sitting down, close by the bed. I can hear the least whisper, " Maxassured her. He sat with his head bowed, his hands gripping the arms ofthe chair. This seemed unbearable, to spend the last minutes of her lifehearing some confession! It was not right, from a mother to a son. Buthe must yield. 

"I don't know how long I can stand it--the pain, I mean, " she moaned. "So I can't try and break things gently to you, for fear--I have to stopin the midst. I'm not your mother, Max, and Jack wasn't your father. Buthe thought he was. He never knew. And he loved you. I didn't. I nevercould. You see--I _did_ know. You must have wondered sometimes. I sawyou wondered; I suppose you never guessed, even though I always told youto call me Rose, or anything you liked, except mother?"

She was waiting for him to answer; and he did answer, though it was asif she had thrown him over a precipice, and he were hanging by somebranch which would let him crash down in an instant to the bottom of anunknown abyss. 

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

"I used to be afraid at first that Jack would guess, you were so unlikeeither of us, so dark, so--so _Latin_. But he said you were a throw-backto his Celtic ancestors. There were French and Irish ones hundreds ofyears ago, you know. He never suspected. Everything happened just as Ihoped it would--just as I wanted it to. But I didn't realize how Ishould feel about it if I were going to die. The minute I came to myselfafter--the accident, it rushed over me. Not the very first thought. Thatwas about myself. I wanted to know if my looks were gone. When they hadto say yes, I was glad--thankful--I could die. I'd have poisoned orstarved myself rather than live on. But no need of that. I think I couldlet myself slip away any minute now. I'm just--holding on. For somethingtold me--I have a feeling that Jack himself came, and has been here eversince, knowing all I had done and willing me to tell the truth. Istruggled a little against it, for why shouldn't you go on being happy?Nothing was _your_ fault. But it was borne in on me that I must give youthe chance to choose for yourself, and--_another_. That's why Jack hascome, perhaps. She is his daughter. "

"There was a girl, our child. But--you can't understand unless I tellyou the story. I shall have strength. I feel I shall now--to getthrough with it. Perhaps Jack will help. He was the one human being Iever loved better than myself. That was real love! What I did was partlyfor his sake, I'm honestly sure of that. He wouldn't have let me do it. But it made him happy, not knowing----

"You've been told over and over how you were born in France, when Jackand I had the Château de la Tour, on the Loire. That was true--the onetrue thing. But you weren't born in the château. It wasn't for nothingthat you learned French almost as easily as you breathed--and Latin, too. I suppose things like that are in people's blood. You are French. If I had left you where you were, you would have grown up MaximeDelatour. Delatour was your real father's name; he came originally ofthe de la Tours, but his branch of the family had gone down, somehow. Even the name was spelled differently, in the common way. But they livedin the same neighbourhood--that is how it all came about. "

She paused, and gave a sigh like a faint moan. But Max was silent. Hecould spare her nothing. She must go on to the end--if the end weredeath. For there was somebody else, somewhere, who had to be put in hisplace--the place he had thought was his. 

"It was really because I loved Jack--too much, " the veiled woman stillfretfully excused herself. "I should have been nobody, except for mylooks. He married me for my looks, because I was strong and tall andfine, as a girl should be. He thought I could give him a splendid heir. You know how things are arranged in this family. The property goes fromfather to son, or a daughter, if there's no son. But they all pray forsons. The Dorans want to carry on the name they're so proud of--just asyou have been proud! The wife of a Doran's important only if she'sbeautiful, or if she has a son. I wanted to be important for bothreasons. Oh, how I wanted it!

"Jack took me to England for our honeymoon, and then to France. Wehadn't been in Paris long before I knew I was going to have a child. Jack was so happy! He was sure it would be a boy--the most gorgeous boyever born. How I remember the day I told him, and he said that! But allthe time I had the presentiment it would be a girl. I felt guilty, miserable, when Jack talked about the baby.... The doctors said it wouldbe safer for me not to have a sea voyage, so we decided to stop inFrance till after the child came. We stayed in Paris at first, and Jackand I used to go to the 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 wastalking about--by a new artist. It was called 'Bella Donna, ' just awoman's head and shoulders. Max, _she was like me_! But she washorrible, wicked--somehow deformed, though you couldn't see how. Youonly felt it. And besides being like me, she was like a lynx. There wasone in the Zoo in London, with just her expression. Jack and I saw ittogether, and he laughed, and said now he knew who my first ancestresswas. He didn't say anything about my looking like 'Bella Donna, ' but Iknew he must have thought it. He got me away from the picture as soon ashe could, but I couldn't forget. The lynx-face, with the yellow eyesand red hair like mine, haunted me. I began to dream of my child beingborn like that--a girl, deformed in the horrid, mysterious way that youcould only feel. I could never go to sleep again on a night after thedream. I suppose I looked pale; and he worried, and the doctors advisedthe country. We had some friends who'd just come back from the Loire, and they told us about a wonderful château there that was to be rentedfurnished. It belonged to an old family named de la Tour, who had losttheir money. They had a romantic, tragic sort of history that interestedus, especially Jack, so we went to see the place. There were vineyardsbadly cultivated, and a forest, and some shooting, too; and we took itfor a few months. But we hadn't been there many weeks when a telegramcame to Jack from Edwin Reeves. Edwin acted for him even then. It wasimportant, on account of some business, for Jack to go home. He wouldhave answered that it was impossible, but I said, why not go? I wassafe, and he could be back in a month or five weeks. I had old AnneWickham with me, and she'd been my nurse when I was a little girl, youknow, and my maid afterward, till she died. You can remember her. "

Max could. As a very tiny boy he had been almost afraid of old AnneWickham, because his nurse was afraid of her: also because she hadglared at him critically, mercilessly, with her great eyes in darkhollows, never smiling kindly, as other people did, but seeming tosearch for some fault in him. Now, suddenly, he understood this gloomyriddle of his childhood. 

Rose Doran, beneath her veil, did not wait for any answer, or wish forone. She hurried on, only stopping now and then to sigh out herrestlessness and pain, making Max bite his lip and quiver as if underthe lash. 

"We had a Paris doctor engaged, and a trained nurse, " she said. "Theywere to come weeks before I expected my baby. I don't know how much Jackwas to pay for the doctor--thousands of dollars; and Jack thought to beback in a month before, at latest. But one day I caught my foot goingdownstairs, and fell. We had to send for the village doctor in a hurry, and Anne had to remember all she knew about nursing. The child was aseven months' baby--a girl. And she had a face like mine, and like'Bella Donna, ' and like a lynx. There was just that look of deformity Ihad dreamed--mysterious and dreadful. I hated the creature. I couldn'tfeel she was mine and Jack's. She was like some changeling in an oldwitch tale. I couldn't bear it! I knew that I'd rather die than haveJack see that wicked elf after all his hopes. I told the doctor so. Ithreatened to kill myself. I don't know if I meant it. But he thought Idid. He was a young man. I frightened him. While he was trying tocomfort me an idea flashed into my head. It seemed to shoot in, like anarrow. I begged the doctor to find me a boy baby whose mother would takethe girl and a lot of money. I said I would give him ten thousanddollars for himself, too, if he could manage it secretly, so no one buthe and Anne Wickham and I need ever know. At first he kept exclaiming, and wouldn't listen. But I cried, and partly by working on his feelingsand partly with the bribe that was a fortune to such a man, I persuadedhim. Anne helped. She would have done anything for me. And she knew theDorans. She knew Jack could never feel the same to me, as the mother ofthat impish girl. 

"The doctor knew about a young woman who had just had a child--a boy. He'd helped bring it into the world a night or two before. She was thewife of a private soldier who'd been ordered off to Algeria somewhere. They'd been married secretly. If she had money she would have followedhim. But they were very poor. The man was mixed up with the romance ofthe de la Tours; he belonged to the branch of the family that had gonedown. They were called Delatour, but every one knew their history. Thedoctor thought the girl would do anything for the money I'd offer--andto get to Algeria. He managed the whole thing for me, and certified thatmy child was a boy. He even went to Paris and sold my pearls and adiamond tiara and necklace, and lots of other things, worth ever so manythousands more than I'd promised to pay him and Madame Delatour. Yousee, I hadn't any great sums of money by me, so I was forced to sellthings. And afterward I had to pretend that my jewels were stolen from atrain while we were in the dining-car; otherwise Jack would havewondered why I never wore them. I was thankful the night you werebrought to me. I hadn't any remorse then, about sending the other babyaway. I told you she didn't seem mine. She seemed hardly human. But Iwas frightened because you were so dark. You had quantities of blackhair. I didn't even try to love you. Only I felt you were very valuable. So did Anne. And when Jack came hurrying back to me on the doctor'stelegram, he was pleased with you. He called you in joke his 'littleFrenchman. ' He didn't dream it was all truth! And he didn't mind yourbeing called Max. You'd already been baptized Maxime, after the soldier;and his wife made just that one condition: that the name should be kept. 

"I told Jack I'd always loved the name of Max, so he loved it, too; andthough you had other names given to you--the ones we plannedbeforehand--nothing fitted the 'little Frenchman' so well as Max. That'sall the story. At first Anne and I used to be afraid of blackmail, either from the Delatour woman (who went off at once, before she wasreally strong enough to travel) or from the doctor, who hurried her awayas much for his sake as for hers, lest it should be found out by someneighbour that her boy had been changed for a girl. Luckily for us, though, people avoided her. They didn't believe she was really married. But the doctor said she was. And he turned out to be honest. He nevertried 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 fromthem or about them since Jack and I and you and Anne left the Château dela Tour, when you were six weeks old. I didn't wish to hear. I wanted toforget, as if it had all been a bad dream. Only Anne's eyes wouldn't letme. They seemed to know too much. I couldn't help being glad when shewas dead, though she'd been so faithful. But when Jack died in thatdreadful, sudden way, then for the first time I felt remorse--horribleremorse, for a while.... I thought he was taken from me by God as apunishment--the one human being I'd ever loved dearly! And I gotinsomnia, because his spirit seemed to be near, looking at me, knowingeverything. But the feeling passed. I suppose I'm not deep enough tofeel anything for long. I lived down the remorse. And it was fortunatefor me I had a child; otherwise all but a little money would have goneto the Reynold Dorans. You've been good to me, Max, and I've liked youvery well. I've tried not to think about the past. But when I did think, I said to myself that you had nothing to complain of. What a differentlife it would have been for you, with your own people. And even as itis, you needn't give up anything unless you choose. If Jack were aliveI'd never have told, even dying. But he's gone, and I shall be--soon. Sofar as I'm concerned I don't care which way you choose: whether youwrite to Doctor Lefebre or not. Only for the sake of the name--Jack'sname--don't let there be a scandal if you decide to try and find thegirl. Maybe you can't find her. She may be dead. Then it needn't goagainst your conscience to let things stay as they are. The ReynoldDorans have heaps of money. "

"That isn't the question exactly, " said Max. "Whatever happens, Ihaven't the right--but never mind.... I don't want to trouble you, Godknows. I can see partly how you must have felt about the baby, and aboutfath--I mean, about the whole thing. It isn't for me to blame--I--thankyou for telling me. Somehow I must manage--to make things straight, without injuring fath--without injuring the name. " His voice broke alittle. John Doran had died under an operation when Max was ten, but hehad adored his father, and still adored his memory. There had been greatlove between the big, quiet sportsman and the mercurial, hot-headed, enthusiastic little boy whom Jack Doran had spoiled and called "Frenchy"for a pet name. After more than fourteen years, he could hear the kindvoice 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 stolidity which seemed to himselfextraordinary; for excepting the shiver of physical pain which shook himat each sigh of suffering from under the veil, he had felt nothing, absolutely nothing, until the voice of dead Jack Doran seemed to call tohim out of darkness. 

"He wasn't my father, " came the stabbing reminder; but the love whichhad been could never be taken away. "I must do what you would want me todo, " Max answered the call. In his heart he knew what that thing was. Hemust give everything up. He ought to look for the girl and for his ownparents, if they lived. The daughter of John Doran must have what washers. 

As he thought this, Rose spoke again, more slowly now, since the storywas told, and there was no longer any haste. "Remember, nobody knows yetbut you and me, Max, " she said. "Not even Edwin Reeves. All he knows isthat I had something to say to you. If he tried to guess what it was, hemust have guessed something very different from this. Why not find outwhere _she_ is, if you can, and somehow contrive to give her money orsend it anonymously--enough to make her rich; and let the rest go as itis? I told you just now that I didn't care much either way, and I don't, for myself, because I shall be out of it all, and because I know youloved Jack too well not to be careful for his sake, what you do. But Icare more for your sake than I thought I cared at first. You're soquiet, I know I've struck you hard. Almost--I wish I hadn't told. "

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

And yet, even as he spoke, he was conscious of wishing that she had nottold. Some women, having done what she had done for the love of a manand for their own vanity, would have gone out of the world insilence--still for the love of the man, and for their own vanity. Vanityhad been the ruling passion of Rose Doran's life. Max had realized itbefore. Yet something in the end had been stronger than vanity, and hadbeaten it down. He wondered dimly what the thing was. Perhaps fear, lestsoon, on the other side of the dark valley, she should have to meetreproach in the only eyes she had ever loved. And she needed help incrossing--Jack Doran's help. Maybe this was her way of reaching out forit. She had told the truth; and she seemed to think that was enough. Sheadvised Max to leave things as they were, after all. And he was temptedto obey. 

No longer was he stunned by the blow that had fallen. He felt the painof it now, and faced the future consequences. He stood to loseeverything: his career, for Max had his vanity, too; and without theDoran name and the Doran money he could not remain in the army. 

If he resolved to hand over all that was his to the girl, he must goaway, must leave the country. 

He would have to think of some scheme by which the girl could get herrights, and the world could be left in ignorance of Rose Doran's fraud. To accomplish this, he must sacrifice himself utterly. He must disappearand be forgotten by his friends--a penniless man, without a country. AndBillie Brookton would be lost to him. 

Strange, this was his first conscious thought of her since he hadstepped out of the train, almost his first since leaving her at FortEllsworth. He was half shocked at his forgetfulness of such a jewel, sonearly his, the jewel so many other men wanted. He wanted her, too, desperately, now that the clouds had parted for an instant to remind himof the bright world where she lived--the world of his past. 

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

"No, never that, " Max said. 

"How are you going to decide? Shall you take my advice, keep your placein this world, and give her money, if you find her? And most likely younever can. It's such a long time ago. " Rose's voice dragged. It was verysmall and weak, very tired. 

"It's your advice for me to do that?" Max asked, almost incredulously. "And yet--she's your own child, _his_ child. "

"Not the child of our souls. You'll see what I mean, if you ever seeher. Think it over--a few minutes, and then tell me. I feel--somehow Ishould like to know, before going. Wake me--in ten minutes. I think Icould sleep--till then. Such a rest, since I told you! No pain. "

"Oughtn't I to call the doctor?" Max half rose from his chair by thebedside. 

"No, no. I want nothing--except to sleep--for ten minutes. Can youdecide--in ten minutes?"

"Yes. "

"You promise to wake me then?"

"Yes, " Max said again. 

For ten minutes there was silence in the room, save for a little soundof crackling wood in the open fire that Rose had always loved. 

Max had decided, and the time had come to keep his promise. He mustspeak, to wake the sleeper. But he did not know what to call her. Shesaid that she had never loved him as a son. She must always have feltirritated when he dared to address her as "Dearest"--he, the littleFrench _bourgeois_. She would hate it now. 

"Rose!" he whispered. Then a little louder, "Rose!"

She did not answer. 

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

CHAPTER III

THE LAST ACT OF "GIRLS' LOVE"

The wail of grief that echoed through New York for Rose Doran, suddenlysnatched from life in the prime of her beauty, sounded in the ears ofMax a warning note. Her memory must not be smirched. And then again camethe temptation. As she lay dying he had decided what to do. But now thatshe was dead, now that letters and telegrams by the hundred, and visitsof sympathy, and columns in the newspapers, were making him realize moreand more her place in the world she had left, and the height of thepedestal on which the Doran family stood, the question repeated itselfinsistently: Why not reconsider?

Max had thought from time to time that he knew what temptation was; butnow he saw that he had never known. His safeguard used to be in callingup his father's image to stand by him, in listening for the tones of abeloved voice which had the power to calm his hot temper, or hold himback from some impetuous act of which he would have been ashamed later. He had seemed to hear the voice as Rose slept her last sleep, under herwhite veil, but later it was silent. It left him to himself, andsometimes he was even persuaded that it joined with the voice of Rose, whispering that siren word, "Reconsider. "

Jack Doran had loved Rose. Perhaps on the other side of the valley hehad forgiven her, and wished above all other things that her memoryshould remain bright. If Max reconsidered, it would all be easy. No onewould be surprised if he took long leave and went abroad. No one wouldthink it strange or suspicious if a girl "Cousin" should later appear onthe scene: a Miss Doran of whom no one had ever heard, who had beeneducated abroad, and who, because she had lost her parents, was to takeup life in America. Or maybe it needn't even come to that, in case hefound the girl. She might be married. She might prefer to remain whereshe was, with plenty of money from her distant relations, the Dorans, ofwhose existence she would be informed for the first time. There would beno difficulty in arranging this. The one real difficulty was that Max'ssoul would be in prison. The bars would be of gold, and he would have inhis cell everything to make him and his friends think it a palace. Butit would be a prison cell, all the same, for ever and ever; and at nightwhen he and his soul were alone together, looking into each other'seyes, he would know that from behind the door he had locked upon himselfthere was no escape. 

There were moments, and whole hours together, when he said with a kindof sudden rage against the responsibility thrown on him, "I'll takeRose's advice--the last words she ever spoke. " But then, in some stilldepth far under the turmoil of his tempted spirit, he knew that hisfirst decision was the only one possible for honour or even forhappiness. And the day after the funeral he made it irrevocable bytelling Edwin Reeves a wild story that had come to him in a strangemoment of something like exaltation. It had come as he stood bareheadedby the grave where Rose had just been laid to sleep beside Jack Doran;and in that moment a lie for their sakes seemed nobler than the truththat would hurt them. More and more, as he thought of it on his way backto the house which had once been "home, " and as the possibilitiesdeveloped in his mind, with elaborations of the tale, this lie appealedto his chivalry. Everybody might hear it without fear that Jack or Rosewould be blamed. That was the great advantage. There need be nowhisperings and mysteries. And once the tale was told, there would be nogoing back from it. 

The story which fixed his imagination and inspired him to martyrdommight have made a plot for some old-fashioned melodrama, but Max beganto realize that there was nothing in fiction so incredible as the thingswhich happen in life: things one reads about any day in newspapers, yetwhich in a novel would be laughed at by critics. He would say to EdwinReeves that, shortly before her death, Rose had learned through thedying confession of a Frenchwoman who had nursed her in childbirth thather girl baby had been changed for a boy, born about the same time to arelative of the nurse; that hearing this story she had intended to writeMax, and ask him to go to France to prove or disprove its truth, butthat she had been struck down before summoning courage to break thenews. Edwin Reeves would then understand Rose's anxiety to see Max; andhe would keep the secret, at least until the girl was found. As for whatought to be done in the case of not finding her, or learning withoutdoubt that she was dead, Max thought he might take the lawyer's adviceas a friend of the Dorans, as a legal man, and as a man of the world. Perhaps, if in Edwin Reeves's judgment silence would in that event bejustified, Max might accept this verdict. 

There was that one grain of hope for the future--if it could be calledhope. But there was another person besides Edwin Reeves and EdwinReeves's son (Max's best friend of old days) who must be told at oncehow little claim he had to the Doran name and fortune. That person wasBillie Brookton. 

Max had dimly expected opposition from Edwin Reeves, whose advice mightbe what Rose Doran's had been: to give money, and let everything remainas it had been. It was somewhat to his surprise that the lawyer, afterlistening in silence, agreed that there was just one thing to do, if thegirl still lived. Grant (who was with him in their private office byMax's wish), though more demonstrative, more openly sympathetic, heldthe same opinion. 

Max ought to have been glad of this encouragement, but somehow, shaminghimself for it, he felt a dull sense of injury, especially where Grantwas concerned. Grant exclaimed that it was horribly hard lines, and thatold Max was the splendid fellow everybody had always believed him to be. Lots of chaps would have been mean, and stuck to the name and money, though of course no honourable man could do that. Grant quite saw howMax felt, and would have to act in the same way himself, no matter whatit cost. If the truth had to come out, every one would say he'd behavedlike a hero--that was one comfort; but, as Edwin Reeves reminded themboth, Max might be rewarded for his noble resolve by learning that therewas no need to make the sensational story public. If the girl had diedor could not be found, it would be--in Mr. Reeves's opinion--foolishlyquixotic to rouse sleeping dogs, and ruin himself, to put money in thepockets of the Reynold Dorans, who had more than they wanted already. 

"You'll feel like getting leave to run over to France, I suppose, " saidthe lawyer, "though of course the search might be made for you if youprefer. "

"I prefer to go myself, " Max decided quietly. 

"Why not let me go with you?" Grant suggested, with a certain eagernesswhich it seemed to Max he tried to suppress, rather than to show as aproof of friendship. "The governor could spare me for a while, I expect, and it wouldn't be quite such a gloomy errand as if you were alone. I'dbe glad to do it for you, dear old boy, honestly I would. "

Yes, he would be glad. Max saw that. And instead of feeling drawn nearerto Grant Reeves, he felt suddenly miles away. They had drifted apartsince Max had joined his regiment in the West and Grant had become apartner with his father. Now Max told himself that he had never knownGrant: that as men they were so far from one another he could reallynever know him; and he wondered at the impulse which had made him wishGrant to hear the story with Edwin. 

"But suppose it's all true and you find the girl over on the other sidesomewhere?" Grant went on, when Max had answered that the search mightbe long, and it would be better for him to make it alone. "What willyou do? Hadn't my mother better fetch her? Mother's over in Paris now, you know, so it would be less trouble. You mightn't want to bring herback yourself, unless, of course----"

"Unless--what?" Max wanted to know. 

"Well, you're not related to the girl, and you're about the same age. She'll naturally look upon you as a hero, a deliverer, and all that, ifshe's a normal woman. If it were in a book instead of real life, the endwould be----"

"Different from what it will be with us, " Max cut him short. "Don'tlet's speak or think of anything like that. "

"It only occurred to me, " Grant excused himself mildly, "thatif--nothing like that _did_ happen, you mightn't want to come back tothis country yourself, for a while. It's a queer sort of case. And yousee you went through West Point and got your lieutenancy as Max Doran. If you weren't Max Doran, but somebody else, I wonder what they would doabout----"

"I shouldn't give them the trouble of doing anything, " said Max quietly. "I'd resign from the army. But there'll be other doors open, I hope. Idon't mean to fade out of existence because I'm not a Doran or a fellowwith money. I'll try and make something out of another name. "

"And you'll succeed, of course, " Edwin Reeves assured him. "I suppose itwas in Grant's mind that if this extraordinary story proved to be true, and you should give up your name and your fortune to John and RoseDoran's daughter, why you would in a way be giving up your country, too. You say that the confession Mrs. Doran received was from aFrenchwoman: that this person took the child of a relative, andexchanged it for the Doran baby. If we are to believe that, it makes youof French blood as well as French birth. Grant supposed, perhaps, thatthis fact might change your point of view. "

Max had not thought of it, and resented the suggestion which the twoseemed to be making: that he would no longer have the right to considerhimself an American. "But I don't feel French, " he exclaimed. "I don'tsee how I ever can. "

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

Did he remember? And Jack Doran had called him "Frenchy. " Always, itseemed, he had been marching blindly toward this moment. 

Nothing was settled at the end of the talk, except that the secret wasto be kept for the present. And Max learned that Rose had made aninformal will, leaving him all her jewellery, with the request that itshould be valued by experts and sold, he taking the money to "use as hethought fit. " She had made this will years ago, it seemed, directlyafter Jack Doran's death, while her conscience was awake. Max guessedwhat had been in her mind. She had wanted him to have something of hisown, in case he ever lost his supposed heritage. He was grateful to herbecause, not loving him, she had nevertheless thought of his welfare andtried to provide for it. Mr. Reeves knew something about the value ofRose's jewels. She had not had many, he reminded Max. Once, soon afterher marriage, and while she was still abroad, all her wedding presentsand gifts from her husband had been stolen in a train journey. Sincethen, she seemed to have picked up the idea that a beautiful woman oughtnot to let herself be outshone by her own jewels. She had cared fordress more than for jewellery, and, with the exception of a rope ofpearls, her ornaments had not been worth a great deal. Still, they oughtto sell for at least twelve or fifteen thousand dollars, countingeverything, and two or three rather particularly fine rings which Jackhad given her. 

"I think she must have meant me to except those from the things to besold, " said Max. "She would have known I'd never let them go. "

His first impulse after that interview with the Reeveses was to dash outWest and see Billie, to tell her that something had happened which mightmake a great difference in his circumstances, and to give her back herfreedom. But when he had stopped to think, he said to himself that itwouldn't be fair to go. Face to face, it would be hard for Billie totake him at his word, and he did not want to make it hard. Instead, hewrote, telling her that he was getting leave to go abroad on importantbusiness--business on which the whole future would depend. Perhaps(owing to circumstances which couldn't be explained yet, till he learnedmore about them himself) he might be a poor man instead of a rich one. Meanwhile, she mustn't consider herself bound. Later, when he knew whatawaited him, if things righted themselves he would come to her again, and ask what he had asked before. In any case, he would explain. 

It was rather a good letter, the version which Max finally let stand, after having torn up half a dozen partly covered sheets of paper. Hislove was there for the girl to see, and he could not help feeling that, possibly--just possibly--she might write or even telegraph, saying, "Irefuse to be set free. "

While he waited, he engaged his passage to Cherbourg on a ship that wasto sail at the end of the week. That would give Billie's answer time tocome. Or--just madly supposing she cared enough to have an understudyplay her part for a few days--it would allow time for a wonderfulsurprise, and the greatest proof of love a girl could give a man. 

There was no telegram, but the day before he was to sail an envelopewith Billie Brookton's pretty scrawl on it was put into his hand. Heopened it carefully, because it seemed sacrilege to tear what she hadtouched, or break the purple seal, with the two bees on it, which sheused instead of initials or a monogram. The perfume which came from thepaper was her own special perfume, named in honour of her success andpopularity--"Girls' Love. " Max remembered Billie's telling him once thatit cost "outsiders" five dollars an ounce, because there were amber andlots of wonderful, mysterious things in it; but _she_ got it fornothing. 

"How good, how noble you are!" were her first words; and Max's heartleaped. This divine creature, who could have her pick of men, was goingto say ... But as his eyes travelled fast from line to line, the beatingof his heart slowed down. 

 * * * * *

"Come back to me when this horrible business trouble is over, and ask meagain, as you say you will. You'll find me waiting, oh, _so_impatiently! for I _do_ love you. Whatever happens, Max--dear, handsomeMax--you will be the one great romance of my life. I can never forgetyou, or those blue eyes of yours, the day you told me you cared. Theywill haunt me always. Oh, how I wish I were rich enough for both of us, so that we might be happy, even in case of the worst, and you lose yourmoney! But I don't know how to keep the wretched stuff when I have it. And though I make a lot now, I'm not strong, and who knows how long myvogue may last? We poor actress girls, who depend on our health and thefickle public, have to think of these sordid things. It is, oh, _so_ sadfor us! No woman who hasn't known the struggle herself can realize. Dohurry back, with good news for both, and save me from a _dreadful_ manwho is persecuting me to marry him. I met him in such an odd way thelast time I was here in Chicago, but I didn't tell you the story of theadventure, because it would only have worried you. Besides, you made meforget every one and everything--you did truly, Max! But he frightens menow, he is so fearfully rich, and so strong and insisting; and somehowhe's got round auntie. She's so silly; she thinks you oughtn't to haveleft me as you did, though of course you had to. _I_ understood, if shedoesn't. She's only a foolish old lady, but she does fuss so about thisman! If you don't rescue me, he may be my fate. I _feel_ it. Dear Max, Iwait for you. I want you. 

BILLIE. 

"P. S. _Please wire when you know_. "

As he read the letter through for the second time, he could hear throughthe open window of his room a woman's voice singing one of Gaëta'ssongs, the one most popular: "Forever--never! Who knows?"

The words mingled themselves with the words of the letter: "Come back. Bring good news. Forever--never! Who knows?" And the song was from thelast act of "Girls' Love. "

CHAPTER IV

THE UPPER BERTH

When he had learned at the village of La Tour that Doctor Lefebre hadleft the place long ago, to practise in Paris, Max went there, and foundLefebre without difficulty. He was now, at fifty, a well-known man, still young looking, but with a somewhat melancholy face, and the longeyelids that mean Jewish ancestry. When he had listened to Max's storyhe said, with a thoughtful smile: "Do you see, it is to you I owe mysuccess? I have never repented what I did for Madame. Still less do Irepent now, having met you. I gained advantages for myself that I couldnot otherwise have had; and to-day proves that I gave them to one whoHas known how to profit by every gift. The _other_--the girl--would nothave known how. There was something strange about the child, somethingnot right, not normal. I have often wondered what she has become. But itis better for you not to think of her. Fate has shut a door between youtwo. Don't open it. That is the advice, Monsieur, of the man who broughtyou into this very extraordinary world. "

Max thanked him, but answered that, for good or ill, he had made up hismind. Doctor Lefebre shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignedregret, and told what little he knew of the Delatours since he had sentthe young woman off to Algeria with the baby. The first thing he hadheard was four or five years after, when he paid a visit to La Tour, andwas told that Maxime Delatour had left the army and settled permanentlyin Algeria. Then, no more news for several years, until one day a letterhad been forwarded to him in Paris from his old address at La Tour. Itwas from Madame Delatour, dated "Hotel Pension Delatour, Alger, " askingguardedly if he would tell her where she might write to the Americanlady whose child had been born at the château. "The lady who had beenkind to her and her baby. " She would like to send news of littleJosephine, in whom the lady might still take an interest. MadameDelatour had added in a postscript that she and her husband were keepinga small hotel in Algiers, which they had taken with "some money that hadcome to them, " but were not doing as well as they could wish. DoctorLefebre, feeling sure that she meant to make trouble, had not answeredthe letter; but even had he answered, he could only have said that Mrs. Doran lived in New York. He knew no more himself, and had never tried tofind out. Since then he had heard nothing of the Delatour family. 

That same night Max left Paris for Marseilles, and the next morning hewas on board the _General Morel_ starting for Algiers. For the firsttime in his life he had to think of economy: for though Rose's legacyhad amounted to something over fifteen thousand dollars, already it wasnearly disposed of. He determined never again to touch a Doran dollarfor his own personal use, unless he discovered that the rightful ownerwas dead. He had left Fort Ellsworth owing a good deal here and there;for tradesmen were slow about sending bills to such a valuable customer. Now, however, he felt that he must pay his debts with the money that washis own; and settling them would make an immense hole in his smallinheritance. There, for instance, were the pearls and the ring he hadbought for Billie Brookton. Their cost alone was nine thousand dollars, and even if Billie should offer to give them back, he meant to ask herto keep them for remembrance. But she would not offer. He would neverhave admitted to himself that he knew she would not; yet, sincereceiving her letter, he had known. If he had by and by to tell Billiethat he was to be a poor man, she would make some charming excuse fornot sending back his presents. Or else she would not refer to them atall. Whatever the future might bring, it seemed to Max that he had lostyouth's bright vision of romance. There was no such girl in the world asthe girl he had dreamed. The letter had shown him that--the one letterhe had ever had from Billie Brookton. 

After his talk with Doctor Lefebre the change in his life became for Maxmore intimately real than it had been before. The fact that he wastravelling second-class, though an insignificant thing in itself, brought it home to him in a curious, irritating way. He felt that hemust be a weak, spoiled creature, not worthy to call himself a soldier, because little, unfamiliar shabbinesses and inconveniences disgustedhim. He remembered how he had revelled in his one trip abroad with Roseand some friends of theirs the year before he went to West Point. Theyhad motored from Paris to the Riviera, and stayed in Nice. Then theyhad come back to Marseilles, and had taken the best cabins on board agreat liner, for Egypt. What fun he and the other boy of the party hadhad! He felt now that, however things turned out, the fun of life wasover. 

If the girl, Josephine Delatour, lived, he would have to leave the army;that was clear. Grant Reeves had shown him why. And it would be hard, for he loved soldiering. He could think willingly of no other professionor even business. Yet somewhere, somehow, he would have to begin at thebottom and work up. Besides, there were his real parents to be thoughtof, if they were still alive. Max felt that perhaps he was hard--orworse still, snobbish--not to feel any instinctive affection for them. His mother had sold him, in order that she might have money to go to herhusband, whom she loved so much better than her child. Well, at leastshe had a heart! That was something. And if the pair still kept a littlehotel, what of that? Was he such a mean wretch as to be ashamed becausehe was the son of a small hotel-keeper? Max began spying out in himselfhis faults and weaknesses, which, while he was happy and fortunate, hehad never suspected. And now and then he caught the words runningthrough his mind: "If only she is dead, the whole thing will be no morethan a bad dream. " What a cad he was! he thought. And even if she weredead, nothing could ever be as it had been. Jack Doran was not hisfather, and he would have no right to anything that had been Jack's, noteven his love. If he kept the money it would not make him happy. Hecould never be happy again. 

It was in this mood that he went on board the _General Morel_, theoldest and worst-built ship of her line. She was carrying a crowd ofsecond-class passengers for Algiers, and the worried stewards had notime to attend to him. He found his own cabin, by the number on histicket, groping through a long, dark corridor, which smelt of food andbilge water. The stateroom was as gloomy as the passage leading to it, and he congratulated himself that at least he had the lower berth. 

His roommate, however, had been in before him, and either throughignorance or impudence had annexed Max's bunk for himself. On theroughly laundered coverlet was a miniature brown kitbag, conspicuouslynew looking. It had been carelessly left open, or had sprung open ofitself, being too tightly packed, and as Max prepared to change itsplace, muttering, "Cheek of the fellow!" he could not help seeing twophotographs in silver frames lying on top of the bag's other contents. Both portraits were of men. One was an officer in the uniform of theFrench army, with the typical soldier look which gives likeness and kinto fighting men in all races of the world. The other photograph Maxrecognized at a glance as that of Richard Stanton, the explorer. 

Queer, Max thought, as he lifted the bag, open as it was, to the upperberth. Queer, that some little _bourgeois_ Frenchman, journeyingsecond-class from Marseilles to Algiers, should have as a treasure inhis hand-baggage the portrait of a celebrated and extremely pugnaciousEnglishman who had got the newspapers down on him two or three years agofor a wild interview he had given against the _entente cordiale_. Maxremembered it and the talk about it in the officers' mess at FortEllsworth, just after he joined his regiment. However, the Frenchman'sphotographs were his own business; and Max relented not at all towardthe cheeky brute because he had a portrait of the great Richard Stantonin his bag. This was the sort of thing one had to expect when onetravelled second-class! A few weeks before he would have thought itimpossible as well as disgusting to bunk with a stranger whom he hadnever seen; but as he said to himself, with a shrug of the shoulderswhich tried to be Spartan, "Misfortune makes strange bedfellows. " Maxwas disciplining himself to put up with hardships of all sorts whichwould probably become a part of everyday life. His own hand-luggage, asuitcase with his name marked on it, had been dumped down by somesteward in the corridor, and he carried it into the stateroom himself, pushing it far under the lower berth with a rather vicious kick. As rainwas falling in torrents, and a bitter wind blowing, he kept on his heavyovercoat, and went out of the cabin leaving no trace of his ownershipthere except the hidden suitcase. Perhaps on that kick which had sent itout of sight the shaping of Max Doran's whole future life depended. 

On the damp deck and in the dingy "salle" of the second-class Maxwondered, with stifled repulsion, which among the fat Germans, hook-nosed Algerian Jews, dignified Arab merchants, and common-lookingFrenchmen, was to share his ridiculously small cabin. Most of themappeared to be half sick already, in fearful anticipation of the rockingthey were doomed to get in the ancient tub once she steamed out of theharbour and into the face of the gale. In the "gang, " as he called it, there was visible but one person in what Max Doran had been accustomedto think of as his own "rank. " That person was a girl, and despite thegloom which shut him into himself, he glanced at her now and then withcuriosity. It seemed unaccountable that such a girl should be travellingapparently alone, and especially second-class. 

The first thing that caught his attention was the colour of her hair asshe stood with her back to him, on deck. She was wrapped in a long, darkblue coat, with well-cut lines which showed the youthfulness of hertall, slim figure, as tall and slim as Billie Brookton's, but morealertly erect, more boyish. On her head was a small, close-fitting toqueof the same dark blue as her coat; and between this cap and theturned-up collar bunched out a thick roll of yellow hair. It was not asyellow as Billie's, yet at first glance it reminded him of hers, with asick longing for lost beauty and romance. Seeing the delicate figure, cloaked in the same blue which Billie affected for travelling, hethought what it would be like to have the girl with the yellow hairturn, to show Billie's face radiant with love for him, to hear herflutey voice cry: "Max, I couldn't bear it without you! Forget what Isaid in that horrid letter. I didn't mean a word of it. I've given upeverything to be your wife. Take me!"

Soon the girl did turn from the rain blowing into her face, and thatface was of an entirely different type from Billie's. Seeing it, afterthat attack upon his imagination, was a sharp relief to Max. Still hedid not lose interest. The girl's hair was not so yellow where it grewon her head and framed the rather thin oval of her face, as in thethick-rolled mass behind, golden still with childhood's gold. Except forher tall slenderness she was not in the least like Billie Brookton; andshe would have no great pretension to beauty had it not been for a pairof long, gray, thick-lashed eyes which looked out softly and sweetly onthe world. Her nose was too small and her mouth too large, but thedelicate cutting of the nostrils and the bow of the coral-pink upper liphad fascination and a sensitiveness that was somehow pathetic. She heldher head high, on a long and lovely throat, which gave her a look ofcourage, but a forced courage, not the christening gift of godmothernature. That sort of girl, Max reflected, was meant to be cherished andtaken care of. And why was she not taken care of? He wondered if she hadrun away from home, in her dainty prettiness, to be jostled by thisunappreciative, second-class crowd? She was brave enough, though, despite her look of flower-delicacy, to stop on deck long after the shiphad steamed out from the comparatively quiet, rock-bound harbour, andplunged into the tossing sea. At last a big wave drove the girl away, and Max did not see her again until dinner time. He came late andreluctantly into the close-smelling dining-saloon, and found her alreadyseated at the long table. Her place was nearly opposite his, and as hesat down she looked up with a quick, interested look which had girlishcuriosity in it, and a complete lack of self-consciousness that wasperhaps characteristic. Evidently, as he had separated her in his mindfrom the rabble, wondering about her, so she had separated him andwondered also. She was too far away for Max to speak, even if he haddared; but a moment later a big man who squeezed himself in betweentable and revolving chair, next to the girl, made an excuse to ask forthe salt, and begin a conversation. He did this in a matter-of-fact, bourgeois way, however, which not even a prude or a snob could thinkoffensive. And apparently the girl was far from being a prude or a snob. She answered with a soft, girlish charm of manner which gave theimpression that she was generously kind of heart. Then something thatthe man said made her flush up and start with surprise. 

From that moment on the two were absorbed in each other. Could it be, Max asked himself, that the big, rough fellow and the daintily bred girlhad found an acquaintance in common? There seemed to be a gulf betweenthem as wide as the world, yet evidently they had hit upon some subjectwhich interested them both. Through the clatter of dishes Max caughtwords, or fragments of sentences, all spoken in French. The man had acommon accent, but the girl's was charming. She had a peculiarly sweet, soft voice, that somehow matched the sweetness and softness of the long, straight-lashed eyes under the low, level brows, so delicately yetclearly pencilled. Max guessed at first that she was English; then fromsome slight inflection of tone, wondered if she were Irish instead. Itwas a name which sounded like "Sidi-bel-Abbés" that made the girl startand blush, and turn to her neighbour with sudden interest. Again andagain they mentioned "Sidi-bel-Abbés, " which meant nothing for Max untilhe heard the girl say "La Legion Etrangére. " Immediately therecollection of a book he had read flashed into Max's brain. Why, yes, of course, Sidi-bel-Abbés was a place in Algeria, the headquarters ofthe Foreign Legion, that mysterious band of men without a country, inwhom men of all countries are interested. What was there in the subjectof the Foreign Legion to attract such a girl? Could she be going aloneto Sidi-bel-Abbés, hoping to find some lost relative--a brother, perhaps? She asked the man eager questions, which Max could not hear, but the big fellow shook his bullet-shaped head. Evidently he had littleinformation to give on the subject which specially appealed to her; butthere were others on which he held forth volubly; and though the girl'sattention flagged sometimes, she could have been no more gracious in hermanner to the common fellow if he had been an exiled king. "_La Boxe_"were the words which Max began to hear repeated, and a boxer was whatthe man looked like: a second or third rate professional. Max wishedthat he could catch what was being said, for boxing was one of his ownaccomplishments. He boxed so well that once, before he was twenty-one, he had knocked out his master, an ex-lightweight champion, in threerounds. Since then he had kept up his practice, and the sporting setamong the officers at Fort Ellsworth had been proud of their Max Doran. 

Every moment the weather grew worse, and one after another the fewsecond-class passengers who had dared to risk dining faded away. Atlast, about halfway through the badly served meal, the girl got up witha wan little smile for her talkative neighbour, and went out, keepingher balance by catching at the back of a chair now and then. Thebullet-headed man soon followed, charging at the open door like a bull, as a wave dropped the floor under his feet. But Max, priding himself onhis qualities as a sailor, managed to sit through the meagre dessert. 

The girl was not visible on the rain-swept deck, or in the gloomyreading-room, where Max glanced over old French papers until his opticnerves sent imperative messages of protest to his brain. Then he strayedon deck again, finding excuse after excuse to keep out of his cabin, where no doubt a seasick roommate was by this time wallowing andguzzling. At last, however, his swimming head begged for a pillow, nomatter how hard, and in desperation he went below. He found the cabindoor on the hook, and the faded curtain of cretonne drawn across. Therewas one comfort, at least: the wretch liked air. Max hoped the fellowhad gone to sleep, in which case there might be some chance of rest. Gently he unhooked the door and fastened it again in the same manner. Alittle light flittered through the thin curtain, enabling Max to gropehis way about the tiny stateroom, and he determined not to rouse hiscompanion by switching on the electricity. 

It had occurred to him, on his way to the cabin, that he might find hisberth usurped by a prostrate form, as in the afternoon by a bag. But hisfirst peering glance through the dimness reassured him on this point. The owner of the bag had taken the hint, and stowed himself in his ownbunk. Max could just make out a huddled shape under bedclothes which hadbeen drawn high for warmth. Then he knelt down to grope for the suitcasewhich he had pushed far under his own berth. Seeking it in thesemi-darkness, a wave sent him sprawling. He heard from somewhere ashrill crash of glass, a sudden babble of excited voices, and decided itwould not be worth while to undress unless the storm should abate. Hescrambled up, and thankfully flung himself, just as he was, on to hisbunk. In the wild confusion of squeaking, straining planks, the thump ofwaves against the porthole, the demon-shrieks of infuriated wind, andthe shouts and running to and fro of sailors overhead, it seemedimpossible that any human being could sleep. Yet the creature overheadwas mercifully quiet; and suddenly slumber fell upon Max, shutting outthought and sound. For a while he slept heavily; but by and by dreamscame and lifted the curtain of unconsciousness, stirring him torestlessness. It seemed that he had lived through years since New York, and that everything had long ago been decided for him, one way or theother, though his dulled brain kept the secret. He knew only that he wasat Sidi-bel-Abbés--Sidi-bel-Abbés. How he had got there, and what he wasdoing, he could not tell. It ought to be a town, but it was not. Therewere no houses nor buildings of any kind in this strange Sidi-bel-Abbés. He could see only waves of yellow sand, billowing and moving all aroundhim like sea waves; and it was sea as well as desert. Suddenly one ofthe waves rolled away, to show a small white tent, almost like a coveredboat. A voice was calling to him from it, and he struggled to get near, falling and stumbling among the yellow waves. Then abruptly he startedback. It was Billie Brookton's voice. Instead of being glad to hear it, he was bitterly, bleakly disappointed, and felt chilled to the heartwith cold. Surprised at his own despair, he waked up, with a greatstart, just in time to brace his feet against the bottom of the berthand save himself from being thrown out by a shuddering bound of theship. From overhead he heard a sigh of pain or weariness, and the topberth creaked with some movement of its occupant. "The beast's awake!"thought Max, resentfully. "Now for ructions! No more hope of sleep forme, I suppose. "

But all was still again, except for a faint rustling as if the pillowwere being turned over. At the same instant something long and supple, like a thick, silky rope, slid down from above. He could see it in thedim light as it fell and brushed his hand protruding, palm uppermost, over the edge of the bunk. Quite mechanically he shut his fingers on thething, to prevent its dropping to the floor, and, to his amazement, itfelt to the touch like a woman's hair. His hand was full of it--a great, satin-soft curl it seemed to be. Only, it _couldn't_ be that, of course!Maybe he was half dreaming still. He opened his fingers and let thestuff go. But instead of falling to the floor, the long rope swayedgently back and forth with the rocking of the ship. It _was_ hair! Awonderful plait of hair, attached to a woman's head. A woman was lyingthere in the upper berth. 

CHAPTER V

THE NIGHT OF STORMS

A Woman! But how was it possible that there should be a woman in hiscabin? There must have been some unthinkable mistake, and he feltconfident that it was not he who had made it. He had looked carefully atthe number over the door, comparing it with the number on his ticket. But, after all, what did it matter? It was too late now to apportionblame. She was there. And what hair she had! When she stood up it mustfall far below her knees. 

"What shall I do?" thought Max. "Shall I lie still until she goes tosleep again, and then sneak out into the _salle_? If she doesn't see mysuitcase she need never know I've been 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 "LieutenantMax Doran, --th Cavalry, Fort Ellsworth, " the woman would have rung fora steward, and the error would somehow have been adjusted. 

Four or five minutes passed, and silence reigned in the berth overhead. Max sat up cautiously, lest his bunk should squeak, and had begun stillmore cautiously to emerge from it, when there came a sudden viciouslurch of the ship. He was flung out, but seized the berth-curtain, asthe _General Morel_ awkwardly wallowed, and staggered to his feet, justin time to save the occupant of the upper berth from flying across theroom. With a cry, she fell on to his shoulder, and he held her up withone hand, still grasping the curtain with the other. The long plait ofhair and a smooth bare arm were round his neck. A face was close to his, and he could feel warm, quick breaths on his cheek. 

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

Even as he spoke, it occurred to Max that possibly she didn't understandEnglish. The thought had hardly time to pass through his mind, however, when she answered him in English in a shocked whisper, trying vainly todraw away:

"But--it's a man!--in my cabin!"

"I'm awfully sorry, " said Max. "There's been some mistake. Better let mehold you a few seconds more, till the ship's steadier. Then I'll liftyou down to the lower berth. You see, I thought it was my cabin. "

"Oh, " she exclaimed; and he felt a quiver run through the bare arm. Herhair, which showered over his face and twined intricately round hisneck, had a faint, flowery perfume. "As soon as I get you down, and makeyou comfortable, I'll go, " he hurried on. "There, now, I think thingsare quieting for the moment. We must have had two waves following oneanother quicker than the rest. Let go your hold on the berth, and I'lltake you out. "

He felt her relax obediently; and slipping one arm under her shoulder, the other under her knees, he lifted a burden which proved to be light, from the upper berth, to bestow it in safety, far back against the wallin the bunk underneath. 

"Oh, thank you, " was breathed out with a sigh of relief. "You're verykind--and so strong! But I feel dreadfully ill. I hope I'm not going tofaint. "

"I'll get you some brandy, " said Max, bethinking himself of a certainsilver flask in his suitcase, a prize as it happened, won as an amateurof _la boxe_. 

To his horror she made no answer. 

"Jove!" he muttered. "She's gone off--and no wonder. It's awful!"

He began to be flurried, for his own head was not too clear. "She may beflung to the floor while I'm groping around for that suitcase of mine, if she's fainted, and can't save herself when the next wave comes, " hethought. "That won't do. I'll have to light up, and wall her in with thebedding from the top bunk, so she can't easily be pitched out. "

Hesitating a little, not quite sure about the propriety of the necessaryrevelation, he nevertheless switched on the electricity. After the duskwhich had turned everything shadow-gray, the little stateroom appearedto be brilliantly illuminated. In his berth lay the girl he had seen ondeck and at dinner. 

Max was not completely taken by surprise, as he would have been had heseen the vision before hearing her voice. As she clung round his neck, she had spoken only brokenly and in a whisper, but from the first wordshe had felt instinctively sure of his companion's identity. 

If she had been delicately pale before, now she was deathly white, sowhite that Max, who had never before seen a woman faint, felt a stab offear. What if she had a weak heart? What if she were dead?

She wore a dressing-gown of a white woollen material, inexpensiveperhaps, but classic in its soft foldings around the slender body; andthe thought flitted through Max's head that she was like a slim Greekstatue, come alive; or perhaps Galatea, disappointed with the world, turning back to marble. 

All the while he, with unsteady hands, unlocked and opened his bag, fumbling among its contents for the flask, she lay still, without aquiver of the eyelids. She did not even seem to breathe. But perhapsgirls were like that when they fainted! Max didn't know. He wanted tolisten for the beating of her heart, but dared not. He would try thebrandy, and if that did not bring her to herself, he would ring and askfor the ship's doctor. But--could he do that? How could he explain toany one their being together in this cabin?

Hastily he poured a little brandy from the flask into the tiny cup whichscrewed on like a cover. The pitching and tossing made it hard not tospill the fluid over the upturned face--that would have beensacrilege!--but with an adroitness born of desperation he contrived topour a few drops between the parted lips. Apparently they produced noeffect; but another cautious experiment was rewarded by a gasp and aslight quivering of the white throat. On one knee by the side of theberth, Max slipped an arm under the pillow, thus lifting the girl's heada little, that she might not choke. As he did this she swallowedconvulsively, and opening her eyes wide, looked straight into his. 

"Thank heaven!" exclaimed Max. "You frightened me. "

She smiled at him, their faces not far apart, her wonderful hairtrailing past his breast. Yet in his anxiety and relief Max had lost allsense of strangeness in the situation. Drawing long, slow breaths, sheseemed purposefully to be gaining strength to speak. "It's nothing--tofaint, " she murmured. "I used to, often. And I feel so ill. "

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

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

"I think it's 63. But no matter, " Max answered hurriedly. "Don't botherabout that now. I----"

"When I came in first this morning, I rang for a stewardess to ask ifthere was to be any one with me, " the girl went on, a faint colourbeginning to paint her white cheeks and lips with the palest rose. "Butnobody answered the bell. There was no luggage here, and I thought Imust be by myself. But afterward a stewardess or some one put my bag offthis bed on to the upper one so I dared not take the lower berth. I putthe door on the hook, to get air; but when I heard somebody come in, Inever dreamed it 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 a woman. I can't tell youhow sorry I am to have seemed such a brute. But----"

"After all, it's a fortunate thing for me you were here, " the girlcomforted him. "If you hadn't been, I should have fallen out of the topberth and perhaps killed myself. I should hate to die now. I want somuch to see my father in Africa, and--and--somebody else. I think youmust have saved my life. "

"I should be so happy to think that, " Max answered warmly. "I haven't aspleasant an errand in Africa as you have. But whatever happens, I shallbe thankful that I came, and on this ship. I was wondering to-day if Iwere glad or sorry to have been born. But if I was born to save a girlfrom harm, it was worth while, of course, just for that and nothingelse. Now, if you're feeling pretty well again, I'd better go. " Gentlyhe drew his arm out from under the pillow, thus laying down the head hehad supported. 

The girl turned, resting her cheek on her hand--a frail little hand, soft-looking as that of a child--and gazed at Max wistfully. 

"I suppose you'll think it's dreadful of me, " she faltered, "but--I wishyou _needn't_ go. I've never been on the real sea before since I was ababy: only getting from England to Ireland the shortest way, and on theChannel. This is the first storm I've seen. I never thought I was acoward. I don'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 afraid exactly, butit's a dreadful feeling to be alone, without any one to care whether youdrown or not, at night on a horrible old ship, in the raging waves. Thesea's like some fierce, hungry animal, waiting its chance to eat us up. "

"It won't get the chance, " Max returned cheerfully. He was standingnow, and she was looking up at him from the hard little pillow latelypressed by his own head. "I shouldn't wonder if the old tub has gonethrough lots of worse gales than this. "

"It's comforting to hear you say so, and to have a human being to talkto, in the stormy night, " sighed the girl. "I feel better. But if yougo--and--where _will_ you go?"

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

Just then the _General Morel_ gave a leap, poised on the top of somewall of water, quivered, hesitated, and jumped from the height into agulf. Max held the girl firmly in the berth, or she would have beenpitched on to the floor. Involuntarily she grasped his arm, and let itgo only when the wallowing ship subsided. 

"That was awful!" she whispered. "It makes one feel as if one weredying. I can't be alone! Don't leave me!"

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

"Oh, I don't--I can't! Except that you must be so miserablyuncomfortable. "

"I'm not; and it's the finest compliment and the greatest honour I'veever had in my life, " Max stammered, "that you should ask me to--that itshould be a comfort to you, my staying. "

"But you are the kind of man women know they can trust, " the girlapologized for herself. "You see, one can _tell_. Besides, from the wayyou speak, I think you must be an American. I've heard they're alwaysgood to women. I saw you on deck, and afterward at dinner. I thoughtthen there was something that rang _true_ about you. I said 'That man isone of the few unselfish ones. He would sacrifice himself utterly forothers. ' A look you have about the eyes told me that. "

"I'm not being unselfish now, " Max broke out impulsively; then, fearinghe had said an indiscreet thing, he hurried on to something lesspersonal. "How would it be, " he suggested in a studiously commonplacetone, "if I should make myself comfortable sitting on my suitcase, justnear enough to your berth to keep you from falling out in case anotherof those monsters hit the ship? You could go to sleep, and know you weresafe, because I'd be watching. "

"How good you are!" said the girl. "But I don't want to sleep, thankyou. I don't feel faint now. I believe you've given me some of yourstrength. "

"That's the brandy, " said Max, very matter of fact. "Have a few dropsmore? You can't have swallowed half a teaspoonful----"

"Do you think, if I took a little, it would make me warm? I'm so icycold. "

"Yes, it ought to send a glow through your body. " He poured anotherteaspoonful into the miniature silver cup, and supported the pillowagain, that she need not lift her head. Then he took the two blanketsoff the upper berth, and wrapped them round the girl, tucking themcozily in at the side of the bed and under her feet. 

"If you were my brother, " she said, "you couldn't be kinder to me. Haveyou ever had 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 tolook after my mother. "

"And now, is she dead?"

"Now she's dead. "

"My mother, " the girl volunteered, "died when I was born. That made myfather hate the thought of me, because he worshipped her, and it musthave seemed my fault that she was lost to him. I haven't seen my fathersince I was a little girl. But I'm going to him now. I've practicallyrun away from the aunts he put me to live with; and I'd hardly anymoney, so I was obliged to travel all the way second-class. "

"That's exactly what I thought!" ejaculated Max. 

"Did you think about _me_, too?" she asked, interest in their talkhelping her to forget the 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 inthe second-class. "

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

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

"You, too! How strange that we, of all the others, should come togetherlike this. It is as if it were somehow meant to be, isn't it? As if wewere intended to do something for each other in future. I wish I _could_do something for you, to pay you for to-night. "

"I don't need pay. " Max smiled again, almost happily. "It's you who arebeing good to me. I was feeling horribly down on my luck. "

"I'm sorry. But it's helped you to help me. I understand that. Do youknow, I believe you are one whose greatest pleasure is in doing thingsfor those not as strong as yourself. "

"I never noticed that in my character, " laughed Max. 

"Yet there's something which tells me I'm right. I think you would, forthat reason, make a good soldier. My father is a soldier. He's stationedat a place called Sidi-bel-Abbés. "

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

"He's colonel of the First Regiment. Oh, I believe it's half dread ofwhat he'll say to me, that makes me so ill and nervous to-night. Theonly two men in the world I love are so strong, so--so almost terrible, that I'm like a little wreath of spray dashed against the rocks of theirnature. They don't even know I'm there!"

Suddenly Max seemed to see the two framed photographs in the open bag:an officer in French uniform, and Richard Stanton, the explorer, the manof fire and steel said to be without mercy for himself or others. Maxfelt ashamed, as if inadvertently he had stumbled upon a secret. "Strongmen should be the tenderest to women, " he reminded her. 

"Yes, on principle. But when they want to live their own lives, andwomen interfere? What then? Could one expect them to be kind andgentle?"

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

"But if he didn't love her? I'm thinking of two men I know. And justnow, more of my father than--than the other. I've got no one to adviseme. 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 fromcuriosity. And don't tell me if you'd rather not. But you see, if you_are_ one, it would help, because you could understand better how asoldier would feel about things. "

"I have been a soldier, " Max said. There was no reason why he shouldkeep back the truth from this little girl for whom he was playingwatchdog: the little girl who thought 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 haveanything to do with women. My mother spoiled him for others. I believetheir love story must be the saddest in the whole world. But tell me, ifyou were old, as _he_ is, nearly fifty, and you had a daughter youdidn't love--though you'd been kind about money and all that--what wouldyou say if she suddenly appeared from another country, and said she'dcome to live with you?"

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

"Yes. You think my father will have a right to be angry with me, andperhaps send me back?"

"I don't know about the right, " said Max, "but soldiers get used todiscipline, you see. And a colonel of a regiment is always obeyed. Hemight find it inconvenient if a girl suddenly turned up. "

"But that's my only hope!" she pleaded. "Surprising my father. Anyhow, Isimply _can't_ go back to my aunts. I have some in Dublin--they were mymother's aunts, too: and some in Paris--aunts of my father. That makesthem my great-aunts, doesn't it? Perhaps they're harder for young peopleto live with than _plain_ aunts, who aren't great. I shall be twenty-onein a few weeks and free to choose my own life if my father won't haveme. I'm not brave, but I'm always trying to be brave! I can engage as agoverness or something, in Algeria, if the worst comes to the worst. "

"I don't believe your father would let you do that. _I_ wouldn't in hisplace. "

"After all, you're very young to judge what he would do, even though you_are_ a soldier!" exclaimed the girl, determined not to be thwarted. "Imust take my chance with him. I shall go to Sidi-bel-Abbés. If there's atrain, I'll start to-morrow night. And you, what are you going to do?Shall you stop long in Algiers?"

"That depends, " answered Max, "on my finding a woman I've come to searchfor. "

The girl was gazing at him with the deepest interest. "You have come toAlgiers to find a woman, " she murmured, "and I, to find a man. Doyou--oh, don't think me impertinent--do you _love_ the woman?"

"No, " said Max. "I've never seen her. " And then, the power of the stormand the night, and their strange, dreamlike intimacy, made him add: "Ilove a woman whom I may never see again. "

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

"I wish you happiness, " echoed Max. 

"And I you. I shall often think of you, even if we never meet afterto-morrow. But I hope we shall! I believe we shall. " She shut her eyessuddenly, and lay still for so long that Max was afraid she might havefainted again. 

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously, bending toward her from his lowseat on the suitcase. 

She opened her eyes with a slight start, as if she had waked, halfdazed, from some unfinished dream. 

"Oh, yes, " she said. "I was making a picture, in a way I have. I waswondering what would happen to us, in our different paths, and trying tosee. One of my aunts says it is 'Celtic' to do that. I saw you in agreat waste-place, like a desert. And then--_I_ was there, too. We weretogether--all alone. Perhaps, although I didn't know it, I'd reallyfallen asleep. "

"Perhaps, " agreed Max, and a vague thrill ran through him. He, too, haddreamed of desert as he lay in the lower berth, and she, overhead, haddreamed a desert dream, each unknown to the other. "Try to go to sleepagain. "

She closed her eyes, and presently he thought that she slept. Once ortwice she waked with the heave and jolt of a great wave, always to findher watchdog at hand. 

But at last, when with the dawn the storm lulled, Max noiselesslyswitched off the light and went out. 

CHAPTER VI

THE NEWS

It was after breakfast when they met once more, on a wet deck, in bleaksunshine. 

"I waked up in broad daylight and found you and your suitcase gone, "said the girl. "Oh, how guilty I felt! And then to discover that, justas you thought, the cabin _was_ 63, not 65. What became of you?"

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

"In 65?"

"No, not there. "

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

Max laughed. It was good to have some one to laugh with. "I didn't darelook, " he confessed. "And I didn't care to wander about explainingmyself and my belongings to suspicious stewards. "

They walked up and down the deck, shoulder to shoulder, like oldcomrades. Last night there had been so many matters more pressing andmore important, that they had forgotten such trifles as names. Now theyintroduced themselves to each other, though Max had an instant'shesitation before calling himself Doran. To-morrow, or even to-day, hemight learn that which would part him forever from the name and all thathad endeared and adorned it for him. 

"Do you know what I've been calling you?" the girl asked, half ashamed, half shyly friendly, "'St. George. ' Because you came and saved me fromthe dragon of the sea that I was afraid of. And that was appropriate, because St. George is my patron saint. I was born on his day, and one ofmy names is Georgette, in honour of him, and of my father, who isGeorges: Colonel Georges DeLisle. My French aunts call me Georgette, forhim. My Irish aunts call me 'Sanda, ' for my mother, who was Corisande, and I like being 'Sanda' best. "

She was frank about herself, as if to reward Max for his St. George-likevigil, telling him details of her life in Ireland and France, and how ithad come about that Richard Stanton, her father's friend, had informallyacted as her guardian when she was a child. Somehow, finding her sosimple and outspoken, so kindly interested in him, Max could not bear, on his part, to build up a wall of reserve. He gave the name that hadalways been his: and though he did not tell her the whole story of hisquest, he said that he was in search of a person to whom, if found, allthat had been his would belong. "But you needn't pity me, " he addedquickly. "I'm used to the idea now. I shall lose some things by beingpoor, but I shall gain others. "

She gave him a long look, seeing that he wanted no sympathy in words, and that it would jar on him if she tried to offer it. "Yes, you'll gainothers, " she echoed. "It must be splendid to be a man. I wonder--ifthings go as you think--will you stay and seek your fortune in Algeria?"

Seek his fortune in Algeria! Max could not answer for a second or two. Again he seemed to hear Grant Reeves's rather affected voice speakingfar off as if in a gramophone: "Perhaps you won't want to come back toAmerica. "

When Grant had said that, Max had resolved almost fiercely that nothingon earth should keep him from going back as quickly as possible. IfGrant or Edwin Reeves had calmly advised his seeking a new fortune inremote Algeria, he would have flung away the proposition with passion;but when Sanda DeLisle quietly made the suggestion, it was different. America lay behind him in the far distance, where the sun sets. His facewas turned to the east, and Algeria was near. The girl whom he had beenable to help and protect was near, also. And she would be in Algeria. Ifhe hurried home to America he would never see her again. Not that thatought to matter much! They were ships passing each other in the night. Yet--they had exchanged signals. Max had a queer feeling that theybelonged to each other, and that, if it were not for her, he would behideously, desperately homesick at this moment, almost homesick enoughto turn coward and go back with his errand not done. Curiously enough, he felt, too, that she had somewhat the same feeling about him. Silentlythey were helping each other through a crisis. 

"I hadn't thought of staying in Algeria, " he answered her at last. "Idon't suppose I shall stay. But--I don't know. Just now my future'shidden behind a big cloud. "

"Like mine!" cried Sanda DeLisle. "Does it comfort you at all to knowthere's some one here, close to your side, who's walking in the dark, exactly as you are?"

It was the thought that had hovered, dim and wordless, in his own mind. "Yes, it does comfort me, " he said. "Though I ought to be sorry thatthings aren't clear for you. They will be, though, I hope, before long. "

"And for you, " she added. "I wish we could exchange experiences whenwe've found out what's going to become of us. I wish you were going onto Sidi-bel-Abbés. "

"I wish I were, " Max said, and he did actually wish it. 

"Will you write and tell me what happens to you?" she rather timidlyasked. 

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

"It's not good, but I _do_ care. How could I help it, after all you'vedone for me?"

"You'll never know what it was to me to have the chance. And will youwrite what your father's verdict is? If you should be going back, perhaps I----"

"Oh, I shall not be going back!" the girl cried, with sharp decision. "But I'll write. And I shall never forget. If men disappoint me--thoughI hope, oh, _so_ much, they will not--I shall remember one loyal friendI have made. After last night and to-day, we couldn't be _less_ thanfriends, could we? even though we never hear from each other again. "

"Thank you for saying that. I feel it, too, more than you can, " Maxassured her. "But since we're to be friends, will you let me help youall I can, and see you again on shore, before we go our separate ways?Let me find out about your train, and take you to it, and so on; andperhaps you'll dine with me, if there's time before you start. "

"How good you are!" She gave him one of those soft, sweet glances, which, unlike Billie Brookton's lovely looks, were prompted by noconscious desire to charm. "But you will be so busy with your ownaffairs!"

"Not too busy for that. I don't suppose it will be very difficult to getat what I've come for. I shall soon know--one way or the other. I mayhave to go on somewhere else, but one day won't matter. I can givemyself a little indulgence, if it's for the last time. "

So they settled it. Max was to be "St. George" and keep off dragons fora few hours more. 

The _General Morel_ was supposed to do the distance between Marseillesand Algiers in twenty-four hours, but on this trip she had an unusuallygood excuse to be late. The storm had delayed her, and every one wasthankful that it was only half-past three when the ship steamed into theold "pirate city's" splendid harbour. 

Max Doran and Sanda DeLisle stood together watching the Atlas mountainsturning from violet blue to golden green, and the clustered pearls onhill and shore transform themselves into white domes. The two landedtogether, also, and Sanda let Max go with her in a big motor omnibus tothe Hotel Saint George, the hotel of her patron saint, whose name Maxremembered well because of postcards picturing its beautiful terrace andgarden, sent him long ago by Rose when he was a cadet at West Point. They discovered that the first train in which Sanda could leave forSidi-bel-Abbés would start at nine o'clock that evening, so the proposeddinner became possible; and Sanda, by the advice of Max, took a room atthe hotel for the rest of the day, inviting him to have tea with her onthe terrace at five, if he were free to come back. 

He waited until the girl had disappeared with a porter and herhand-luggage, and then inquired of the concierge whether theHotel-Pension Delatour still existed. He put the question carelessly, asthough it meant nothing to him, adding, as the man paused to think, thathe had looked in vain for the name in the guide-book. 

"Ah, I remember now, sir, " said the concierge. "There used to be a hotelof that name, close to the old town--the Kasbah; quite a little place, for _commercants_, and people like that. Why, yes, to be sure! But thename has been changed, five or six years ago it must be. I think it isthe Hotel-Pension Schreiber now. "

"Oh, and what became of Delatour?" Max heard himself ask, still in thatcarefully careless tone which seemed to his ears almost too well done. 

"I'm not sure, sir, but I rather think he died. Yes, now I recallreading something in _La Depeche Algerienne_, at the time. He'd been abrave soldier, and won several medals. There was a paragraph, yes, witha mention of his family. He came from the aristocracy, it said. Perhapsthat's why he didn't turn out a good man of business. Or maybe he dranktoo much or took to drugs. These old retired soldiers who've seen hardfighting in the South often 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's successor might know. Icould send there, if----"

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

The concierge advised a cab, although there was of course the tram whichwould take him close to the Hotel Schreiber, and then he could inquirehis way. Max chose the tram. He had thought it not unfair to pay theexpenses of his quest for the Doran heiress with Doran money, since hehad little left that he could call his own. But he had not spent anextra dollar on luxuries; and after a journey from New York to Paris, Paris to Algiers, second-class, a tram as a climax seemed more suitablethan a cab. 

Where the Arab town--old and secret, and glimmering pale as a whitedsepulchre--huddled away from contact with Europe, a narrow street ranlike a bridge connecting West with East, to-day with yesterday. Near theentrance to this street, where it started from a fine open _place_ ofgreat shops and cafés, the Hotel Schreiber stood humbly squeezed inbetween two dull buildings as shabby as itself. 

"In a few minutes I shall know, " Max said to himself, as he walked intoa cheaply tiled, dingy hall, smelling of cabbage-soup and beer. 

Commercial travellers' sample boxes and trunks were piled in the dimcorners, and a fat, white little man behind a window labelled "Bureau"glanced up from some calculations, with keen interest in a traveller whofor once looked uncommercial. 

His eyes glazed again when he understood that Monsieur wished only tomake inquiries, not to engage a room. He was civil, however, and glib inFrench with a South-German accent. Madame Delatour had sold her interestin the hotel to him, Anton Schreiber. Unfortunately there had been amortgage. The widow was left badly off, and broken-hearted at herhusband's death. With what little money she had, she had gone to Oran, and through official influence had obtained a concession for a smalltobacconist business, selling also postcards and stamps. She ought tohave done well, for there were many soldiers in Oran. They all wantedtobacco for themselves and postcards for their friends. But Madame lostinterest in life when she lost Delatour--a fine fellow, well spoken of, though never strong since some fever he had contracted in the far South. A friend in Oran had written Schreiber the last news of poor MadameDelatour. That broken heart had failed. She had died suddenly about twoyears ago, and the girl (yes, there was a daughter, a strange youngperson) had been engaged through the influence of Schreiber's Oranfriends, to assist the proprietor of the Hotel Splendide atSidi-bel-Abbés. She was, Schreiber believed, still there, in theposition of secretary; unless she'd lately married. It was some monthssince he'd heard. 

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

 * * * * *

It was all over, then. The blow had fallen, and Max thought that he mustbe stunned by it, for he felt nothing, except a curious thrill whichcame with the news that he must go to Sidi-bel-Abbés. The Arab name rangin his ears like the sound of bells--fateful bells that chime atmidnight for birth or death. It seemed to him that Something had alwaysbeen waiting, hidden behind a corner of life, calling him toSidi-bel-Abbés, calling for good or evil, for sorrow or happiness, whocould tell? but calling. And his whole past, with its fun and popularityand gay adventure, its one unfinished love story, its one tragicepisode, had been a long road leading him on toward this day--andSidi-bel-Abbés. 

The temptation to go back, to forget his mission, a temptation which hadcome to life many times after it had first been "scotched, not killed, "did not now lift its head. Max had found out within less than an hourafter landing that which would make him penniless and nameless; yet hismost pressing wish seemed to be to get back in time for his appointmentwith Sanda DeLisle, and tell her that he, too, was going toSidi-bel-Abbés. 

CHAPTER VII

SIR KNIGHT

Max hurried back to the St. George, knowing that he would be late, andarrived somewhat breathless on the terrace, at a quarter-past five. MissDeLisle would forgive him when he explained. And he would explain! Hewas half minded to tell everything to the one human being within fourthousand miles who cared. 

It was March, and the height of the season in Algiers. Many people werehaving tea on the flower-draped terrace framed by a garden of orangetrees and palms, and cypresses rising like burnt-out torches against theblue fire of the African sky. Max's eyes searched eagerly among thegroups of pretty women in white and pale colours for a slim figure in adark blue travelling dress. Sanda had said that she would come out totake a table and wait for him; but he walked slowly along withoutseeing, even in the distance, a girl alone. Suddenly, however, he caughtsight of a dark blue toque and a mass of hair under it, that glitteredlike molten gold in the afternoon sun. Yes, there she was, sitting withher back to him, and close to a gateway of rose-turned marble pillarstaken from the fountain court of some old Arab palace. But--she was notalone. A man was with her. She was leaning toward him, and he towardher, their elbows on the little table that stood between them. 

The man sat facing Max, who recognized him instantly from many newspaperportraits he had seen--and the photograph in Sanda's bag. It was RichardStanton, _poseur_ and adventurer, his enemies said, follower andnamesake of Richard Burton: first white man to enter Thibet; discovererof a pigmy tribe in Central Africa, and--the one-time guardian of SandaDeLisle. 

Max had thought vaguely of the explorer as a man who must be growingold. But now he saw that Stanton was not old. His face had that look ofeternal youth which a statue has; as if it could never have beenyounger, and ought never to be older. It was a square face, vividlyvital, with a massive jaw and a high, square forehead. The large eyeswere square, too; very wide open, and of that light yet burning bluewhich means the spirit of mad adventure or even fanaticism. The skin wastanned to a deep copper-red that made the eyes appear curiously pale incontrast; but the top of the forehead, just where the curling brown hairgrew crisply up, was very white. 

The man had thrown himself so completely into his conversation with thegirl, that Max, drawing nearer, could stare if he chose without dangerof attracting Stanton's attention. He did stare, taking in every detailof the virile, roughly cut features which Rodin might have modelled, andof the strong, heavy figure with its muscular throat and somewhatstooping shoulders. Richard Stanton was not handsome; he was ratherugly, Max thought, until a brief, flashing smile lit up the sunburntface for a second. But it was in any case a personality of intensemagnetic power. Even an enemy must say of Stanton: "Here is a man. " Helooked cut out to be a hero of adventure, a soldier of fortune, and insome sleeping depth of Max's nature a hitherto unknown emotion stirred. He did not analyse it, but it made him realize that he was lonely andunhappy, uninterestingly young; and that he was a person of noimportance. He had come hurrying back to the hotel, anxious to explainwhy he was late; but now he saw--or imagined that he saw--even fromSanda's back, her complete forgetfulness of him. He might have been farlater, and she would not have known or cared. Perhaps she would be gladif he had not come at all. 

Max had until lately been subconsciously aware (though it was nothing tobe proud of!) that he was rather an important personage in the eyes ofthe world. He had been a petted child, and flattered and flirted with asa cadet and a young officer, one of the richest and best looking at hispost. Suddenly he stood face to face with the fact that he had no longera world of his own. He was an outsider, a nobody, not wanted here noranywhere. If he could have stolen away without danger of rudeness toSanda, he would have gone and left her to Stanton, even though by sodoing he lost his chance of seeing her again. But there was the dangerthat, after all, she had not quite forgotten him, and that she might betaking it for granted that he would keep his appointment. He decided notto interrupt the eager conversation at this moment, but to hover near, in case Miss DeLisle looked around as if thinking of him. He hardlyexpected her to do so, until the talk flagged, but perhaps some subtlethought-transference was like a reminding touch on her shoulder. Sheturned her head and saw Max Doran. For an instant she gazed at him halfdazedly, as if wondering why he should be there. Her face was sotransfigured that she was no longer the same girl; therefore it did notseem strange that she should have forgotten so small a thing as aninvitation to tea given to a chance acquaintance. Instead of being paleand delicately pretty, she was a glowing, radiant beauty. Her dilatedeyes were almost black, her cheeks carnation, her smiling lips not coralpink, but coral red. She made charming little gestures which turned herinstantly into a French girl. "Oh, Mr. Doran!" she exclaimed. "Here isMr. Stanton. Only think, he's staying in this hotel, and we found eachother by accident! I came out here and he walked past. He didn't knowme--it's such ages since I saw him--till I spoke. "

Max had felt obliged to draw near, at her call, and to stand listeningto her explanation; but it was clear that to Stanton he was irrelevant. The explorer had spread a folded map on the table. It was at that theyhad been looking, and as Sanda talked to the newcomer, Stanton's eyesreturned to the map again. Max must have been dull of comprehensionindeed if he had not realized that he was wanted by neither. The girlfollowed up her little preamble by introducing her new friend to her oldone, and the explorer half rose from his chair, bowing pleasantlyenough, though absent-mindedly; but there was nothing for Max to do saveto excuse himself. He apologised by saying that his business would keephim occupied for the rest of the afternoon, and that he must forego thepleasure of having tea with Miss DeLisle. The expression of the girl'sface as she said that she was very sorry contradicted her words. She wasevidently enchanted to have Stanton to herself, and Max departed, smiling bitterly as he thought of his impatience to give her the news. This was what all her pretty professions of friendship amounted to inthe end! He had been a fool to believe that they meant anything morethan momentary politeness. She had not referred to his invitation fordinner, so had probably forgotten it in the flush of excitement atmeeting her hero. It seemed cruel to recall it to her memory, as by thistime no doubt Stanton and she were planning to spend the eveningtogether, up to the last moment. Still, the situation was difficult, asshe might remember and consider it an engagement. Max decided at last tosend a card up to her room, where she would find it when her tête à têtewith Stanton was over. He scribbled a few words in pencil, saying thathis business would be over in an hour; that if Miss DeLisle cared to seehim he would be delighted; but she must not consider herself in any waybound. He did not even mention the fact which a little while ago he hadbeen eager to tell: that he was going to Sidi-bel-Abbés. Perhaps, asStanton was a friend of Colonel DeLisle's, he, too, was on his waythere, in which case Max would lurk in the background. The card, in anenvelope, he gave to the concierge, and then went gloomily out to walkand think things over. Passing the terrace he could not resist glancingat the table nearest the marble pillars. The two still sat there, absorbed in each other, their heads bent over the map. Stanton looked upas if in surprise when a waiter appeared with a tray. They hadapparently asked for tea, and then forgotten the order. 

During that hour of absence Max Doran passed some of the worst momentsof his life. He lived over again his anguish at Rose's death; heardagain her confession which, like a sharp knife, with one stroke had cuthim loose from ties of love; and gazed ahead into a future swept bare ofall old friendships, luxuries, and pleasures. His "business, " of whichhe had made much to Miss DeLisle, consisted solely in walking down theMustapha hill from the garden of the Hotel St. George to the smallwhite-painted post-office, and there sending off two telegrams. One wasto Edwin Reeves: the other was the message for which Billie Brookton hadthriftily asked in her special postscript. "Have lost everything, " hewrote firmly. "Will explain in letter following and ask you to treat itin confidence. Good-bye, I hope you may be happy always. Max. "

As he paid for the telegrams he wondered that the framing of Billie'sdid not turn one more screw of the rack which tortured heart and brain, but he felt no new wrench in the act of giving up the girl whom all menwanted. She seemed strangely remote, as if there had never been anychance of her belonging to him. Max had something like a sensation ofguilt because he could not call up a picture of her, traced with thesharp clarity of an etching. In thinking of Billie, he had merely animpressionist portrait: golden hair, wonderful lashes, and a suddenupward look from large, dark eyes, set in a face of pearly whiteness. Because Sanda DeLisle was somewhat of the same type, having yellow-brownhair, and a small, fair face, her image would push itself in front ofthat other far more beautiful image; far more beautiful at least, savein the one moment of glowing radiance which had illumined Sanda, as arose--light within might illumine a pale lily. No woman on earth couldhave been more beautiful than she, at that instant; but the magic firehad been kindled by, and for, another man; and if Max had not alreadyguessed, it would have revealed her whole secret. 

The impression was so vivid that it clouded everything else, just as awhite light focussed upon one figure on the stage dims all others there. He thought of himself, and what he should do with life after his missionwas finished; whether he should take the name of Delatour, which wasrightfully his, or choose a new one; yet suddenly, in the midst of somepressing question, he would forget to search for the answer, as SandaDeLisle's transfigured face seemed to shine on him out of darkness. 

He stayed away from the hotel for precisely an hour, and then, returning, asked at the desk of the concierge whether there were amessage for him. Yes, there was a letter. Max took it, thinking thatthis was perhaps the last time he should ever see the name of Doran onan envelope addressed to him. The direction had been scrawled in haste, evidently, but even so, the handwriting had grace and character. Itsdelicacy, combined with a certain firmness and impulsive dash, expressedto Max the personality of the writer. The letter was of course from MissDeLisle; a short note asking if he would look for her on the terrace atsix-thirty. She would be alone then. Max glanced at the hall clock. Itwanted only three minutes of the half hour, and he went out at once. The scene on the terrace was very different from what it had been anhour ago. It might have been "set" for another act, was the fancy thatflashed through the young man's mind. The hyacinth-pink of thesunset-sky was now faintly silvered with moonlight. All the gay groupsof tea-drinking people had disappeared. Many of the crowding chairs hadbeen taken away from the little tables and pushed back against theirregular wall of the house. The floor was being slowly inlaid withstrips of shadow-ebony and moon-silver. Even the perfume of the flowersseemed changed. Those which had some quality of mystery and sensuoussadness in their scent had prevailed over the others. 

At first Max saw no one, and supposed that Miss DeLisle had not yet cometo keep the appointment; but as he slowly paced the length of theterrace, he discerned, standing on the farther side of thepillar-gateway, a figure that paused close to the carved balustrade andlooked out over the garden. There was a suggestion of weariness anddiscouragement in the pose, and though the form had Sanda's tallslimness he could hardly believe it to be hers, until passing throughthe gateway he had come quite close to her. She turned at the sound offootsteps; and in the rose-and-silver twilight he could see that hereyes were full of tears. 

Somehow it struck him as characteristic of the girl that she should nottry to pretend she had not been crying. He could scarcely imagine herbeing self-conscious enough to pretend anything. 

"Is it half-past six already?" she asked, in a very little voice, almostlike that of a child who had been punished. "I'm glad you've come. Willyou forgive me?"

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

"Yes, there is, " she insisted; "you know that as well as I do. But youwill forgive me, because--because I think you must have _understood_. Iwas not myself at all. "

Max hesitated and stammered. He did not dare admit how well he hadunderstood, though it seemed a moment for speaking clear truths, here inthis wonderful garden which they two had to themselves, with the magiclight of sunset and moonrise shining into their souls. 

"You needn't be afraid of shaming me, " the girl went on. "I felt thatyou understood everything, so we can talk now, when I've come back alittle to myself. I didn't mind your seeing, then, because everythingseemed unimportant except--_just him_, and my being there with him. AndI don't mind even now, because there's so much that's the same in mylife and yours. I feel (as I felt before I was carried out of myself)that we've drifted together at a time when we can help each other. Youcan forgive me for being selfish and thoughtless to you, because I wasat a great moment of my life, and you realized it. Didn't you?"

"Yes, " said Max. 

"I've always adored him. He was the one I meant, of course, when I toldyou about caring for somebody, " Sanda confessed. "You see, my father hasnever let me love him, in a personal sort of way. He has held me off, though I hope it's going to be different when he sees me. Sir Knight(that's what I always called Richard, ever since I was small) was verykind whenever he had time. He didn't mind my worshipping him. He neverwrote, because he was too busy; but when he came home from his wonderfulexpeditions and adventures, he generally had some present for me. I'vealways followed him as far as I could, through the newspapers, and--I_knew_ he was somewhere in Algeria now. I'm afraid--that's partly whatmade my wish to come so--terribly, irresistibly strong. I didn't quiterealize that, until I saw him. Honestly, I thought it was because Icouldn't live with my aunts any longer, and because I wanted so much towin my father before it was too late. But meeting Richard here, unexpectedly, when I imagined him somewhere in the South, showed me--thetruth about myself. I'd been so anxious for you to come back, and tohear all that had happened to you; but meeting him put everything elseout of my head!"

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

"I think it was _in_human. For when I remembered--other things, I didn'tseem to care. I was--_glad_ when you said you had business and couldn'tstay to tea. I hoped you'd forget that you'd asked me to dinner, becauseI wanted so much to have it with Sir Knight--with Richard. I thoughthe'd be sure to invite me, and take me to the train afterward. I wasgoing to apologize to you as well as I could; but even if you'd beenhurt, I was ready to sacrifice you for him. "

"Please don't punish yourself by confessing to me, " Max broke in. "Indeed it's not necessary. I----"

"I'm not doing it to punish myself, " Sanda exclaimed. "I've _been_punished--oh, sickeningly punished!--already. I'm confessing to youbecause--I want our friendship to go on as if I hadn't done anythingungrateful and cruel to spoil it. I'm trying to atone. "

"You've done that a thousand times over, " Max comforted her, feelingthat he ought to be comforted at the same time, yet aware that it wasnot so. He began to realize that he was boyishly jealous of the greatman whose blaze of glory had made his poor rushlight of friendshipflicker into nothingness. 

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

"The news is, that I haven't any past which belongs to me--and God knowswhether I've a future. " Max gave lightness to the sombre words with alaugh. 

"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, as we planned before--before----"

"But Mr. Stanton? Aren't you----"

"No, I'm not. He left me fifteen minutes after you went. I shan't seehim again. "

"Not at the train?"

"No, not anywhere. You see, he has such important things to do, hehasn't time to bother much with--with a person he still thinks of as alittle girl. Why, I told you, he would hardly have known me if I hadn'tspoken to him! He's going away to-morrow, leaving for Touggourt. Thereare all sorts of exciting preparations to make for a tremendousexpedition he means to undertake, though it will be months before he canbe ready to start. He can think of nothing else just now. Oh, it wasonly 'How do you do?' and 'Good-bye' between us, I assure you, overthere at the little tea-table I'd been keeping for you and me. "

"It didn't look like anything so superficial, " Max found himself tryingonce more to console her. "I'm sure it must really have meant a lot tohim, meeting you. I could see even in the one glance I had, how absorbedhe was----"

"Yes, in his map! He was pointing out his route to me, after Touggourt. He's chosen Touggourt for his starting-place, because the railway hasjust been brought as far as there. And there's a man in Touggourt--anold Arab explorer--he wants to persuade to go with him if he's strongenough. He--and some other Arab Richard came to Algiers to see, are theonly two men alive, apparently, who firmly believe in the Lost Oasisthat Sir Knight means to try to find, when he can get his caravantogether, and start across the desert early next autumn after the hotweather. "

"The Lost Oasis? I never heard of it, " said Max. "Is there really such aplace somewhere?"

"Richard doesn't know. He only believes in it; and says nearly every onethinks he's insane. But you must have heard--I thought every one hadheard the old legend about a Lost Oasis--lost for thousands of years?"

"I'm afraid not. I haven't any desert lore. " As Max made this answer, last night's dream came back, rising for an instant before his eyeslike a shimmering picture, a monochrome of ochre-yellow. Then it faded, and he saw again the silver sky behind darkening pines, plumeddate-palms, the delicate fringe of pepper trees, and black columns oftowering cypress. 

"All mine has come from Sir Knight: stories he's told me and books he'sgiven me. Long ago he talked about the Lost Oasis. I thought of it as athrilling fairy story. But he believes it may exist, somewhere far, fareast, beyond walls of mountains and shifting sand-dunes, between theSahara and the Libyan deserts. "

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

"Lots have tried, and been lost themselves: or else they've given uphope, after terrible privations, and have struggled back to theirstarting-place. But Richard says he has pledged himself to succeed wherethe rest have failed, or else to die. It was awful to hear him saythat--and to see the look in his eyes. "

"He's done some wonderful things, " Max said, trying to speak withenthusiasm. 

"Yes; but this seems different, and more terrifying than any of hisother adventures, because in them he had men for his worst enemies. Thistime his enemy will be nature. And its venturing into theunknown--almost like trying to find the way to another world. Everybodyknew there was a Thibet and a Central Africa, and what the dangers wouldbe like there; but no one knows anything of this place--if it is aplace. "

"What's the story that makes Mr. Stanton feel the thing is worthrisking?" Max asked. 

"The story is, that there's a blank in Egyptian history which could befilled up and accounted for, if a great mass of people had moved awayand begun a new civilization somewhere, safe from all the enemies whohad disturbed them and stolen their treasure. "

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

"It might, if there hadn't been other stories of lost oases which haveproved to be true. "

"I never heard of them, " Max confessed his ignorance. 

"Nor I, except from Sir Knight. He says that only lately people havefound several oases south of Tripoli, which were talked about before inthe same legendary way as this one he's going to search for. Only a fewpeople know about them now: but they _are_ known. And they're inhabitedby Jews who fled by tribes from the Romans when Solomon's Temple wasdestroyed, in the reign of the Emperor Titus. They never trade, exceptwith each other, but have everything they need in their hiddendwelling-places. They speak the ancient language that was spoken inPalestine all those centuries ago, and wear the same costume, and keepto the same laws. That's why Sir Knight thinks the greater Lost Oasismay exist, having been even better hidden than those. There was a famousexplorer named Rholf who believed that he'd found traces of a way to it, but he lost them again. And there were Caillaud and Cat, and other nameshe spoke of to-day, that I've forgotten. I wish, though, that he werenot going--or else that I could go with him, in the way I used to planwhen I was small. " The girl paused and sighed. 

"What way?"

"Oh, it was only nonsense--silly, romantic nonsense, that I'd got out ofbooks. I used to make up stories about myself joining Sir Knight on someexpedition, dressed as a boy, and he not recognizing me. " She laughed alittle. "I constantly saved his life, of course! But now we won't talkof him any more. You and I will make up a story about _ourselves_. We'realone on a desert island, and we have to find food and shelter, and beas comfortable and as happy as we can. In the story, you have cause tohate me, but you don't, because you're generous. So you forage for gameand fruit, and help me to escape. Which means, if you've really forgivenmy horridness, that you'll take pity on me and ask me to dine with youbefore you put me into my train as you promised. "

"I will do all that, " said Max, almost eagerly. "And if you'll let meI'll go with you in the train to Sidi-bel-Abbés. "

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "I couldn't consent to such a sacrifice. "

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

"Why--why?"

"I've found out that the woman I came to search for is not only alive, but living at Sidi-bel-Abbés. "

"It's Fate!" the girl half whispered. "But _what_ Fate? What does it allmean?"

"I've been asking myself that question, " Max said, "and I can't find ananswer--yet. "

CHAPTER VIII

ON THE STATION PLATFORM

They dined together in a glass-fronted restaurant opening out on to theterrace, and Sanda was sweet, but absent-minded. Max could guess whereher thoughts were, and almost hated Stanton. How could the man let somewretched engagement, with a few French officers, keep him from this poorlittle girl who adored him? How could Stanton let her go alone to meether unnatural father (it was thus that Max thought of Colonel DeLisle)when as her one-time guardian he might have taken her to Sidi-bel-Abbéshimself, and persuaded his old friend, DeLisle, to be lenient. All thatMax had heard against the explorer came back to him, and he was ready tobelieve Stanton the cruel and selfish egoist that gossip sketched him. Poor Sanda!

Miss DeLisle had meant to finish her long journey as she had begun it, second-class; but Max persuaded the girl to let him take for her afirst-class ticket, with _coupé lit_, in a compartment for women, as faras the station where at dawn they must change for Sidi-bel-Abbés. Shewas surprised at the smallness of the price, but did not suspect thatshe owed her new friend anything more substantial than gratitude for allthe trouble he had taken for her comfort. 

Max himself went second-class, packed in with seven men who would havethought opening the window a symptom of insanity. 

One of the seven was the man with whom Sanda DeLisle had chatted onboard the _General Morel_ at dinner. He was the hero of the compartment, for he was going to Sidi-bel-Abbés to fight a boxing match with thechampion of the Legion, a soldier named Pelle. Four of the travellers(three men of Algiers and a youth of Sidi-bel-Abbés) were accompanyingthe French boxer, having met him at the ship. 

Dozing and waking, Max heard excited talk of _la boxe_ and the comingevent. He was vaguely interested, for he had been the champion boxer ofhis regiment--a hundred years ago!--but he was too weary in body andmind to care much about a match at Sidi-bel-Abbés. When he was nottrying to sleep, he was mentally composing a letter to his colonel, withdiscreet explanations, and a justification of his forthcoming immediateresignation from the army: or else a written explanation of his farewellto Billie, following up the telegram; or thinking out businessdirections to Edwin Reeves. Suddenly, however, as he was dully wonderinghow best to send the heiress to New York without going back himself, aname spoken almost in his ear had the blinding effect of a searchlightupon his brain. 

"La petite Josephine Delatour, " said the young man who lived atBel-Abbés. He was evidently answering some question which Max had notcaught. 

"The handsomest, would you call her?" disputed a commercial traveller, who also knew the town. "Ah, _that_, no! she is too strange, toobizarre. "

"But her strangeness is her charm, _mon ami_! She has eyes of topaz, like those of a young panther. If she were not bizarre, would she--alittle nobody at all--be strong enough to draw the smart young officersafter her? There are girls in Bel-Abbés, daughters of rich merchants, who are jealous of the secretary at the Hotel Splendide. Before shecame, it was only the officers of high rank who messed there. Now it isalso the lieutenants. It is not the food, but Mademoiselle Josephine whoattracts!"

"Once upon a time she thought me and my comrades good enough for aflirtation, " said the commercial traveller. "But she looks higher inthese days, especially since her namesake in the Spahis joined hisregiment at Bel-Abbés. She told me they had found out that they werecousins. "

"The lieutenant doesn't go about boasting of the relationship, " laughedthe youth from Bel-Abbés. "He comes to my father's café, which is thebest in the town, as you well know. If any one speaks to him of _lapetite_, he laughs: and it is a laugh she would not like. "

Max's ears tingled. He felt as if he were eavesdropping. He wished tohear more, though at the same time it seemed that he had no right tolisten. Luckily or unluckily, the boxer broke in and changed thesubject. 

Early in the morning, passengers for Sidi-bel-Abbés had to descend fromthe train going on to Oran, and take a slow one, on a branch line. Itwas a very slow one, indeed, and it was also late, so that it would benearly midday and the hour for _dejeuner_ when they reached theirdestination. Max saw himself inquiring for Mademoiselle Delatour just atthe moment when the admirers of her topaz eyes were assembling fortheir meal. He did not like the prospect; but said nothing of his ownworries to Sanda, whom he joined on changing trains. Now the meetingwith her father was so near, she had to hold her courage with bothhands. She had realized for the first time that she would not know whereto look for Colonel DeLisle. He might be in barracks. She could hardlygo to him there. He would perhaps be angry, should a girl arrive, announcing herself as his daughter, at the house where he had rooms. Thethird alternative was the Hotel Splendide, where he took his meals. Hemight already be there when she reached Sidi-bel-Abbés. What a place fora first meeting! Max agreed, sympathetically. It seemed that everythingat Sidi-bel-Abbés must happen at the Hotel Splendide!

"If you could only be with me and help, as you have helped me allalong!" she sighed. "Though of course you can't. If Sir Knight hadcome---- But I couldn't easily explain _you_ to my father. At least, notjust at present. "

Max saw this, even more clearly than she saw it. It would indeed bedifficult for a strange new daughter to explain in a few brief words astill more strange young man to such a person as Colonel DeLisle. If hewere to be introduced or even mentioned at all, Max felt that it wouldhave to be later, and must depend on the word of the redoubtablecolonel. He suggested to Sanda as discreetly as he could that he wouldkeep out of her way at the hotel, unless she summoned him. But, headded, he would have to be there for a short time at all events, becausehis business was taking him precisely to the Hotel Splendide. 

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

"She's the secretary of the hotel. " Max hesitated an instant, then, realizing from the words he had overheard how conspicuous a characterJosephine Delatour evidently was, he thought best to tell Sandasomething more of his story than he had told her yet. He sketched theversion, vindicating his foster-mother, which he had given to BillieBrookton and the Reeveses--a version which all the world at home would, he believed, soon hear. 

"So that is it?" said Sanda. "You're giving up everything to this girl. Do you think she will take it?"

"I wish I were as sure of what I shall do next as I am sure of that, "laughed Max. If there had ever been any doubt in his mind as toJosephine's attitude, it had vanished while listening to the talk of herin the train. 

"I know what you ought to do next, " Sanda said. "You ought to be whatyou have been--a soldier. "

"I shall always be, at heart, I think, " Max confessed. "But soldier lifeis over for me, so far as I can see ahead. "

"I wonder----" she began eagerly, then stopped abruptly. 

"You wonder--what?"

"I daren't say it. "

"Please dare. "

"I mustn't. It would be wrong. I might be horribly sorry afterward. Andyet----"

She silenced herself with a little gasp. He urged her no more, butstared almost unseeingly out of the window at the roofed farmhouses, andthe yellow hills, like reclaimed desert, with bright patches ofcultivation, and a far, floating background of the blue Thesalamountains. 

 * * * * *

Sidi-bel-Abbés at last! and the train slowing down along the platform ofan insignificant station, which might have been in the South of France, save for a few burnoused Arabs. There was a green glimpse of olives andpalms, and taller plane trees, under a serene sky; and in the distancethe high fortified walls of yellow and dark gray stone, which ringed inthe northernmost stronghold of the Foreign Legion. 

"Sidi-bel-Abbés!" a deep voice shouted musically from one end of theplatform to the other, as the train came in; and the name thrilledthrough Max Doran's veins as it had not ceased to thrill sinceyesterday. More strongly than ever he had the impression that some greatthings would happen to him here, or begin to happen, and carry him onelsewhere, beyond those yellow hills. Deep down in him excitementstirred in the dark, like a dazed traveller up before the dawn, gropingfor the door through which he must pass to begin his journey. All themore quietly, however, because of what he secretly felt, Max tookSanda's bag and his own, and gave her a hand for the high step from thetrain to platform. There they became units in a crowd strange to see ata little provincial station; a crowd to be met at few other places inthe world. 

The French boxer was not the only guest of importance this train broughtto Sidi-bel-Abbés. At the far end of the platform, where the first-classcarriages had stopped, a group of officers in full dress were collectedround a man who wore civilian clothes awkwardly, as an old soldierwears them. There was the sensationally splendid costume of the Spahis;scarlet cloak and full trousers; the beautiful pale blue of theChasseurs d'Afrique, and a plainer uniform which Max guessed to be thatof the Foreign Legion. The boxer had his committee _de réception_ also;a dozen or more dark, fat, loud-talking proprietors of cafés, ortradefolk keen on "_le sport_. " These, and the lounging Arabs, mighthave interested strangers to Sidi-bel-Abbés, if there had been nothingbetter worth attention. But owing to the lateness of the train, it hadcome in almost simultaneously with another made up of windowless wagonsfor men, horses or freight, which had not yet discharged its load. Outfrom the wide doorway of the long car labelled "_32 hommes, 6 chevaux_, "was streaming an extraordinary procession; tall, bearded men with thehigh cheek-bones and sad, wide-apart eyes of the Slav: a blond, round-cheeked boy whose shy yet stolid face could only have been bred inGermany, or Alsace; sharp-featured, rat-eyed fellows who might have beencollected at Montmartre or in a Marseilles slum; others who werenondescripts of no complexion and no expression; waifs from anywhere; abrown-skinned Spaniard and an Italian or two; a Negro with thesophisticated look of a New York "darkee"; a melancholy, hooded Arab, and a fierce-faced Moor; types utterly at variance, yet with onelikeness which bound them together like a convict's chain: weariness andstains of long, hard travelling, which thrust the few well-dressed mendown to the level of the shabbiest. Some were almost middle aged; somewere youths hardly yet at the regulation enlistment age of eighteen; afew one might take for broken-down gentlemen; more who looked likeworkmen out of a job, and one or two unmistakably old soldiers, eager-eyed as lost dogs who had found their way home: a strangegathering of individuals to find stumbling out of a freight train at acountry station of a French colony; but this was Sidi-bel-Abbés, headquarters of _La Legion Etrangére_: and as the tired, dirty mentumbled out on to the platform, everybody stared openly as a corporalwith a high képi, a buttoned-back blue overcoat, and loose, red trouserstucked into military boots, formed the crew into lines of four. 

Even the officers at the end of the platform gazed at the soiledscarecrows who had to be made into soldiers: for this beingSidi-bel-Abbés, there was no difficulty in guessing that thetwenty-eight or thirty men of six or seven nations were recruits of theLegion of Foreigners. The draggled throng was quietly indicated to thevisitor in civilian clothes, who nodded appreciatively and then turnedaway. But the boxer's brigade explained the unfortunate wretches soloudly and unflatteringly to their guest that haggard faces flushed andquivering lips stiffened; while at the gateway of exit, a motionless rowof non-commissioned officers, watching for deserters, regarded "_lesbleus_" critically, yet indifferently. 

Max, whose quick imagination made him almost painfully sensitive forothers, felt hot and sorry for the men herded together by misfortune. Hehad read sensational stories of the Foreign Legion, and found himselfhypnotized into looking for brutal jowls of escaped murderers, or facesof pallid aristocrats in torn evening clothes, splashed with blood. Among these men of mystery or sorrow there were, however, few startlingtypes which caught the eye. But one man--young, tall, straight as anarrow--running the gauntlet of jokes and stares with fierce, represseddefiance, turned suddenly to look at Max and Sanda. 

Where to place him in life, Max could not tell. He might be prince orpeasant by birth, since prince and peasant are akin at heart, and everremote from the middle-classes as from Martians. He wore a soft, grayfelt hat, smeared with coal-dust from the engine. The collar of hisdusty black overcoat was turned up; it actually looked like an eveningcoat. His trousers were black too, and Max had an impression of patentleather shoes glittering through dust. But these details were onlyaccessories to the picture, and interesting because of the wearer'sface. It was dark as that of a Spaniard from Andalusia, with the high, proud features of an Indian. It had been clean-shaven a few days ago;and from two haggard hollows a pair of wild black eyes flashed oneglance at Max--the only man who had not seemed to stare. Face and lookwere unforgettable. It seemed to Max that some appeal had been flung tohim. He could hardly keep himself from striding after the tall figure, to ask: "What is it you want me to do?" And Sanda also had beenimpressed. He heard her murmur under her breath, "Poor man! Whatwonderful eyes!"

Nobody moved from the platform until the corporal had called the roll ofnames--German, French, Spanish, Italian, Russian, Arab--and had marchedhis batch of recruits briskly through the guarded gate. Max would havehurried Sanda out directly behind them, before the crowd could secureall the queer, old-fashioned cabs which were waiting, but at that momentthe smart group of officers moved forward. Having shown their guest oneof the sights of Sidi-bel-Abbés, they evidently expected to takeprecedence of the townspeople, who gave no sign of disputing theirright. Max, following the example of others and resisting an impulse tosalute, stood back with his companion to let the uniforms pass. Sanda, pink with excitement, was as usual all unconscious of self, and vividlyinterested both in recruits and officers. The latter, especially theyoung ones, were equally interested in the pretty, well-dressed girl, astranger in Sidi-bel-Abbés and the one woman on the platform. 

Max saw the polite but admiring glances, and would have liked to drawher further away. He bent down to whisper a suggestion, but Sanda didnot hear. Her face, her whole personality, had undergone one of thoseswift changes characteristic of her. 

With a fluttering cry, she started forward, then stepped nervously back, and, stumbling against Max's foot, would have fallen if he had notcaught her. 

All his attention was for her, yet, with his eyes on the girl, hesuddenly became conscious that something had happened among theofficers. One man had stopped abruptly just in front of Sanda, whileothers were going through the gate, hurrying on as if tactfully desirousto get themselves out of the way. A voice murmured "Mon Dieu!" andhaving steadied Sanda, Max saw standing close to them a small, ratherdapper man with a lined brown face, a very square, smooth-shaven jaw, long gray eyes, short gray hair, and the neat slimness of a West Pointcadet. He had on his sleeve the five gold stripes signifying a colonel'srank, and was decorated with several medals. 

Instantly Max understood the situation. The one thing that ought _not_to have happened, had happened. 

CHAPTER IX

THE COLONEL OF THE LEGION

All Sanda's anxiously laid plans were swept away in the wind of emotion. She and the father she had meant to win with loving diplomacy hadstumbled upon each other crudely in a railway station. The dearresemblance upon which she had founded her best hope had struck ColonelDeLisle like a blow over the heart. 

The dapper little officer, with the figure of a boy and the face of atragic mask, stared straight at the girl, with the look of one who meetsa ghost in daylight. "My God! who are you?" he faltered, in French. Thewords seemed to speak themselves against his will. 

Sanda was deathly pale. But she caught at her courage as a soldiergrasps his flag: "I am--Corisande, your daughter, " she answered in thatsmall, sweet voice of a child with which she had begged Max to pardonher, yesterday. And she too spoke in French. "My father, forgive me ifI've done wrong to come to you like this. But I was so unhappy. I wantedso much to see you. And I've travelled such a long way!"

For an instant the man still stared at her in silence. He had the air oflistening for a voice within a voice, as one listens through the soundof running water for its tune. Max, who must now unfortunately beexplained and accounted for in spite of every difficulty, found astrange likeness between the middle-aged soldier and the young girl. Itwas in the eyes: long, gray, haunted with thoughts and dreams. If SandaDeLisle ever had to become acquainted with sorrow her eyes would be likeher father's. 

The pause was but for a second or two, though it was full of suspensefor the girl, and even for Max, who forgot himself in anxiety for her. The hardness of straining after self-control melted to sudden beauty, asMax had seen Sanda's face transfigured. Never again, it seemed tohim--no matter what Colonel DeLisle's actions might be--could he believehim to be cruel or cold. 

"Ma petite, " DeLisle said, with a quiver in his voice that echoed upfrom heartstrings swept by some spirit hand. "Can it be true? You havecome--across half the world, to me?"

"Oh, father, yes, it is true. And always I've wanted to come. " Sanda'svoice caressed him. No man could have resisted her then. "You're notangry?"

"Mon Dieu, no, I'm not angry, though my life is not the life for a girl. I only--for a moment I thought I saw----"

"I know, I guessed, " Sanda gently filled up his pause. "Since I begangrowing into a woman every one told me I was like--her. But I wouldn'tsend you a photograph. For years I've planned to surprise you--and makeyou _care_ a little, if I could. "

"Care!" he echoed, a look as of anguish passing over his face like theshadow of a cloud; then leaving it clear, though sad with the habitualsadness which had scored its many lines. "You have surprised me, indeed. But----" He stopped abruptly, and apparently for the first timenoticed the young man standing near. Stiffening slightly, ColonelDeLisle looked keenly at Max, his eyes trying to solve the new puzzle. "But--my daughter, you have come to me with----"

"Only a friend, " Sanda broke in desperately, blushing up to her brighthair. "A kind friend, Mr. Doran, an American who had to travel toSidi-bel-Abbés on business of his own, and who's been more good to methan I can describe. I want him to let me tell you all about him, andthen you will understand. "

"I thank you in advance, Monsieur, " said Colonel DeLisle, unbendingagain, and a faint--a very faint--twinkle brightening his eyes, at thethought of the error he had nearly made, and because of Doran's blush atbeing mistaken for an unwelcome son-in-law. 

"I've done nothing, Monsieur le Colonel, " stammered Max. "I had to come. I have business with a person at the Hotel Splendide. It is Mademoisellewho is kind to me in saying----"

"Could he not take me to the hotel to wait for you?" Sanda cut in. "Ishouldn't have interrupted you in such a place as this, and at such atime, my father, if I could have helped doing so, even though Irecognized your face from the old photograph that is my treasure. Butacting on impulse is my greatest fault, the aunts all say. And when Isaw you I cried out before I stopped to think. Then I drew back, but itwas too late. I have taken you from some duty. "

"I came officially with my comrades to meet General Sauvanne, who isvisiting our Algerian garrisons, " said DeLisle. He glanced again at Max, giving him one of those soldier looks which long experience has taughtto penetrate flesh and bone and brain down to a man's hidden self. "Itis true that I have no right to excuse myself for my own privateaffairs. " He hesitated, almost imperceptibly, then turned to Max. "Addto your past kindness by taking my daughter to the hotel, Monsieur, where in my name she will engage a room for herself--since, unfortunately, I have no home to offer her. I will go with you both to acab, and then return to duty. My child, I will see you again before_dejeuner_. "

Max's quick mind promptly comprehended the full meaning of ColonelDeLisle's seemingly unconventional decision. Not only was he being madefriendly use of, in a complicated situation, but Sanda's father wishedall who had seen the girl arrive with a man to know once for all thatthe man had his official approval. Soon Sanda's relationship to theColonel of the First Regiment of the Foreign Legion would be known, andthere must be no stupid gossip regarding the scene at the station. Asthey passed the other officers and their guests (who for these fewdramatic moments had discreetly awaited developments, outside theplatform gate), Colonel DeLisle lingered an instant to murmur; "It is mydaughter, who has come unexpectedly. A young friend whom I can trust tosee her to the hotel will take her there, and I am at your service whenI have put them into a cab. "

"What do you think?" cried Sanda, as the rickety vehicle rattled themtoward the nearest gate of the walled town. "Have I failed with him--orhave I succeeded?"

"Succeeded, " Max answered. "Don't you feel it?"

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

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

"Yet I saw by your look when I spoke of him before, that you werethinking him heartless. "

"I had no right to think anything. "

"I gave you the right, by confiding in you. But I didn't confide enough, to do my father justice. I knew he wasn't heartless, though he couldn'tbear the sight of me when I was a baby, and put me out of his life. Hehas always said that a soldier's life was not for a young girl to share. I knew he had a heart, _because_ of that, not in spite of it. It wasthat he loved my mother so desperately, and I'd robbed him of her. Nowyou've seen him, you must let me tell you a little----"

"Would he wish it?"

"Yes, if he knew why, and if he knew you, and what you are going throughat this time. He fell in love with my mother at first sight in Paris, and she with him. He was on leave, and she was there with her parentsfrom Ireland. He'd never meant to marry, but he was swept off his feet. Mother's people wouldn't hear of it. They took her home in a hurry, andtried to make her marry some one else. She nearly did--because they werestronger than she. She wrote father a letter of good-bye, to his post inthe southern desert, where he was stationed then. He supposed, when heread the letter, that she was already married when he got it. Butsuddenly she appeared--as unexpectedly as I appeared to-day. She'd runaway from home, because she couldn't live without him. Oh, how well Iunderstand her! Think of the joy! It was like waking from a dreadfuldream for both of them. They were going to be married at once, thoughmother was half dead with fatigue and excitement after her long, hurriedjourney; but on their wedding eve she was taken ill, and becamedelirious. It was typhoid fever. She had got it somehow on the journey. She had come without stopping to rest, from Dublin to Touggourt, wherefather was stationed. They say it's wild there even now. It was farwilder then, more than twenty-one years ago. He nursed mother himself, scarcely eating or sleeping: not taking off his clothes for weeks. Oneof 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'tout of danger. Father was her nurse, her doctor, not her husband. But atlast she was well again. They had their honeymoon in a tent in thedesert. She loved the desert, then--or thought she did. Afterward, though, she changed, for I was coming, and she was ill again. By thattime they were stationed still farther south. She grew so homesick forthe north that my father got leave. They started to travel by easystages through the desert, with a small caravan. Their hope was to reachAlgiers, and to get to France long before the baby should come; but theheat grew suddenly terrible, and one day they were caught in a fearfulsandstorm. My mother was terrified. I was born two months before thetime. That same night she died, while the storm was still raging; andbefore she went, she begged my father to promise, whatever happened, notto leave her body buried in the desert. He did promise. And then beganhis martyrdom. The caravan could not march fast because of me. A negrowoman who'd come as mother's maid took care of me as well as she could, and fed me on condensed milk. Strange I should have lived.... My fatherhad his men make for my mother's body a case of many tins, which theyspread open and soldered together, with lead from bullets they melted. In the next oasis they cut down a palm tree and hollowed out the trunkfor a coffin. They sealed up the tin case in it, and the coffintravelled on the camel mother had ridden when she was alive, in one ofthose beautiful hooded bassourahs you must have seen in pictures. Atnight the coffin rested in my father's tent, and he lay beside it as hehad lain beside my mother when she lived, and they were happy. Becauseshe'd been a Catholic, and because she'd always hated the dark, fatherburned candles on the coffin always till dawn; and the men who loved himlooked for wild flowers in the desert to lay upon it. He had forty days, and forty nights, marching through the desert with the dead body of hislove, before they came to the railway. Then he took mother to France, and left me with his two aunts there. Now do you wonder he never lovedme, or wanted to have me with him?"

"No, perhaps not, " said Max. Deep sadness had fallen upon him. He was inthe desert with the man beside whose agony his own trial was as nothing. All the world seemed to be full of sorrow and pain sharper than his ownpersonal pain. And as the girl asked her question and he answered it, their cab passed the procession of recruits for the Foreign Legion, tramping along between tall plane trees toward the town gate. 

Once again a pair of tortured black eyes looked at Max, who winced asthe thick yellow dust from the wheels enveloped the 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 past a few gardens and villas, agreen plateau and a moat, and passed through a great gateway. Overhead, carved in the stone, were the words "Porte d'Oran, " and the date, 1855. Once, when the town was young, the gates had been kept tightly closed, and through the loopholes in the stout, stone wall (the old part yellow, the newer part gray) guns had been fired at besieging Arabs, the tribeof the Beni Amer, who had worshipped at the shrine of the dead Saint, Sidi-bel-Abbés. But all that was past long ago. No hope of fighting forthe Legionnaires, save over the frontier in Morocco, or far away in theSouth! The shrine of Sidi-bel-Abbés stood neglected in the Arabgraveyard. Even the meaning of the name, once sacred to his followers, was well-nigh forgotten; and all that was Arab in Sidi-bel-Abbés hadbeen relegated to the _Village Négre_, strictly forbidden as BlueBeard's Room of Secrets, to the Soldiers of the Legion. 

Inside the wall everything was modern and French, except for a fewtrudging or labouring Arabs in white, or in gray burnouses of camel'shair made in Morocco. As the daughter of the Legion's colonel drovehumbly in her shabby cab to the Hotel Splendide, she felt vaguelydepressed and disappointed in the town which she expected to be herhome. She had fancied that it would be very eastern, with mosques andbazaars, and perhaps surrounded with desert; but there was no desertwithin many miles; and there was only one minaret rising in thedistance, like a long white finger to mark the beginning of the _VillageNégre_. Instead of bazaars, there were new French shops and a sinisterpredominance of drinking places of all sorts: a few "smart" cafés, withmarble-topped tables on the pavement, but mostly dull dens, appealing tothe poorest and most desperate. The town was like a Maltese cross inshape, the arms of the cross being wide streets, each leading to a gatein the fortifications; Porte d'Oran, Porte de Tlemcen, Porte deMascarra, and Porte de Daya; and the one great charm of the place seemedto be in its trees; giant planes which made arbours across the streets, giving a look of dreaming peace, despite the rattle of wheels on roughlyset paving-stones. 

There were middle-aged buildings, low and small and dun-coloured, exactly like those of every other French-Algerian settlement, but bignew blocks of glittering white gave an air of almost ostentatiousprosperity to the place. There was even an attempt at gayety in theornamentation, yet there appeared to be nothing attractive to tourists, save the Foreign Legion, which gave mystery and romance to all thatwould otherwise have been banal. Noise was everywhere, loud, shrill, insistent; rumbling, shrieking, rattling, roaring. Huge wagons, loadedwith purple-stained cases of Algerian wine, bumping over the stones;strings of bells wound round the great horns of horses' collars jinglinglike sleigh-bells in winter; whips in the hands of fierce-eyed carterscracking round the heads of large, sad mules; hooters of automobilesand immense motor diligences blaring; men shouting at animals; animalsbarking or braying, snorting or clucking at men; unseen soldiersmarching to music; a town clock sweetly chiming the hour, and, aboveall, rising like spray from the ocean of din, high voices of Arabschaffering, disputing, arguing. This was the "Arabian Night's Paradise"that Sanda had dreamed of!

Presently the cab passed a great town clock with four faces (one foreach of the four diverging streets) and drew up before a flat-facedbuilding with the name "Hotel Splendide" stretching across its dim, yellow front. Inside a big, open doorway, stairs went steeply up, pastpiles of commercial travellers' show trunks, and an Arab bootblack whoclamoured for custom. At the top Max Doran and his charge came into ahall, whence a bare-looking restaurant and several other rooms openedout. On a gigantic hatrack like a withered tree hung coats and hats indark bunches, brightened with a few military coats and gold-braidedcaps. As Max and Sanda appeared, an officer--youngish, dark, sharp-featured, with a small waxed moustache and near-sighted blackeyes--turned hastily away from a window, and with a stride added his capand cloak to the hatrack's burden. He had an almost childishly guiltyair of not wishing to be caught at something. And what that somethingwas, Max Doran guessed with a queer constriction of the throat as helooked through the window. This opened into a dim room, which waslabelled "Bureau, " and framed the head and bust of a young woman. 

Such light as there was in the hall fell full upon her short, whiteface, into her slanting yellow eyes and on to the elaborately dressedred hair. She had been smiling at the officer, but on the interruptionof the strangers' entrance she frowned with annoyance. It was the frank, animal annoyance of a beautiful young lynx, teased by having a piece ofmeat snatched away. The eyes were clear in colour as a dark topaz, andfull of topaz light. This was remarkable; but their real strangeness layin expression. They seemed not unintelligent, but devoid of all humanexperience. They gazed at the newcomers from the little window of thebureau, as an animal gazes from the bars of its cage, looking at theeyes which regard it, not into them; near yet remote; a creature ofanother species. 

The girl appeared to be well-shaped enough, though her strong whitethroat was short, and the hands which lay on the wide window ledge wereas small as a child's. Yet like a shadow thrown on the wall behind herwas a lurking impression of deformity of body and mind, a spirit castout of her, to point at something veiled. If there could have lingeredin the mind of Max a grain of doubt concerning Rose Doran's confession, it was burnt up in a moment; for the girl was an Aubrey Beardsleycaricature of Rose. No need to ask if this were Mademoiselle Delatour. He knew. And this lieutenant in the uniform of the Spahis was the"namesake" of whom the men had talked in the train. 

CHAPTER X

THE VOICE OF THE LEGION

It was all far worse even than Max had expected; and the next few dayswere a nightmare. The resemblance between the girl and her mother--oncehis mother, whom he had as a boy adored--made the effect more gruesome. 

Josephine Delatour was coarse minded and sly, inordinately vain, caringfor nothing in life except the admiration of such men as she had met andmistaken for gentlemen. Her way of receiving the news of her change offortune disgusted Max, sickened him so utterly that he could not bear tothink of her reigning in Jack Doran's house. She was torn betweenpleasure in the prospect of being rich, and suspicious that there was aplot to kidnap her, like the heroine of a sensational novel. She did notwant to go to America. She wanted to stay in Sidi-bel-Abbés and triumphover all the women who had snubbed her. She boasted of her admirers, andhinted that even without money she could marry any one of a dozen youngofficers. But the one for whom she seemed really to care--if it were inher to care for any one except herself--was the namesake of whom Max hadheard laughing hints. 

At the time it had not occurred to him that the name of the alleged"cousin" must be Delatour; but so it was though the dark young man withthe waxed moustache spelled his name differently, in the morearistocratic way, with three syllables. When Josephine boasted that, though he was from a great family, with a castle on the River Loire, hecalled himself her cousin, Max realized that the Lieutenant of Spahismust be a son or nephew of the de la Tour from whom Rose and Jack hadtaken the château. So far, however, was Max Doran from being elated bythis tie of blood, that he mentally dubbed his relative a cad. It wasall he could do to persuade Josephine not to tell Raoul de la Tour thatshe had come into money, and a name as aristocratic as his own--in fact, that she was qualifying as a heroine of romance. Only by appealing tothe crude sense of drama the girl had in her could she be prevented fromstupidly throwing out bait to fortune-hunters. But having wired again toEdwin Reeves, and hearing that Mrs. Reeves, already in Paris, hadstarted for Algiers, a plan occurred to Max. He advised Josephine, ifshe thought that de la Tour cared for her, to tell him that she wasgiving up work in the Hotel Splendide; also that she was leavingSidi-bel-Abbés forever; and then see what he would say. What he did saywas such a blow to the girl's vanity that, when she was sure he had nointention of marrying a poor secretary, she flung the dazzling truth athis face. Repentant, he tried to turn his late insults into honestlovemaking; but the temper of the lynx was roused. Never having deeplyloved the man, she took pleasure in using her claws on him. In tauntinghim with what he might have had, however, she let the identity of thenewsbringer leak out. 

De la Tour then warned her passionately against _le jeune aventurierAmericain_, and almost frightened the girl into disbelieving the wholestory. But proofs were forthcoming, and with the landlord's wife, whoenjoyed sharing a borrowed halo, Josephine Delatour--or JosephineDoran--went to Algiers to await Mrs. Reeves's arrival. Meanwhile, withthe money she procured from Max, the girl planned to buy herself atrousseau, and eventually departed, rejoicing in her lover'sdiscomfiture. Whether or no this attitude were safe with such a manremained to be seen. As for Max--the messenger who had brought thetidings--since he showed no desire to flirt with her, Josephine saw noreason to be interested in him. Besides, she could hardly believe thathe was not somehow to blame for having kept what ought to have been hersfor his own all these years. She had not loved her supposed father andmother, who had interfered with her pleasure, disapproving of what theycalled her extravagance and frivolity.... There was no grief to the girlin learning that the Delatours were not her parents. 

Nor did it seem to Josephine that gratitude was due Max for resigning inher favour. She was greedily ready to grab everything, without thanks, just as her lynx-prototype would snatch a piece of meat, if it could getit, from another lynx. She grudged the years of luxury and pleasurewhich she ought to have had; and could she have realized that she hadmade of Lieutenant de la Tour an enemy for Max Doran, she would havebeen glad. It was right that two men should quarrel over a woman. 

While he was arranging Josephine's affairs, Max saw nothing of Sandaand Colonel DeLisle. He had thought it best to take up his quarters atanother hotel, and his only communication with them was by letter. Hewrote Sanda that when his business was finished he would make up hismind what to do; but in any case he hoped that he might be allowed tobid her and Colonel DeLisle farewell. In answer, came an invitation fromthe Colonel to see the Salle d'Honneur of the Legion, the famous gallerywhere records of its heroes were kept. "That is, " (Sanda said, writingfor her father) "if you are interested in the Legion. "

"If he were interested in the Legion!" Already he was obsessed bythoughts of it. Sidi-bel-Abbés, which at first had struck him as being adull provincial town, now seemed the only place where he could havelived through his dark hours. Elsewhere he would have felt surrounded bya gay and happy world in which a man with his back to the wall had noplace. Here at Sidi-bel-Abbés was the home of men with their backs tothe wall. The very town itself had been created by such men, and forthem. For generations desperate men, sad men, starving men, of allcountries--men who had lost everything but life and strength--had beenturning their faces toward Sidi-bel-Abbés, their sole luggage the secretsorrow which, once the _Legion_ had taken them, was no one's businessbut their own. 

Max Doran could not go into the street without meeting at least a dozenmen in the Legion's uniform, who seemed akin to him because of the lookin their eyes; the look of those cut off from what had once meant lifeand love. What they were enduring was unknown to him, but he was somehowat home among them. And the day Josephine went away, before he had yetmade up his mind to the next step, for the first time he heard the musicof the Legion's band. 

It was in the afternoon, and he had strolled outside the Porte deTlemcen into the public gardens for the music, only because he had anhour to pass before his appointment in the Salle d'Honneur. In winterthe band played in the Place Carnot, but on this soft day of earlyspring the concert was announced for the gardens beloved by the peopleof Sidi-bel-Abbés. They were beautiful, but to Max it seemed the beautyof sadness; and even there, outside the wall which dead Legionnaires hadbuilt, everything spoke of the Legion. Men of the Legion had plantedmany of the tall trees of the cloistral avenue, whose columnar trunkswere darkly draped with ivy. Men of the Legion swept dead leaves fromthe paths, as they swept away old memories. Men of the Legion walked inthe gray shadow of the planes, as they walked in the shadows of life. Men of the Legion rested on the rough wooden benches, staring absentlyat mourning plumes of cypresses, or white waterfalls that fleeted bylike lost opportunities. Yes, despite the flowers in the myrtle bordersit was a place of sadness, and of a mournful silence until the musiciansbrought their instruments into the curious bandstand formed of growingtrees. Then it seemed to Max that he heard the Legion speak in a greatand wonderful voice. 

As by studying a hive one feels the mysterious governing spirit, so hefelt the spirit of the Legion in its music, its restlessness, itslongings, its passions, and its ambitions, uttered and cried to heavenin prayers and curses. As individuals the men were dumb, guarding theirsecrets, striving to forget; and it was as if this smothered fire, seeking outlet, had sprung from heart to heart, kindling and massing alltogether in a vast, white-hot furnace. The music opened the doors ofthis furnace, and the flames roared upward to the sky. In the dazzlinglight of that strange fire, secrets could be read, if the eyes that sawwere not blinded. Bitterness and joy were there to see, and the blendingof all passions through which men ruin their lives, and need to remaketheir souls. Yes, that was the Legion's call. Men came to it, in thehope of remaking their souls. With his own drowned in the music of painand regeneration, Max went to the Salle d'Honneur to meet ColonelDeLisle. 

He knew where to find it, next to the barracks; a small, low building ofthe same dull yellow, set back in a little garden with a few palms andflowerbeds. Inside the gate was a red, blue, and white sentry box. ButMax entered unchallenged, because at the door of the house stood thecolonel, who came down a step to meet him. "Monsieur Doran!" heexclaimed cordially, holding out his hand. 

"Will you still offer me your hand, sir, " Max asked wistfully, though hesmiled, "even if I've no name any more, and no country that I can claim?Mademoiselle DeLisle has told you?"

"She has told me, " echoed the elder man, shaking the younger's hand withextra warmth. "I congratulate you on the chance of making a name foryourself. I think from what I hear, and can judge, that you will do so, in whatever path you choose. Have you chosen yet?"

"Not yet, " Max confessed. "Neither a name nor the way to make it. Northe country most likely to make it in. "

"As for that"--and Colonel DeLisle smiled--"we of the Legion are moreused to men without names and without countries than to those who havethem. Not that your case is allied to theirs. Shall we go in? I want tothank you, as I've not been able to do yet, for your chivalrousbehaviour to my daughter. She has told me all about that, too--_all_. And I had a feeling that this room, in which our Legion commemorateshonourable deeds, would be a place where you and I might talk. "

As he spoke he led Max into a short corridor, at the end of which hung alarge frame containing portraits and many names of men and battles withthe crest of _la Legion Etrangére_ at the top. Pushing open a door atthe right, DeLisle made way for his guest. "Here are all the relics thatare to us men of the First Regiment most sacred, " he said. And as hepassed in, he saluted a flag preciously guarded in a long glass case:the flag of the regiment decorated with the Cross of the Legion ofHonour on an historic occasion of great bravery. An answering thrillshot through Max's veins, for in them ran soldier blood. Involuntarilyhe, too, saluted the flag and its cross. Colonel DeLisle gave him aquick look, but made no comment. 

Two out of the four walls were covered with portraits of men in uniformsancient and modern; paintings, engravings, photographs; and thedecorations were strange weapons, and torn, faded banners which hadhelped the Legion to make history. There were drums and weird idols, too, and monstrous masks and great fans from Tonkin and Madagascar, andrelics of fighting in Mexico. On the long table lay albums ofphotographs, and upon either side were ranged chairs as if for officersto sit in council. 

"Whenever we wish to do a guest honour, we bring him here, " said thecolonel. "We are not rich, and have nothing better to offer; except, perhaps, our music. "

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

"Such music wakes the hearts of men, and helps inspire them to heroicacts like these. " Colonel DeLisle waved his hand toward some of thepictures which showed soldiers fighting the Legion's most historicbattles. "I am rather proud of our music and our men. This room, too, and the things in it--most of all the flag. My daughter has spent hoursin the Salle d'Honneur looking over our records. Presently she will joinus. But I wanted to thank you before she came. Corisande is a child, knowing little of the world and its ways. Some men in your place wouldhave misunderstood her--in the unusual circumstances. But you did not. You proved yourself a friend in need for my little girl, on her strangejourney to me. I wish in return there might be some way in which I couldshow myself a friend to you. Can you think of any such way?"

The voice was earnest and very kind. A great reaction from his firstprejudice against the speaker swept over Max. Beneath this one voicewhich questioned him and waited for an answer, he heard as a deep, thrilling undertone the voice of the Legion which had called to himthrough the music to come and share its bath of fire. A sudden purposeawoke in Max Doran, and he knew then that it had been in the backgroundof his mind for days, waiting for some word to wake it. Now the word hadcome. All his blood seemed to rush from heart to head, and he grewgiddy: yet he spoke steadily enough. 

"I have thought of a way, Colonel DeLisle!"

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

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

"Mon Dieu!" The Legion's colonel was taken completely by surprise. Maxhad thought he might perhaps have expected the request, but evidently itwas not so. The dapper little figure straightened itself. And from hisplace beside his adored flag, Colonel DeLisle gazed across to the otherside where, close also to the flag, stood the young man he had wished toserve. Max met his eyes, flushed and eager and, it seemed, patheticallyyoung. There was dead silence for an instant. Then DeLisle spoke in achanged tone: "Do you mean this? Have you thought of what you aresaying?"

"I do mean it, " Max replied. "I believe I have thought of it ever sinceI saw those men of all countries getting out of the train to join theLegion. I felt the call they had felt. But it is stronger to-day. I knownow what I want. In the Salle D'Honneur of the Legion I decide on mycareer. "

"Decide!" the other repeated. "No, not that, yet! You have got this ideainto your head because you are romantic. You think you are ruined andthat the future doesn't matter. You will find it does. This is no placefor poetry and romance--my God, no! It's a fiery furnace. In barracks weshould burn the romance out of you in twenty-four hours. "

"If I've got more in me than any man who loves adventure ought to have, then I want it burned out, " said Max. 

"Adventures will cost you less elsewhere, " almost sneered DeLisle. 

"I don't ask to get them cheap, " Max still insisted. "Though I've gotnothing to pay with, except myself, my blood, and flesh, and muscles. "

"That's good coin, " exclaimed the elder, warming again. "Yet we can'ttake it. You may think you know what you mean. But you don't know whatthe Legion means. I do. I've had nearly twenty years of it. "

"You love it?"

"Yes, it is my life. But--I have to remind you, I entered it as anofficer. There is all the difference. "

"At least I should be a soldier. I know what 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 aman. "

"No, sir, I'm not, " Max contradicted him abruptly. "I used to hope Imight pass muster as men go. But these last days I've been findingmyself out. I've been down in hell, and I shouldn't have got there if Iwere a man. I'm a self-indulgent, pining, and whining boy, thinking ofnothing but myself, and not knowing whether I've done right or wrong. Ifthe Legion can't teach me what's white and what's black, nothing can. "

The colonel of the Legion laughed a queer, short laugh. "That is true, "he said. "I take back those words of mine about poetry and romance. You've got the right point of view, after all. And you are the kind ofman the Legion wants, the born soldier, lover of adventure foradventure's sake. You would come to us not because you have anything tohide, or because you prefer barracks in France to prison at home, orbecause some woman has thrown you over, " (just there his keen eyes sawthe young man wince, and he hurried on without a pause) "but becausewe've made some history, we of the Legion, and you would like a chanceto make some for yourself, under this"--and he pointed to the flag whosefolds hung between them--"_Valeur et Discipline!_ That's the Legion'smotto, for the Legion itself must be _Dieu et Patrie_ for most of itssons. I've done my duty as a friend in warning you to go where life iseasier. As colonel of the First 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 the Legion. "

DeLisle looked surprised. "What reason have you for supposing that?"

"Interpreting a thing she said, or, rather, a thing she wanted to say, but was afraid to say for fear I might blame her some day in thefuture. "

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

"She knew a little of me and my circumstances. I'd been a soldier, andthere seemed only one convenient way for a man without a name or countryto start and become a soldier again. Miss DeLisle saw that. "

"You're talking of me?" inquired Sanda's voice at the half-open door. Both men sprang to open it for her. As she came into the Salled'Honneur, she seemed to bring with her into this room, sacred to deadheroes of all lands, the sweetness of spring flowers to lay on distantgraves. And as she stepped over the threshold, like a young soldier shesaluted the flag. 

"I have just said to Colonel DeLisle that you would approve of myjoining the Legion, " Max explained. "Have I told him the truth?"

The girl looked anxiously from one man to the other. She was rather paleand subdued, as if life pressed hardly even upon her. "You guessed whatI wouldn't let 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 Salle d'Honneur is for commonsoldiers only when they're dead, I presume. "

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

"Yes, " replied Colonel DeLisle. "Every soldier of the Legion has hischance. And our friend is French, I think, from what you've told me ofhis confidences to you. That gives an extra chance to rise. France--rightly or wrongly, but like all mothers--favours her own sons. Besides, he has been a soldier, which puts him at once ahead of theothers. "

"I shouldn't trade on that! I'd rather begin on a level with other men, not ahead of them, " Max said hastily. "My object would be not to teach, but to learn--to cure myself of my faults----"

The colonel drew a deep breath, like a sigh. "We do cure men sometimes, men far more desperate, men with souls far more sick than yours. There'sthat to be said for us. "

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

"Perhaps he thinks it is. " Colonel DeLisle looked at Max as he hadlooked after those chance words of his about a woman. 

"_Do_ you think that, Mr. Doran?" the girl questioned incredulously. "Ishall be disappointed if you do. "

"Don't be disappointed. I do not think my soul is sick. I want to seehow strong it can be, and my body, too. But you mustn't call me 'Mr. Doran' now, please. It isn't my name any more. Colonel DeLisle, may Iask your daughter to choose a name for a new soldier of the Legion? Itwill be the last favour, for I understand perfectly that after I'vejoined the regiment, as a private soldier, you can be my friends only atheart. Socially, all intercourse must end. "

"Oh, no, it wouldn't be so, " Sanda cried out impulsively, though the oldofficer was silent. "It wouldn't, if I were not going away. "

"You are going away?" Max was conscious of a faint chill. He would havefound some comfort in the thought that his brave little travellingcompanion was near, even though he seldom saw and never spoke to her. 

"Not home to the aunts! I told you I'd never go back to live with them, and my father wouldn't send me. But there's to be a long march---- Oh, have I said what I oughtn't? Why? Since he _must_ know if he joins?Anyhow, I can't stay here many days longer--I mean, for the present. I'mto be sent to a wonderful place. It will be a great romance. "

"Sanda, it is irrelevant to talk of that now, " Colonel DeLisle remindedhis daughter. 

"Forgive me! I forgot, father. May I--name the new soldier, and wish himjoy?"

DeLisle laughed rather bitterly. "'Joy' isn't precisely the word. If hehoped for it, he would soon be disillusioned. You may give him a name, if he wishes it. But let me also give him a few words of advice. Monsieur Doran----"

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

"Soldier Saint George, then, " DeLisle began again, smiling, "this is myadvice as your friend and well-wisher: again, I say, why should you nottake advantages you have fairly earned? My men are wonderful soldiers. Isuppose in the world there can be none braver, few so brave; for theynearly all come to heal or hide some secret wound that makes themdesperate or careless of life. They are glorious soldiers, theseforeigners of ours! But at the beginning you will see them at theirworst in the dulness of barrack life. There are all sorts andconditions, from the lowest to the highest. You may happen to be amongsome of the lowest. Why not start where you are entitled to start? When, in being recruited, you are asked to state your profession, you're atliberty to say what you choose. No statement as to name, age, country, or occupation is disputed in the Legion. But once more, let me adviseyou, if you write yourself down "Soldier, " things can be madecomparatively easy for you. "

"I thank you, sir, and I will take your advice in everything else. But Idon't want things made easy. "

"You may regret your obstinacy. "

"Oh, father, " pleaded Sanda, "wouldn't you be the very one to do thesame thing?"

"In his place, " said Colonel DeLisle, shrugging his shoulders, "Isuppose I should do what he does. What _I_ might do, isn't the question, however. But I've said enough.... Now I have to get back to barracks. 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'd rather say 'Au revoir' than 'Good-bye'; we shall meetagain--away in the desert, perhaps. "

She caught her father's warning eye and stopped. "Good-bye, then--Soldier of the Legion. "

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

Max looked from the girl to the flag in its glass case. 

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

CHAPTER XI

FOUR EYES

Beyond the barracks of the Legion, going toward the Porte de Tlemcen, and opposite the drill-ground and cavalry barracks of the Spahis, thereis a sign: _Bureau de Recrutement_. 

Early in the morning after taking his resolution, Max walked down thenarrow, lane-like way which led off from the Rue de Tlemcen and the longfront wall of the Legion's barracks, and found the door indicated by thesign. 

In a bare office room, furnished with a table and a few benches, sat acorporal, busily writing. He looked up, surprised to see such a visitoras Max, and was at some trouble to hide his amazement on hearing thatthis well-dressed young man, evidently a gentleman, wished to enlist inthe Legion. Opening off the outer room, with its white-washed walls anddisplay of posters tempting to recruits, was another office, the _Bureaudu Commandant de Recrutement_, and there Max was received by alieutenant, older than most of the men of that rank in the English orAmerican armies. Something in his manner made Max wonder if the officerhad been told of him and his intention by Colonel DeLisle. At first heput only the perfunctory questions which a man entering the wide-opengate of the Legion may answer as he chooses. But when in its turn camean inquiry as to the recruit's profession, the officer looked at Maxsharply yet with sympathy. 

"No profession, " was the answer; a true one, for Max's resignation hadalready taken effect. 

"At present, but--in the past?" the lieutenant encouraged him kindly. "If you have military experience, you can rise quickly in the Legion. "

For good or ill, Max stuck to yesterday's resolve, knowing that he mightbe weak enough to regret it, and anxious therefore to make itirrevocable. "I have done some military service, " he explained, "enoughto help me learn my duties as a soldier quickly. "

"Ah, well, no more on that subject, then!" and the lieutenant sighedaudibly. "Yet it is a pity, especially as you are of French birth andparentage, though brought up in America. Your chance of promotionwould--but let us hope that by good luck something may happen to giveyou the chance in any case. Who knows but both your countries may beproud of you some day? Is there--nothing you would care to tell me aboutyourself that might enable me to advise you later?"

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

"_Bien!_ It remains then only for you to be examined by the _medecinmajor_. You have nothing to fear from his report. _Au contraire!_"

In an adjoining room two men were already waiting the arrival of thedoctor, who was due in a few minutes. One, evidently a Frenchman, with adark, dissipated face, volunteered the information that he was achauffeur, whose master had discharged him without notice on account ofan "unavoidable accident" at a small town within walking distance ofSidi-bel Abbés. The other, a blond boy who looked not a day oversixteen, announced that he was an Alsatian who had come to Algeria as awaiter in a restaurant car, on purpose to join the Legion, and escapemilitary service as a German. "I shall serve my five years, and become aFrench subject, " he said joyously. "Take hold of my arm. Not bad, is it, for biceps? For what age would you take me?"

"Seventeen, " replied Max, adding a year to his real guess. 

But it was not enough. The girlish face blushed up to the lint-colouredhair, cut _en brosse_. "I call myself eighteen, " said the child. "Don'tyou think the doctor will believe me when he feels my muscle?"

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

"No trouble about _my_ age!" exulted the chauffeur. "I am twenty-seven. "

He looked ten years older. But a recruit for the Legion may take the ageas well as the name he likes best, provided the _medecin major_ be nottoo critical. 

Both his companions were keenly curious concerning Max, and consideredthemselves aggrieved that, after their frankness, he should choose to bereserved. They put this down to pride. But the Legion would take it outof him! All men were equal there. They had heard that among otherthings. 

Before the stream of questions had run dry through lack ofencouragement, the door was thrown open, and in walked the doctor, abig, jovial man, accompanied by the middle-aged lieutenant who had showninterest in Max, and a weary-faced clerk plunged in gloom by a bad coldin the head. As they entered, the two officers looked at Max, andglanced quickly at each other. They had evidently been speaking of him. But his examination was left till the last. The chauffeur of"twenty-seven" and the waiter of "eighteen" were passed as physicallyfit--_bon pour le service_: and then came the turn of the third recruit, whose pale blue silk underclothing brought a slight twinkle to the eyeof the jolly _medecin major_. Max wished that it had occurred to him tobuy something cheaper and less noticeable. But it was too late to thinkof that now. At all events, he was grateful for the tact andconsideration which had given him the last turn. 

"Magnifique!" exclaimed the doctor, when he had pinched and pounded Max, sounded heart and lungs, and squeezed his biceps. "Here we have anathlete. " And he exchanged another glance with the lieutenant. 

The clerk scribbled industriously and sadly in his book, as Max dressedhimself again; and the ordeal was over. When the third recruit of theday had been given a paper, first to read, and then to sign with his newname, his contract for five years to serve the Republic of France wasmade and completed. Maxime St. George was a soldier of the Legion. 

He, with the ex-chauffeur and the ex-waiter, was marched by a corporalthrough a small side gate into the barrack square; and the guard, sitting on a bench by the guardhouse, honoured the newcomers with astare. The chauffeur and the waiter got no more than a passing glance, but all eyes, especially those of the sergeant of the guard, focussed onMax. Apparently it was not every day that the little gate beside thegreat gate opened for a gentleman recruit. Max realized again that hewas conspicuous, and resigned himself to the inevitable. This was thelast time he need suffer. In a few minutes the uniform of the Legionwould make him a unit among other units, and there would be nothing tosingle him out from the rest. He would no longer have even a name thatmattered. In losing his individuality he would become a number. But fora moment he felt like a new arrival in a Zoo: an animal of some rarespecies which drew the interest of spectators away from luckier beastsof commoner sorts. 

The trio of recruits stood together in an unhappy group, awaiting ordersfrom the regimental offices; and the news of their advent must have runahead of them with magic speed, swiftly as news travels in the desert, for everywhere along the front of the yellow buildings surrounding thesquare, windows flew open, heads of soldiers peered out, and voicesshouted eagerly: "_Voilà les bleus!_" There were only three newcomers, and the arrival of recruits in the barrack square was an everydayspectacle; but something to gaze at was better than nothing at all. Menin fatigue uniform of spotless white, their waists wound round with wideblue sashes, came running up to see the sight, before _les bleus_ shouldbe marched away and lose their value as objects of interest by donningsoldier clothes. Max recalled the day of his début at West Point, ahumble, modest "Pleb. " This huge, gravelled courtyard, surrounded onthree sides by tall, many-windowed barracks, and shut away from the Ruede Tlemcen by high iron railings, had no resemblance to the cadets'barracks of gray stone; but the emotions of the "Pleb" and of therecruit to the Legion were curiously alike. The same thought presenteditself to the soldier that had wisely counselled the new cadet. "I musttake it all as it comes, and keep my temper unless some one insults me. Then--well, I'll have to make myself respected now or never. "

"_Les bleus! Voilà les bleus!_" was the cry from every quarter: anddiscipline not being the order of the moment for Legionnaires off duty, young soldiers and old soldiers gathered round, making such remarks asoccurred to them, witty or ribald. _Les bleus_ were fair game. 

As a schoolboy, Max had read in some book that, in the time of NapoleonFirst, French recruits had been nicknamed "les bleus" because of theasphyxiating high collars which had empurpled their faces with asuffusion of blood. Little had he dreamed in committing that fact tomemory that one day the name would be applied to him! Thinking thus, hesmiled between amusement and bitterness; but the smile died as a voicewhispered in his ear: "For God's sake don't sell your clothes to theJews. Keep them for me. I'll get hold of them somehow. "

The voice spoke in French. Max turned quickly, and could not resist aslight start at seeing close to his, the face which had seized hisattention days ago in the railway station. 

The man who had then been dressed in dusty black was now a soldier ofthe Legion, in white fatigue uniform, like all the rest: but the darkface and night-black eyes had the same arresting, tragic appeal. Afterthis whisper, the Legionnaire drew back, his look asking for an answerby nod or shake of the head. Max caught the idea instantly. "By jove!the fellow has made up his mind to desert already!" he thought. "Why? Hehasn't the air of a slacker. "

There was no language he could choose in this group made up from a dozencountries, which might not be understood by one or all. The only thingwas to trust to the other's quickness of comprehension, as the speakerhad trusted to his. He held out his hand, exclaiming: "_C'est vous, monami! Quel chance!_"

The ruse was understood. His handclasp was returned with meaning. Everyone supposed that _le bleu_ of four days ago and _le bleu_ of to-daywere old acquaintances who had found each other unexpectedly. 

There was no chance for private speech. A quick fire of interrogationvolleyed at the three recruits, especially at Max. "Are you French? Areyou German? Are you from Switzerland--Alsace--Belgium--Italy--England?"Questions spattered round the newcomers like a rain of bullets, in asmany languages as the countries named, and Max amused himself byanswering in the same, whenever he was able. 

"How many tongues have you stowed in that fly-trap of yours, my child?"inquired a thin, elderly Legionnaire with a long nose and clever, twinkling eyes. No nation but Holland could have produced that face, andit was unnecessary that the speaker should introduce himself as aDutchman. "Fourteen years have I served France in the Legion. I havebeen to Madagascar and Tonkin. Everywhere I have found myself thechampion of languages, which is only natural, for I was translator inthe State Department at home--a long while ago. But if you can speakeleven you will get the championship over me. I have only as manytongues as I have fingers. "

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

"Encore un champion!" gayly announced the round-faced youth who hadjocosely asked Max if he were a Belgian. "Voilà notre joli heros, Pelle. "

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

Sauntering toward _les bleus_, with the manner of a big dog who deignsto visit a little one, came a man of average height but immense girth. His great beardless face was so hideous, so startling, that Max gaped athim rudely, lost in horror. Nose and lips had been partly cut away. Theteeth and gums showed in a ghastly, perpetual grin. But as if this werenot enough to single him out among a thousand, a pair of black, red-rimmed eyes had been tattooed on the large forehead, just above abushy, auburn line overhanging the eyes which nature had pushed deeplyin between protruding cheek and frontal bones. 

"Good heavens!" Max blurted out aloud; and the Dutchman cackled withlaughter. "You're no Frenchman, boy!" he loudly asserted in English. "Now we've got at your own jargon. Go away, Mister Pelle, you'refrightening our British baby. Or is it Yankee?"

An angry answer jumped to the tip of Max's tongue, but he bit it back. So this living corpse was Pelle, the champion boxer of the Legion, whowould fight the Frenchman!

The new recruit was ashamed of the sick spasm of disgust that closed histhroat. He felt that it was a sign of raw youth and amateurishness, aswhen a medical student faints at first sight of the dissecting table. Hefeared that his face had betrayed him to these soldiers, many of whomhad hardened their nerves on battlefields. Somehow he must justifyhimself, and force respect from the men who greeted Van Loo's cheap witwith an appreciative roar. 

Pelle was the only one who did not laugh. He came lumbering along insilence as if he had not heard; but Max saw that the boxer was aimingstraight for him. The newly christened St. George stood still, waitingto see what the dragon would do. Within three feet of the recruit thehero of the Legion came to a stop and looked the slim figure in civilianclothes slowly over from head to foot, as Goliath may sarcastically havestudied the points of David. The whole group was hypnotized, enchanted, each man in white praying that it might be five minutes yet before thecorporal returned to shepherd his three lambs. Much can happen in fiveminutes. Battles can be won or lost! and at anything Pelle might do, under provocation, the powers that were would wink. Not an officer belowthe colonel but had money on the match which was to come off in thebarrack square to-morrow. 

All four eyes of Quatro Oyos seemed to stare at the insignificant shrimpof a recruit. Max had but two eyes with which to return the compliment, but he made the most of them. Pelle was not only hideous: he wasformidable. The big square head and ravaged face were set on a strongthroat. Chest and shoulders were immense, the arms too long, theslightly bowed legs too short. Up went a sledgehammer hand, coated withred hair, to scratch the heavy jowl contemplatively, and Max thought ofa gorilla. 

"So you don't think I'm pretty, eh?" the boxer challenged him, and Maxstarted with surprise at sound of the Cockney accent, which came with ahissing sound from the defaced mouth. Pelle was an Englishman!

The start was misunderstood, not only by the champion of the Legion, butby the surrounding Legionnaires, who tittered. 

"Sorry if I was rude, " remarked Max, with an air of nonchalance, to showthat he was ready for anything. 

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

"A cat may look at a king, " retorted the recruit. "And as for manners, Iwon't ask you to teach them to me. "

"Why, you damned little Yankee spy, do you want to be pinched between mythumb and finger as if you was a flea?" bellowed the boxer. 

"Try it, and you'll find the flea can bite before he's pinched, " saidMax. His heart was thumping, for despite his knowledge of _la boxe_ heknew that he might be pounded into a jelly in another minute. This manwas a heavyweight. He was a lightweight. But whatever happened he wouldshow himself game; and at that instant nothing else seemed much tomatter. 

Somewhat to his surprise, Pelle burst out laughing. "Hark to thebantam!" he exclaimed in French--execrable French, but a proof that hewas no newcomer in the Legion. "If you weren't a newspaper spy, mychicken, I'd let you off for your cheek. But we have heard all aboutyou. Lieutenant de la Tour of the Spahis knows. He's told every one. Itdoesn't take long for news to get to the Legion. I'm going to teach younot to write lies about us for your damned papers. We get enough fromGermany. So I shall make chicken jelly of you. See!"

"All right. Come on!" said Max, more cheerfully than he felt. For hisone chance was in his youth and the method he had learned from thelightweight champion of the world. 

A ring formed on the instant, to screen as well as to see the spectacle. Here would be no rounds timed by an official, no seconds to encourage orrevive their men. The encounter, such as it was, would be primitive andsavage, asking no quarter and giving none. But Max felt that his wholefuture in the Legion depended on its issue. 

CHAPTER XII

NO. 1033

For a second the contestants eyed each other. 

A strange hush seemed to fall upon all, a situation always present inaffairs of this kind. It was noticeable to Max. "It might well be saidthat a calm always preceded a storm, " Max reflected, and then he heard avoice speak close to his ear. 

He dared not turn his head for fear of a sudden onslaught by hisantagonist, but even as low as the tone was, he recognized the voice--itwas the same voice that had begged him stealthily for his civilianclothes!

"Beware of his foot, " said the voice. "He's English, but he fightsFrench fashion with la savate. "

Max had not expected the savate from an Englishman, and he was very gladof the warning. 

It flashed through his brain just what the terrible savate couldaccomplish--a lightning-like kick landing on the jaw of an adversary, being much more crushing and damaging than the hardest punch. 

The warning came just in time, for he had only a brief chance to steadyhimself when Four Eyes rushed at him like a maddened bull. 

As he neared Max he let go two terrific swings, first with his left andthen with his right hand, but his smaller opponent side-stepped withthe nimbleness of a cat, and Pelle rushed by two or three steps beforehe could stop. 

At once he turned with a lithe movement, surprisingly graceful for abody so big, and made ready as though to once more swing his twoflail-like fists. 

Again did Max set himself to dodge Pelle's punches, but instead ofletting his two hands fly, one after the other, he bent his huge bodyback from the waist, and at the same time shot his right foot upwardtoward the other's face. 

It was a fearful kick, and had it landed on Max's jaw it would haveended the fight then and there, indeed, if it did not break his neck. But that whispered warning about the savate was Max's salvation. 

With a quick backward jerk of his head he saved himself--just barelysaved himself--and the big foot shot harmlessly up into the air, Pellealmost losing his balance in the unsuccessful effort. 

Before the latter could really regain his footing Max stepped in and, with left and right, landed full on his opponent's face, the last of thetwo punches coming flush on the nose with smashing force. It rocked theamazed Pelle back on his heels. 

Moreover, the surprise at the force of the blow was not greater than thesurprise at the sudden knowledge of the fact that the "Yankee Spy" wasno bungling amateur, but that he had all the ear-marks of a skilledprofessional. 

Well, he could not be fooled again, and on top of this thought came aheavy grunt as Max again stepped in and swung a swift right hook to hisstomach and then jumped out of harm's way. 

This blow took Pelle's wind and he began to dance around on his toeswith the lightness of thistledown, despite his discomfiture, while allthe time he watched the clever Max between half-closed eyes, waiting foranother chance to deliver that awful kick where it would surely put theother out of business. 

Now and then the big man would try an occasional swing at his elusiveopponent, but it was more of an attempt to cover up his real intentionrather than to land effectively. Well he knew that his best and quickestchance to end the fight lay in his ability to kick the other maninsensible, and so he tried to fool and disarm Max by a bluff attack. 

In this manner they danced about each other for a short space; theAmerican, apparently whenever he chose, stepped in and landed left andright on the other's jaw with a sound like the crack of a whip. 

There was a snap to Max's punches, a snap that stung and made animpression, and so while the big man almost exploded with fury at thegruelling he had to go through as his graceful adversary jumped in andout and banged him, he still nursed his best blow--the murderouskick!--holding it in reserve until the right moment. 

Finally, in the course of Max's punishing onslaught, in which he wasleaping in and out with unceasing agility, he--stumbled! This was justwhat 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 he swung his head back, Max could notescape it altogether, and it grazed his chin. For an instant the barrackyard and the white-clad ring of men swam before his eyes. It seemed asthough an iron bolt had entered his chin and gone through the top of hishead, but he did not quite lose all presence of mind, though he did bendaway from the other until he almost fell on his own back. 

Pelle saw his advantage and, with a yelp of joy, jumped forward andswung his other foot. As he did so reason returned to Max and with itcame a blind rage at the other's unfairness. 

With the quickness of a panther, and with the strength of ten men, heswung his slim body sideways and then bent forward to let go a viciousright-hand swing--flush to the other's jaw!

The kick missed Max--missed him by a hair--but the punch landed, landedwith every ounce of bone and muscle behind it that Max had in his body. 

Down crashed the champion on the back of his skull, with a thud amid aspatter of gravel!

For an instant the huge form lay still, while the ring of Legionnairesremained petrified. Suddenly the group realized that the fighting cockhad been beaten by the bantam. 

Then, with visions of "cellule" for every one concerned, four or fivemen sprang to pick up the champion. As they got him to his feet, bloodpoured from his swollen and disfigured nose. Coming slowly to himself, Pelle wiped it away dazedly with the back of a hairy hand, anxious, evenin semi-consciousness, to preserve the purity of his uniform, sacred inthe Legion. 

Max stood his ground, rather expecting to be attacked in revenge by someof Pelle's angry allies; and the man who had warned him to beware of "lasavate" took a step nearer him. But both were new to the LegionEtrangére, and did not yet know the true spirit of the regiment. 

Only admiring looks were turned upon the astonished young conqueror, whowas rather surprised at his own easy victory. As Pelle came to himselfin his friends' arms, the big fellow staggered forward, holding out abloodstained paw. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE AGHA'S ROSE

Sanda did not know, and would not know for many days, the news ofSidi-bel-Abbés, for she had started on a long journey, to the "wonderfulplace" of which she would have spoken to Max had she not been warned byher father's word and look that the story was "irrelevant. "

If Sanda had tried to tell the tale of that "romance" at which she hadhinted in the Salle d'Honneur, she would have had to begin far back intime when, after his wife's death, Georges DeLisle had by his ownrequest been transferred to the Legion. His first big fight had been inhelping the Agha of Djazerta against a raid of Touaregs, the veiled menof the South, brigands then and always. Since those days, DeLisle andBen Râana, the great desert chief, had been friends. More than once theyhad given each other aid and counsel. When Ben Râana came north withother Caids, bidden to the Governor's ball in Algiers, he paid DeLisle avisit. Each year at the season of date-gathering he sent the colonel ofthe Legion a present of the honey-sweet, amber-clear fruit for which theoasis of Djazerta was famous; and the officer sent to the Agha a parcelof French books, or some new invention in the shape of a clock, such asArabs love. Now he was sending his daughter. 

The way of it was this: just before Sanda's surprise arrival, the Aghaof Djazerta, chief of the Ouled-Mendil, had written a confidentialletter to Colonel DeLisle. He had a young daughter whom he adored. Foolishly (he began to think) he had let her learn French, and allowedher to read French novels. These books had made the girl discontentedwith her cloistered life. Being the only child, and always ratherdelicate, perhaps she had been too much spoiled. Greater freedom thanshe had could not be granted; but seeing her sad Ben Râana had askedhimself what he could do for her happiness. Before long she would marry, of course; but it had occurred to him that meanwhile it might be well ifa companion could be found who would be a safe friend for a girl ofOurïeda's position and religion. Did Colonel DeLisle know of any younggentlewoman, English or French, who would be willing to come toDjazerta? She must be educated and accomplished, but above alltrustworthy; one who would not try to make Ourïeda wish for a life thatcould never be hers: one who would not attempt to unsettle the child'sreligious beliefs. In writing this letter Ben Râana had shown a naïfsort of conceit in his own broad-mindedness, which would have beenrather comic if it had not been pathetic. But to DeLisle it was onlypathetic, because, European though he was, he knew the hidden romance ofthe Agha's life: his worship of a beautiful Spanish wife who had diedyears ago, and for love of whom he had vowed never to take into hisharem any other woman, although he had no son. His nearest male relativewas a nephew, to whom DeLisle imagined that some day Ourïeda would bemarried, though the young man was at least a dozen years older thanshe. 

When the letter came, Colonel DeLisle knew of no such person as BenRâana asked for; but he had not answered yet when Sanda unexpectedlyappeared. Hardly had he recovered from the first shock of his surprisewhen he remembered the great march soon to be undertaken--a marchostensibly for maneuvers, but in reality to punish a band of desertraiders, and later, men of the Legion were to begin the laying of a newroad in the far south, even beyond Djazerta. There would be no long restfor the colonel of the First Regiment for many months, consequently hewould be unable to keep Sanda with him. She did not want to go back toFrance or Ireland, so she was told about the Agha of Djazerta and thesixteen-year-old girl, Ourïeda, whose Arab name meant "Little Rose. "

Next to staying at the headquarters of the Foreign Legion with itscolonel, Sanda liked the idea of going into the desert and living for awhile the life of an Arab woman with the daughter of a great chief ofthe south. The more she thought of it, the more it appealed to her. Besides, when her father pointed out Djazerta on the map, and not morethan twenty kilometres away the _douar_, or tribal encampment under therule of Ben Râana, she noticed that they seemed to be scarcely a hundredkilometres distant from Touggourt. Probably Richard Stanton would bespending many days or even weeks at Touggourt before he set off acrossvast desert spaces searching for the Lost Oasis. So the girl said toColonel DeLisle that, since she could not at present stay with him, shewould like beyond everything else such a romantic adventure as a visitto the Agha's house. 

The one objection was that, if she went at all, she must start at once, because there was at the moment a great chance for her to travel wellchaperoned. A captain of the Chasseurs d'Afrique had just been orderedfrom Sidi-bel-Abbés to Touggourt, and was leaving at once with his wife. They could take Sanda with them: and at Touggourt Ben Râana would havehis friend's daughter met by an escort and several women servants. Itwas an opportunity not to miss; though otherwise Colonel DeLisle mighthave kept the girl with him for a fortnight longer. 

Sanda would have liked to bid Max good-bye, or if that were notpossible, to write him a letter. But DeLisle said it "would not do. " Notthat the newly enlisted soldier would misunderstand: but--he wouldrealize why he heard nothing more from his colonel's daughter. She neednot fear that he would be hurt. So Sanda could send only a thoughtmessage to her friend, and perhaps it reached him in a dream, for thenight of her departure--knowing nothing of it--he was back again in thedim cabin of the _General Morel_ gazing through the dusk at a long, swinging plait of gold-brown hair. 

Sanda, with Captain Amaranthe and his wife, travelled to Oran, thence toBiskra, and from Biskra on the newly finished railway line to Touggourt. It was there that, twenty-two years ago, the beautiful Irish girl whohad run away from home to her soldier lover, joined Georges DeLisle andmarried him. Sanda thought of that, and thought again also that in a fewmonths more Richard Stanton would come to Touggourt for the gettingtogether of his caravan. These two thoughts transformed the wild deserttown with its palms, and tombs of murdered sultans, and its frame ofgolden dunes into a magical city of romance. She felt that some greatthing ought to happen to her there. It was not enough that Touggourtshould give her a first glimpse of the true Sahara. She wanted it togive her more. Nor was it enough that she should be met there by anescort of Bedouins with a chief's nephew at their head, and negro womento be her servants, and a white camel of purest breed for her to ride, she being hidden like an Arab princess in a red-curtained bassourah. Allthis was wonderful, and thrilling as an Eastern story of the MiddleAges; but it meant nothing to her heart. And something deep down in herexpected more of Touggourt even than this. She told herself that a placewith such associations owed more to a child of Georges DeLisle and SandaDe Lisle; and even when she and her cavalcade started away from thegreat oasis city, winding southward among the dunes, she still had theconviction that some day, before very long, Touggourt would pay itsdebt. 

Ben Râana had done what he could to honour Colonel DeLisle through hisdaughter. He had sent a fine caravan to fetch the girl to Djazerta, andaccording to the ideas of desert travellers, no luxury was lacking forher comfort. His half-sister's son, Sidi Tahar Ben Hadj, had under himsome of the best men of the Agha's _goum_, and there were a pair ofgiant, ink-black eunuchs to guard the guest and her two negresses. Silky-soft rugs from Persia lined her bassourah on the side where shewould sit, the balance being kept on the other by her luggage wrappedin bundles; and the whole was curtained with sumptuous _djerbi_, stripedin rainbow tints. Over the _djerbi_, to protect her from the sun, orwind and blowing sand, were hung heavy rugs made by the women of theDjebel Amour mountains, the red and blue folds ornamented by longstrands and woollen tassels of kaleidoscopic colours. Sanda's camel(like that of Ben Hadj and the one which carried the two negresses) wasa _mehari_, an animal of race, as superior to ordinary beasts of burdenas an eagle is nobler than a domestic fowl. There was a musician amongthe camel-drivers, chosen especially--so said Ben Hadj--because he knewand could sing a hundred famous songs of love and war. Also he wasmaster of the Arab flute, and the räita, "Muezzin of Satan, " strangeinstrument of the wicked voice that can cry down all other voices. 

Lest the men should misunderstand and think lightly of the Agha's guest, his nephew did not look upon Sanda's face after the hour of meeting herat Touggourt, in the presence of her friends, until he had brought thegirl to his uncle's house, three days later. She was waited upon only bythe women and the two black giants who rode behind the white camels: andaltogether Sidi Tahar Ben Hadj was in his actions an example of thatArab chivalry about which Sanda had read. Nevertheless she was not ableto like him. 

For one thing, though he had a fine bearing and a good enough figure (sofar as she could tell in his flowing robes and burnous), in looks he wasno hero of romance, but a disappointingly ugly man. Ourïeda, the Agha'sdaughter, was only sixteen, and Tahar was supposed to be no more than adozen years her elder, but he appeared nearer forty than twenty-eight. He had suffered from smallpox, which had marred his large features anddestroyed the sight of one eye. It had turned white and looked, thoughtSanda, like the eye of a boiled fish. He wore a short black beard that, although thick, showed the shape of a heavy jaw; and his wide-open, quivering nostrils gave him the look of a bad-tempered horse. Althoughhe could speak French, he seemed to the girl singularly alien andremote. Sanda wondered if he had a wife, or wives, and pitied any Arabwoman unfortunate enough to be shut up in his harem. 

On the third morning the great dunes were left behind, and thebassourahs no longer swayed like towers in a rotary earthquake with themovements of the camels. Far away across a flat expanse of golden sand, silvered by saltpetre, a long, low cloud--blue-green as a peacock'stail--trailed on the horizon. It was the oasis of Djazerta, with itsthousands of date palms. 

At first the vision seemed to float behind a veil of sparkling gauze, unreal as a mirage; but toward noon it brightened and sharpened inoutline, until at last the tall trees took individual form, bunches ofunripe dates beneath their spread fan of plumes hanging down likeimmense yellow fists at the end of limp, thin arms cased inorange-coloured gloves. 

There was a _chott_, or dried desert lake, glistening white and lividblue, full of ghostly reflections, to cross; but once on the other sideall the poetic romance of fairy gardens and magic mirrors vanished. Thevast oasis rose out of earthy sand and cracked mud; and the housespiled together beyond it were no longer cubes of molten gold, butsqualid, primitive buildings of sun-dried brick crowding each other forshade and protection, their only beauty in general effect and bizarreoutline. 

"Am I to live in one of those mud hovels?" Sanda wondered. She was notdisheartened even by this thought, for the novelty of the wholeexperience had keyed her up to enjoy any adventure; still it was arelief to go swaying past the huddled town, and to stop before a high, white-washed wall with a small tower on each side of a great gate. Overthe top of the wall Sanda could see the flat roof of a large, low house, not yellow like the others, but pearly white as the two or threeminarets that gleamed above the fringe of palms. 

Somebody must have been watching from one of the squat towers by thegate--each of which had a loophole-window looking out over the caravanway--for even before the head man of the cavalcade could reach the shutportals of faded gray palm-wood, both gates were thrown open, and adozen men in white rushed out. They uttered shouts of joy at sight ofSidi Tahar Ben Hadj, as though he had been absent for months instead ofa few days, and some of the oldest brown faces bent to kiss hisshoulders or elbows. 

Sanda saw a bare courtyard paved only with hard-packed, yellow sand; andthe long front of the house with its few small windows lookedunsympathetic and unattractive. The girl felt disappointed. She hadimagined a picturesque house, a sort of "Kubla Khan" palace in thedesert; and she had expected that perhaps Ourïeda and her father, theAgha, would come ceremoniously out through a vast arched doorway towelcome her. But here there was not even the arched entrance of herfancy, only two small doors set as far as possible from one another inthe blank façade. Sanda's _mehari_ was led in front of the eastern door, which was pulled ajar in a secretive way. One of the big negroes helpedher out of the bassourah as usual, when he had forced the white camel toits knees; and to her surprise the other black man made of his longwhite burnous a kind of screen behind which she might pass without beingseen. The women servants--already out of their bassourah--came hurryingalong to join her, silver bracelets a-jingle, chattering encouragementin Arab, scarcely a word of which could Sanda understand. 

Inside the house was a queer kind of vestibule, evidently intended fordefence, with a jutting screen of wall behind the door, and then apassage with a sharp turn in it, and seats along the sides. A very old, withered negro let them in; and still it seemed to the girl anunfriendly greeting for her father's daughter, one who had come so far. But in a minute more she gave a little cry of pleasure, and suddenlyunderstood the mystery. This part of the house was the harem, secret andsacred to the women, since the very meaning of the word "harem" is"hidden. "

She had been ushered through a long, dim corridor, with a sheen of pinkand purple tiles halfway up the white wall to the dark wood of a roughlycarved ceiling, and instead of coming into a room at the end, she walkedunexpectedly into a large fountain court, bright with the crystalbrightness of spraying water and the colour of flowers, shaded withorange trees whose blossoms poured out perfume. 

Perhaps it was not such a wonderful place really, for the house wallswere only of sun-dried sand-brick, white-washed till they gleamed likesnow in sunlight; and the wooden balustrades of the narrow balcony thatjutted out from the upper story were but roughly carved in stars andcrescents, and painted brown to represent cedarwood. Yet it was apicture. The stem of the octagonal tiled fountain was of time-worn, creamy marble; the white house was draped with cascades of wistaria, andpale pink bougainvillea; underneath the shadow of the overhangingbalcony ran wall-seats covered and backed with charming old tiles ofblue and white "ribbon" design; on them were spread white woollen, black-striped rugs delicately woven by Kabyle women; Tuareg cushions ofstamped leather, and pillows of brilliant purple and gold brocade silk. Though no grass carpeted the earthy sand, there were beds of gorgeousflowers under the orange and magnolia trees that patterned the yellowsand with lacy shadow, and a girl like an Arabian Nights' princessstopped feeding a tame gazelle and a troop of doves, to come forwardshyly at sight of Sanda. She was the soul of the picture for the moment. Sanda did not even see that there were other women in it. Nothingcounted except the girl. Everything else was a mere background or aframe. 

There was but a second of silence before words came to either, yet thatinstant impressed upon Sanda so sharply, so clearly, every detail ofOurïeda's fantastic beauty, that if she had never seen the girl again, she could by closing her eyes have called up the vision. 

The oval face was so fair and purely chiselled that it seemed Greekrather than Arab. The golden-brown eyes were large and full of dazzlinglight as the sun streamed into them under the curve of their heavy blacklashes. But though they were bright they were very sad, keeping theirinfinite melancholy while the red lips smiled--the sad, far-off gaze ofa desert creature caged. So long were the lashes that they curled upalmost to the low-drawn brows which drooped toward the temples; and thatdroop of the eyebrows, with the peculiar fineness of the aquiline noseand the downward curve of the very short upper lip, gave a fatal andtragic look to the ivory face framed in dark hair. On either side itsdelicate oval fell a thick brown braid, not black, but with a glint ofred where the light struck; and though Ourïeda's hair was not so long asSanda's, the two plaits lying over the shoulders and following the lineof the young bust fell below the waist. The girl wore a loose robe ofcoral-red silk, low in the neck, and belted in with a soft, violet-coloured sash. Over this dress was a gandourah of golden gauzewith rose and purple glints in its woof; and a stiff, gold scarf waswound loosely round the dark head. The colours blazed like flamingjewels in the African sunshine. As the Agha's daughter moved forwardsmiling her sad little smile, there came with her a waft of perfume likethe fragrance of lilies; and the tinkling of bracelets on slenderwrists, the clash of anklets on silk-clad ankles, was like a musicalaccompaniment, a faintly played _leit motif_. Perhaps Ourïeda haddressed herself in all she had that was most beautiful in honour of herguest. 

As usual, Sanda forgot herself with the first thrill of excitement. Inher admiration she did not realize that the other girl wasself-conscious, a little frightened, a little anxious, and evendistrustful. It would have seemed incredible to Sanda DeLisle that anyone on earth, even an inmate of a harem, could possibly be afraid ofher. 

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

Then the Arab girl's smile changed, and for an instant was radiant, unclouded by any thought of sadness. She took Sanda's little glovedhands, and, pressing them affectionately, bent forward to kiss her gueston both cheeks. Her lips were soft and cool as flower petals, though theday was hot, and the scent of lilies swept over Sanda in a fragrantwave. As she kissed the stranger, Ourïeda made little birdlike suckingsounds, in the fashion of Arab women when they would show honour to afavoured friend. First she kissed Sanda's right cheek, the right side ofthe body being nobler because the White Angel walks always on the right, jotting down in his book every good deed done; then she kissed the leftcheek, since it is at the left side of man or woman that the wickedBlack Angel stalks, tempting to evil acts, and hastily recording thembefore they can be repented. 

"Why, you are as young as I am, and white and gold as the little youngmoon, and very, very sweet, like honey!" cried the girl, in French asgood as Sanda's, though with the throaty, thrushlike notes thatSpaniards and Arabs put into every language. "I am glad, oh, _really_glad, that you have come to be with me! Now I see you I know I wasfoolish to be afraid. "

Sanda laughed as they stood holding each other's hands and looking intoeach other's eyes. "Afraid of me?" she echoed. "Oh, you couldn't havebeen afraid of _me_!"

"But I was, " said Ourïeda. "I was afraid until this minute. "

"Why?" asked Sanda. "Did you fancy I might be big and old and cross, perhaps with stick-out teeth and spectacles, like Englishwomen in Frenchcaricatures?"

Ourïeda shook her head, still gazing at her guest as if she would readthe soul whose experiences had been so different from her own. "No, Ihave never seen any French caricatures, " she answered. "I hardly knowwhat they are. And I did not think you would be old, because the Agha, my father, told me you were but a baby when he first knew your father, the Colonel DeLisle. Still, I did not understand that you would look asyoung as I do, or that you would have a face like a white flower, andeyes with truth shining in them, as our wise women say it shines up likea star out of darkness from the bottom of a well. "

"In my country they say the very same thing about truth and a well, "returned Sanda, blushing faintly under the oddly compelling gaze of thesad young eyes. "But do tell me why you felt afraid, if you didn't thinkI should be old and disagreeable?"

Suddenly the other's face changed. A queer look of extraordinaryeagerness, almost of slyness, transformed it, chasing away something ofits soft beauty. "Hush!" she said, "we can't talk of such things now. Some time soon, perhaps! I forgot we were not alone. I must introduceyou to my Aunt Mabrouka, my father's widowed half-sister, who"--and hervoice hardened--"is like a second mother to me. "

She stepped back, and an elderly woman, who had stood in the backgroundawaiting her turn (though far from humbly, to judge by the flashing ofher eyes), moved forward to welcome the Roumia--the foreigner. 

Then for the first time Sanda realized that Ourïeda, the soul of thepicture, was not the 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 the times, most probably she wouldhave been among the Suffragists. She would have made a handsome man, andindeed looked rather like a stout, short man of middle age, disguised asan inmate of his own harem. She was dressed in white, Arab mourning, considered unlucky for women who have not lost some relative by death, and her square, wrinkled face, the colour of bronze, was dark and harshin contrast. If she had not been partly screened by a great floweringpomegranate bush as she sat in her white dress against the white housewall, Sanda would have seen her on entering the court; but it washopeless to try and appease the lady's scarcely stifled vexation withapologies or explanations. Lella Mabrouka, being of an older generation, had not troubled to learn French, and could understand only a few wordswhich her naturally quick mind had assorted in hearing the Agha talkwith his daughter. Ourïeda acted as interpreter for the politeness ofher aunt and guest, but Sanda could not help realizing that all was notwell between the two. A tall old negress (introduced by the girl as abeloved nurse), a woman of haggard yet noble face, stood dutifullybehind Lella Mabrouka, but stabbed the broad white back with keen, suspicious glances that softened into love as her great eyes turned tothe "Little Rose. "

[Footnote 1: Lella, _lady_. ]

Honey could be no sweeter than the words of welcome translated byOurïeda, and when Sanda's answers had been put into Arabic, LellaMabrouka received them graciously. Soon aunt and niece and servant wereall chattering and smiling, offering coffee and fruit, and assuring theRoumia that her host was eagerly awaiting permission to meet her. YetSanda could not rid herself of the impression that some hidden drama wasbeing secretly played in this fountain court of sunshine and flowers. 

CHAPTER XIV

TWO ON THE ROOF

"Come up on the roof with me, and I will tell you that thing I have beenwaiting to tell you, " said Ourïeda. "Aunt Mabrouka will not follow usthere, because she hates going up the narrow stairs with the high steps. Besides, she will perhaps think I really want to show you the sunset. "

Sanda had been in the Agha's house for three days, and always since thefirst evening a fierce simoon had been hurling the hot sand against theshut windows like spray from a wild golden sea. It had not been possibleto sit in the fountain court of the harem, the hidden garden of thewomen, protected though it was by four high walls. Sanda and Ourïeda hadscarcely been alone together for more than a few minutes at a time, andeven if they had been, Ourïeda would not have spoken. As she said, shehad been waiting. Sanda had felt, during the three days, that she wasbeing watched and studied, not only by Lella Mabrouka, but by the girl. Their eyes were always on her; and though Sanda DeLisle was very young, and had never tried consciously to become a student of human character, it seemed to her, in these new and strange conditions of life whichsharpened her powers of discernment, that she could dimly read what thebrains behind the eyes were thinking. 

Lella Mabrouka's eyes, though old (as age is counted with Arab women)were beady-bright and keen as a hawk's, yet she was clever enough toveil thought by wearing the expressionless mask of an idol in thepresence of the girls. Sanda had to pierce that veil; and she felt as iffrom behind it a hostile thing peered out, spying for treachery in thenew inmate of the house, hoping rather than fearing to find it, andready to pounce if a chance came. The stealthy watcher seemed to besaying, "What are you here for, daughter of Christian dogs? You musthave some scheme in your head to defeat our hopes and wishes; but if youhave, I'll find out what it is, and break it--break you, too, if needbe. "

No sinister thing looked out from the eyes of Ourïeda, but somethinginfinitely sad and wistful kept repeating: "Can I trust you? Oh, I thinkso, I believe so, more and more. But it is so desperately important tobe certain. I must wait a little while yet. "

Always, through the countless inquiries of Lella Mabrouka and the girlabout France and England (Ireland meant nothing to them) and Sanda'sbringing up, and the life of women in Europe, the visitor was consciousof the real questions in their souls. But on the third day the feverishanxiety had burnt itself out behind Ourïeda's topaz-brown eyes. Theywere eager still, but clear, and her wistful smile was no longerstrained. Whatever the burden was that she hid, she had decided to begSanda's help in carrying or getting rid of it. And instinctivelyrealizing this, Sanda ceased to feel that the Arab girl was of anentirely different world from hers, remote as a creature of anotherplanet. The Agha's daughter was transformed in the eyes of her guest. From a mere picturesque figure in a vivid fairy tale, she becamepathetically, poignantly human. Sanda began to hear the call of anothersoul yearning to have her soul as its friend, and all that was warm andimpulsive in her responded. A thrill of expectation stirred in her veinswhen, on the evening of the third day, after the wind had died a sudden, swift death, Ourïeda whispered the real reason for going up to the roof. 

Sanda had been looking forward to mounting those narrow stairs (with thesteep steps which Lella Mabrouka hated), because Ourïeda had severaltimes spoken of the view far away to the dunes, and the wonderfulcolours of sunrise and sunset, when the sky flowered like a hanginggarden. Perhaps the Arab girl had been cleverly "working up" to thismoment, so that the suggestion, made instantly after the death of thesimoon, might seem natural to her aunt. In any case it was as Ourïedahad hoped. Lella Mabrouka did not follow the girls. 

When they came out on the flat white expanse of roof, Sanda gave a cryof surprised admiration. She had known it would be beautiful up there, to see so far over the desert, but the real picture was more wonderfulthan her imagination could have painted. The sun had just dropped behindthe waving line of dunes and dragged the fierce wind with him like atiger in leash. All the world was magically still after the constantpurring and roaring of the new-conquered beast. The voice of the Muezzinchanting the sunset call to prayer--the prayer of _Moghreb_--seemed onlyto emphasize the vast silence. Up from the shimmering gold of thewestern sky, behind the gold of the dunes, slowly moved along separatespears of flame-bright rose, like the fingers of a gigantic Hand ofFatma spread across the sapphire heaven to bless her father's people. From this flaming sign in the west poured a pink radiance as of fallingrubies. The wonderful light rained over the marble whiteness of thedistant mosque--the great mosque of Djazerta--and fired the whole massof the piled oasis-town behind its dark line of palms. The lightshowered roses over the girls' heads and dresses, stained the snow ofthe roof, with its low, bubbling domes, and streaming eastward turnedflat plain and far billowing dune into a sea of flame. 

Sanda's spirit worshipped the incredible beauty of the scene, and thenflew northward to the two men whom she loved. She thought of her father, and wondered where Richard Stanton was at that moment. Then Max Doran'sface came between her and the man she had named "Sir Knight. " Sheremembered her dream of herself and Max in the desert, and was vexedbecause she had not dreamed the same dream about Stanton instead. 

"How wonderful it is here!" she half whispered, and Ourïeda answeredimpatiently:

"Yes, it is wonderful; but don't let us talk of it, or even think of itany more, because I have so much to say to you, and Aunt Mabrouka willsend to call us if my father comes. Besides, we can see this on anynight when the wind does not blow. "

She had in her hand a large silk handkerchief tied in the form of a bag;and sitting down on the low, queerly battlemented wall which protectedthe flat roof, she untied and opened the bundle on her lap. It was fullof yellow grain, and she gave Sanda a handful. "That's for the doves, "she said. "They will know somehow that we are here, and presently theywill come. If Aunt Mabrouka sends her own woman, Taous, up to listen andspy on us she will find us feeding the doves. "

"But why should Lella Mabrouka do such a thing?" Sanda ventured to ask, taking the grain, and seating herself beside Ourïeda. 

"You will understand that, and a great many other things, when I havetold you what I am going to tell, " answered the "Little Rose. " "Frombooks my father has let me read, and from things you have said, I haveseen that Roumia girls are not like us, even in their thoughts. Perhapsyou are thinking now that I am very sly; and so I am, but not because Ilove slyness. It is only because I have to be subtle in self-defenceagainst those who are older and wiser than I am. Everything in our livesmakes us women stealthy as cats. It is not our fault. At least, it isnot mine. Some women--some girls--may enjoy the excitement, but not I. Perhaps I am different from others, because I have the blood of Europein my veins. My father's mother was Sicilian. My own mother was Spanish. And he, my father, is an enlightened man, with broader views and moreknowledge of the world than most Caids of the south. They all pridethemselves on knowing a little French in these days, he tells me, andsome have even made visits to Paris once in their lives. But you knowalready what he is. "

"Yes, he is a magnificent man, " Sanda agreed, "even greater than Iexpected from what my father said of him. "

She had met the Agha only once, for a ceremonious half-hour on theevening of her arrival at his house, when he had begged permission as ofa visiting princess to see and welcome her; yet this punctiliousness wasnot neglect, but Arab courtesy; and Ben Râana had talked to her of theworld in general and Paris in particular, in French, which, thoughsomewhat stilted and guttural, was curiously Parisian in wording andexpression. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen, scarcelydarker in colour than many Frenchmen of the Midi, and marvellouslydignified, with his long black beard, his great, sad eyes whoseoverhanging line of brow almost met above the eagle nose, and themagnificent gray, silver embroidered burnous worn in the guest's honour. He had appeared to Sanda years younger than the widowed Mabrouka; andthough she was a dark, withered likeness of him, it was not surprisingto learn that Lella Mabrouka was only a half-sister of the Agha, born ofan Arab mother. 

"You know he has had but one wife, my own mother, " Ourïeda said proudly. "That is considered almost a sin in our religion, yet he could neverbring himself to look with love on any woman, after her, nor to give hera rival, even for the sake of having a son. I adore him for that--howcould I help it, since he says I am her image?--and for letting me learnthings Arab girls of the south are seldom taught, in order that I mayhave something of her cleverness that held his love, as her beauty wonit. Yet, if he had married a second wife when my mother died, and shehad given him a son, my life would be happier now. "

"How can that be?" asked Sanda. "I couldn't love my father in the way Ido if he had put somebody else in my mother's place, and spoiled all thebeautiful romance. "

"My father's romance with my mother was like a strange poem, for she wasthe daughter of Catholic Spanish people, who had an orange plantationnear Blida, and wished her to enter a convent. But my father rode bywith some French officers and saw her on her way to church. That onelook decided their whole lives. Yes, it would have been a pity to spoiltheir romance; yet, keeping its poetry is spoiling mine. "

"You mean your Aunt Mabrouka. But a stepmother might be worse. "

"No, it isn't only Aunt Mabrouka I am thinking of. It is her son, who ismy father's heir because he has no son of his own. My father is veryenlightened in many ways, but in others he is as narrow and hard as therest of our people, who hold to their old customs more firmly than theyhold to life. My father intends me for the wife of Si Tahar, who met andbrought you to our house. "

Sanda could not keep back a little gasp of dismay. "Oh, no! it's notpossible!" she cried. "You're so beautiful, and so fair. He'sso--so----"

"Hideous. Don't be afraid to say the word to me. I love you for it. Butbecause Tahar's not deformed from birth, and the strength and beauty ofthe line isn't threatened, his looks make no difference to my father. Tohim it seems far more important that I should be the wife of the heir, so that money and land need not be divided after his death, than that Ishould love my husband before my marriage. You see, that can hardlyever happen to a girl of our race and religion. If Tahar were not mycousin I should never even have seen him, nor he me. And if I had notseen him, it would perhaps be a little better, for there would be theexcitement and mystery of the unknown. We are brought up to expect that;and if already I hadn't learned to dislike Tahar for his own sake andhis mother's, I should be no worse off than other girls--except for onething: _the great thing of my life_. "

Her voice fell lower than before, and her companion on the wall had tobend close to catch the whisper. "What is that thing?" Sanda dropped thewords into a frightened pause, while Ourïeda's glance went quickly tothe well of the staircase. 

"It is what I came here to tell you about, " the Arab girl answered. "Iforced myself to wait, but now I am sure of you as if you were my ownsister. We are going to open our hearts to each other. Do you know whatit is to have a man in your life--a man who is not father or brother, and yet is of great importance to you; so great that you think of him byday and dream of him by night?"

"Yes, there are two such men in my life, " Sanda replied; and wassurprised at herself that she should have said two. More truly there wasonly one man, not counting her father, who had a place in her thoughts. 

"Two men!" Ourïeda echoed, looking shocked. "But how can there be two?"

Sanda felt herself blushing and ashamed before the woman of anotherrace. She tried to explain, though it was difficult, because she hadgiven the answer without stopping to think: indeed, it had almostspoken itself. "I fancy I said that because you asked me about dreams, "she apologized. "The man who has been my hero all my life--and alwayswill be, I suppose, though he doesn't care for me and thinks of me as achild--I can't dream of, for some strange reason. He's seldom out of mythoughts by day for very long, I believe; but the other--I hardly knowwhy I mentioned him!--is only a friend, and quite a new friend. He'snothing to me at all, really, though I'm interested in him because ofthe strange way we met and were thrown together. But the odd thing is, Idream of him--often. "

"The women of my people say it is the man you dream of who has touchedyour soul, " Ourïeda said thoughtfully. 

"That's a very poetical idea, but I'm sure it isn't true!" Sandaexclaimed. "Now tell me about yourself, because if Lella Mabrouka shouldsend----"

"Yes, I am, oh, so anxious to tell you! But what you said about the manof your thoughts and the man of your dreams was very queer, and made meforget for an instant. I am glad you love some one, for that will helpyou to understand me, and by and by you will tell me more. Already I cansee that you must be almost as unhappy as I am, because you say the oneyou care for doesn't care for you. That must be terrible, but you arefree, and perhaps some day you can make him care. As for me, if I am notsaved soon, I shall be married to Tahar and lost forever. "

"But surely your father, who loves you so dearly, won't actually forceyou to marry against your will?"

"He will expect me to obey, and I shall have to obey or--kill myself. Rather that, only--oh, Sanda, I am a coward! At the last minute mycourage might fail. The one thing my father would promise was that Ishould be left as I am till my seventeenth birthday. That very day isfixed for the beginning of the marriage feast. We shall have a wholeweek of rejoicing. Think of the horror of it for me! I had a year ofhope when he made the promise. Now I have less than six months. And inall that time nothing has happened. "

Sanda saw by the girl's look and guessed by the quiver of her voice thatshe was not speaking vaguely. There was something in particular whichshe had been praying for, counting upon from day to day. And that thinghad not happened. 

CHAPTER XV

THE SECRET LINK

The Hand of Fatma was gone from the sky. Ruby had turned to amethyst, amethyst to the gray-blue of star sapphire, and the red fire of thedunes had burned out to an ashen pallor. The change had come suddenlywhile the girls talked; and when Sanda realized it, she shivered alittle, with a touch of superstition she had learned from her two Irishaunts. All this cold whiteness after the jewelled blaze of colour waslike the death of youth and hope. She pushed the thought away hastily, telling herself it had come only because Ourïeda had threatened to putan end to her own life rather than marry Tahar; yet it would not go faraway. Like a vaguely visible, ghostly shape it seemed to stand behindthe 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, the son of her mother's sister. He was all Spanish. There was not a drop of Arab blood in his veins, unless it came through Saracen ancestors in the days when Moorish kingsreigned over Andalusia. 

"You know, now you've been with us even these few days, " Ourïeda said, "that the harem of an Arab Caïd isn't a nest of wives, as people inEurope who have never seen one suppose! My father has laughed when hetold me Christians believed that. Now, Aunt Mabrouka and I and ourservants are the only women in my father's harem; but when I was alittle girl, before my mother died--I can just remember her--besides mymother herself there was her sister, whose Spanish husband had beendrowned at sea. An Arab man thinks it a disgrace if any women relatedeven distantly to him or his wife are thrown on the world to make theirown living. It could never happen with an Arab woman if she wererespectable. And even though my mother's sister was Spanish and aChristian, my father offered her and her boy a home. Already his ownsister, Aunt Mabrouka, had come to stay with us, and had brought her sonTahar. Neither of the boys lived in the harem of course, for they wereold enough to be in the men's part of the house, and have men for theirservants; but they came every day to see their mothers. Even then, though I was a tiny child, I hated Tahar--and loved Manöel Valdez. Taharhad had smallpox, and looked just as he looks now, only worse, becausehe has a bad chin that his beard hides; and Manöel was handsome. Oh, youcan't imagine how handsome Manöel was! He was like the ideal all girls, even Arab girls, must dream of, I think. I can see him now--as plainlyas I see you in this sad, pale light that comes up from the desert atnight. "

"Is it long since you parted?" Sanda asked quickly, to put away thatpersistent thought of trouble. 

"We parted more than once, because when our two mothers died, one afteranother, of the same sickness--typhoid fever--Manöel was sent away toschool. He's nine years older than I am--twenty-five now; a little morethan three years younger than Tahar. My father sent him to theuniversity in Algiers, because, you see, he was Christian--or, rather, he was nothing at all then; he had not settled to any belief. Tahar waslike Aunt Mabrouka, very religious, and did not care much to study, except the Koran and a little French. He went once to Paris, but hedidn't stay long. He said he was homesick. Oh, he is clever in his way!He has known how to make himself necessary to my father. "

"And Manöel Valdez?" asked Sanda. 

"My father loved him when he was a boy, because he was of the same bloodas my mother. Although Aunt Mabrouka was jealous even then--for sheruled in the house after my mother's death--she couldn't prejudice myfather's mind against Manöel, hard as she tried. Manöel was free to comehere when he liked, for his holidays, or to the _douar_ if we werethere; and he loved life under the great tent. He had a wonderful voice, and he could sing our Arab songs as no one else ever could. Fatherwished him to be a lawyer, and gave money for his education, because weArabs often need lawyers who understand us. But Manöel cared more formusic than anything else--except for me. When I was eight and he wasseventeen I told him I meant to marry him when I grew up, and he said hewould wait for me. I suppose he was only joking then; but the thought ofhim and the love of him in my heart made me begin to grow into a womansooner than if I had had only the thoughts of a child. It was like thesun opening a flower bud. When he was away I felt hardly alive. When hecame back from Spain to our house or to our tent in the _douar_ Ilived--lived every minute! It was three years ago, when I was thirteen, that he began to love me as a woman. I shall never forget the day hetold me! I was not _hadjaba_ yet. Do you know what that means? I wasconsidered to be a child still, and I could go out with my aunt to thebaths, or with one of our servants, unveiled. I was not shut up in thehouse as I am now. But in my heart I was a woman, because of Manöel. Andwhen he came home after nearly a year in Seville and other parts ofSpain he felt and saw the difference in me. We were in the _douar_, andlife was free and beautiful. For three months Manöel and I kept oursecret. He said he would do anything to have me for his wife. He wouldeven become Mohammedan, since religion meant little to him, and loveeverything. He had no money of his own, but he had been told that hecould make a fortune with his voice, singing in opera, and he had beentaking lessons without telling my father. A Frenchman--is "impresario"the right word?--was having his voice trained, and by and by Manöelwould pay him back out of his earnings. We used to call ourselves"engaged, " as girls and men in Europe are engaged to each other insecret. But one day, soon after my thirteenth birthday, Aunt Mabrouka, who must have begun to suspect and spy on us, overheard us talking. Shetold my father. At first he wouldn't believe her, but he surprised meinto confessing. I should never have been so stupid, only, from what hesaid, I thought he already knew everything. After all, it was so little!Just words of love, and some dear kisses! He suspected there was more;and if I hadn't made him understand, he might have killed Manöel, andme, too. But even as it was, my father and Aunt Mabrouka hurried me fromthe _douar_ in the night, before Manöel knew that anything had happened. I was brought here; and never since have I been outside this gardenwithout a veil. It was months before I went out at all. And Manöel wassent away, cursed by my father for ingratitude and treachery, warnednever to come again near Djazerta or the _douar_ as long as he lived, unless he wished for my death as well as his. "

"Have you never seen him since?" Sanda asked, her heart beating fastwith the rush of 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 I never lostfaith. I seemed to feel Manöel thinking of me, calling me, far awayacross the desert. I knew that we should meet in life or death. At last, one Friday two years ago--Friday, you know, is the women's day forvisiting the graves of loved ones--I saw Manöel. He was dressed like abeggar. His face was stained dark brown, and nearly hidden by the hoodof a ragged burnous. But I recognized the eyes. They looked into mine. Irealized that he must have been waiting for me to pass with AuntMabrouka. He knew of course that whenever possible we went on Friday tothe cemetery. I almost fainted with joy; but Allah gave me presence ofmind, and strength to hide my feelings. You have noticed how sharp AuntMabrouka is. It's the great ambition of her life to see the daughter ofthe Agha married to her son. Never for one moment has she trusted mesince she spied out the truth about Manöel. That Friday, though, Ithwarted her. Oh, it was good to know that Manöel was near! I hardlydared to hope for more than just seeing him; but he remembered that myold nurse had a grandson in my father's _goum_, a fine rider, who firsttaught him--Manöel--to sit on a horse. Through my nurse and Ali benSliman I got letters from Manöel. He told me he had begun to sing inopera, and that if I would wait for him two--or at most three--years, hewould have enough money saved to give me a life in Europe worthy of aprince's daughter, such as I am. He would organize some plan to steal mefrom home, if there were no chance of winning my father's consent, andhe was sure it could be done with great bribes for many people, andrelays of _Maharis_ and horses to get us through the dune-country. Isent word that I would wait for him three years, all the years of mylife! But that was before I knew my father meant me to marry Tahar. 

"Not long after Manöel came to stay in Djazerta, disguised as awandering beggar of Touggourt, my father told me what was in his mind. Ifeel sure Aunt Mabrouka suspected from my happier looks that I washearing from Manöel, for she persuaded my father that I was ill. Sheshut me up and gave me medicine; and I was so afraid Manöel might bediscovered and murdered, that I sent him word to go away at once, noteven to write me again. He obeyed for my sake, not knowing what mighthappen to me if he refused, but by word of mouth came the message thathe would always be working for our happiness. Well I guessed what hemeant! Yet when my father told me about Tahar, all my faith in Manöelcould not keep me brave. My father is splendid, but he will stop atnothing with those who go against him. At first he said I must bemarried when I was sixteen, but I reminded him that seventeen was mymother's age when he took her; and I begged him, "for luck, " to let mewait. I dared not warn Manöel, lest they should have laid a trap, expecting me to write him about my marriage. I waited for months, andthen it was too late, for Ali ben Sliman was away. I dared trust no oneelse; and so it is not yet a year ago that I sent a letter to an oldaddress Manöel had left with Ali. I told him all that had happened, andI said, if I were to be saved it must be before my seventeenth birthday, the end of September. After that I should be dead--or else Tahar's wife. Since then, not hearing, I have sent two more letters to the sameaddress, for I have no other. But no answer has come. Now Ali has diedof fever, and I can never write to Manöel again unless--unless----"

"Unless what?" breathed Sanda. 

"Unless you can manage to help me. _Would_ you, if you could?"

"Yes, " answered the other girl, without hesitating. "I'm a guest in theAgha's house, and I've eaten his salt, so it's hateful to work againsthim. But, some day, surely he'll be thankful to a friend who saves youfrom Si Tahar. I'll do anything I can. Yet I'm only a girl likeyourself. What is there I _can_ do? Have you thought?"

"_If_ I have thought!" echoed Ourïeda. "I have thought of nothing else, for weeks and weeks, long before you came. I begged my father to find mea companion of my own age, not an Arab girl, but a European, to teachme things and make me clever like my mother. He believed I was piningwith ennui; and because he had put real happiness out of my life, he waswilling to console me as well as he could in some easy way. In spite ofAunt Mabrouka, who may have guessed what was in my mind, he trusts youcompletely, because you are your father's daughter. "

"Ah, that's the dreadful part! To betray such a trust!" exclaimed Sanda. 

"But after all, I am going to ask so little of you, not a hard thing atall, " Ourïeda pleaded, frightened at the effect of her own words. "It isa thing only a trusted guest, a woman of the Roumia, could possibly do, yet it's very simple. And when the time comes to do it, you need onlyshut your eyes. "

"Tell me what you mean, " said Sanda anxiously. 

"Every letter you write--not to your father, because he might askquestions, but to a friend--leave the envelope open, and turn your back, or go out of the room. Then don't look into the letter again, or noticeif it seems thicker than before, but fasten it up tightly and seal theenvelope with wax. Will you do that?"

"Yes, " said Sanda, rather miserably. "To save you I will do that. "

"You have friends in France who would post a letter if they found itenclosed in one of yours, without explanations?"

"I have friends who would do that, perhaps, but to make it more sure Iwill explain. It would not save my conscience to let you slip a letterinto an open envelope, and pretend to myself that I knew nothing aboutit; because I _would_ know, and I think I'd almost rather behypocritical with other people than with myself. "

"I told you, " exclaimed Ourïeda, "that Roumia girls were different fromus even in their secret thoughts! But you will love me, won't you, although you think I am stealthy and sly? I need your love and help!"

"I love you, or I shouldn't have promised what I have just promisednow, " Sanda assured her. 

"But if there were still more--something harder and moredangerous--would you love me enough to do that thing too?"

"Do you mean something in particular that you have in your mind, or----"

"Yes, oh, yes! I mean something in particular. "

"Will you tell me what it is?"

"I am half afraid. "

"Don't be afraid. Tell me!"

"Hush!" whispered Ourïeda. "Don't you hear some one on thestairs--coming up softly? I must tell you another time. Laugh! Laugh outaloud! Call to the doves!"

The two girls began to chatter together like children. And their youngvoices tinkling out in laughter sounded pitifully small in the immensityof the night-bleached desert. 

 * * * * *

Far away in the north where colonist farmers had long ago conquered thedesert there was music that evening at Sidi-bel-Abbés, headquarters ofthe Foreign Legion. The soul of the Legion was speaking in itstragic-sweet voice, and the Place Carnot was full of soldierssauntering singly or in pairs, mostly silent, as if to hear their ownheart-secrets cried aloud by telltale 'cellos and flutes and violins. 

The townsfolk were there, too; and when the band played some selectionespecially to their liking they buzzed approval. It was only theLegionnaires who talked little, and in tones almost humbly suppressed. Once, years ago, they had violently asserted their right to promenadethe Place Carnot, and enjoy the music of their own famous band, whenlocal authority would insolently have banished them; but now the boonwas won, they were subdued in manner, as if they had never smashedchairs and wrecked bandstand in fierce protest against _bourgeois_tyranny. Immaculate in every detail of their uniform as though each manhad his own servant, these soldiers who spent half their so-calledleisure in scrubbing clothes, polishing steel and brass, and varnishingleather, had nevertheless a piteously dejected bearing whenever theypassed pretty, well-dressed young women. They knew that, whatever theymight once have been, as Foreign Legion men on pay of five centimes aday they were in the eyes of Bel-Abbés girls hopeless ineligibles, poverty-stricken social outcasts, the black sheep of the world. It wasto vie with each other and to make the Legion far outshine Chasseurs andSpahis that they sacrificed two thirds of their spare time in the causeof smartness, not because even the handsomest and youngest cherished anyhope of catching a woman's approving eye. 

Just at the moment, however, there was an exception to the depressingrule. The prettiest girls, French, Spanish, and Algerian-born, allcondescended to glance at the _bleu_ who had "knocked out" the formerchampion of the Legion, and, taking his place in the match with theMarseillais, had kept the championship for the First _RegimentEtrangére_. Since the day more than a week ago when the barrack-yard ofthe Legion had been the scene of the great fight--officers looking on inthe front ranks of the invited crowd, and soldiers hanging out ofdormitory windows--every one in Sidi-bel-Abbés had learned to know thehero by sight; and a blackened eye, a bruised cheek-bone, and a swelledlip (the unbecoming badges of his triumph) made recognition easy. Butthe Legion was proud of St. George. Not a man, least of all Four Eyes, grudged him his success, such "luck" as had never fallen to any mererecruit within the memory of the oldest Legionnaires, unless in thebattlefield, where all are equal. 

Max realized fully what this "luck" had done for him, and was aware thateyes turned his way; but, far from being proud, he was half-ashamed ofhis conspicuousness, fearing that Colonel DeLisle might disapprove. Also, he knew that the small, brief blaze of his notoriety would die outlike the flame of a candle. A week or two more and the "little tin god"would go down off his wheels. If he meant to be somebody in the Legionhe would have to work as he had never worked in all his life. 

With him in the Place Carnot was the Spaniard who had begged for hiscivilian clothes. They were in the same company and of the same age. From the first glance (given and taken when one man was a recruit andthe other did not yet dream of becoming one) something had drawn the twotogether. Then had come the incident of the clothing; and Max had felthimself an unwilling partner in the other's secret. Later, withoutexchanging confidences (since "ask no questions, I'll tell you no lies, "is a good general rule in the Legion), 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 theother Legionnaires, and listening to the music. Suddenly the Spaniardstopped, muttering some word under his breath, and Max saw through thedusk that the olive face had gone ashy pale. "What's the matter, Garcia?Are you ill?" he asked. 

The other did not answer. He stood stock still, staring almost stupidlystraight before him. 

Max linked an arm in his. "What's wrong? Garcia! What's wrong with you?"he repeated. 

The Spaniard started. "I beg your pardon, " he stammered, dazed. "Ididn't realize you were--speaking--to me. "

Instantly Max guessed that "Juan Garcia, " the name appearing with the"_numero matricule_" over the bed of _le bleu_, was as new as his placein the Legion, and as fictitious as the alleged profession of _garcond'hôtel_ which accounted cleverly for the recruit's stained eveningclothes. 

"I only asked you what was wrong, what made you stop so suddenly?" Maxexplained. 

"It was that thing the band is playing now, " said the Spaniard. "Strangethey should have it here already! It is out of the new African opera bySaltenet, "La Naïlia, " produced for the first time ten days ago--a trialperformance at Marseilles, and on now at the Opera Comique in Paris. Good heavens! Another world, and yet these extraordinary men are playingthat song here already--_my_ song!"

"Your song?" involuntarily Max echoed the words. 

"My song. If a certain letter hadn't come to me on the night of the lastrehearsal but one, and if we hadn't been in Marseilles, rehearsing, Ishouldn't be here to-night. I should be in Paris, perhaps coming on tothe stage at this moment, where I suppose my understudy is grimacinglike the conceited monkey he is. "

"By jove!" was all that Max could find to say. But he put severalemotions into the two words: astonishment, warm sympathy, and some sortof friendly understanding. 

"You wonder why I tell you this?" Garcia challenged him. 

Max answered quietly: "No, I don't wonder. Perhaps you feel it does yougood to speak. It's strange music!--stirs one up, somehow--makes onethink of things. And I suppose you trust me? You can. But don't go anyfarther unless you're sure you want to. "

"I do want to!" burst out the Spaniard. "I've wanted to from thefirst--since you helped me about the clothes. Only you're a reservedfellow yourself. I didn't care to have you think me a gusher. Youguessed why I begged for the clothes?"

"I didn't let myself dwell on it too much. "

"You must have guessed. Of course I mean to desert the first chance Iget. "

"It's a beastly risk. Did you see that awful photograph the colonel toldthe non-coms to pass around for us to look at, as a warning againstdesertion?"

"The poor wretch they found in the desert, across the Moroccan border, the man who ran away from Bel Abbés before we came? Yes, I saw thepicture. Ghastly! And to think it's the women who mutilate men likethat! But I shan't try to escape by way of Morocco. The danger I'll runis only from being caught and sent to the penal battalion--the awful'Batt d'Aff. ' It's a bad enough danger, for I might as well be dead asin prison--better, for I'd be out of misery. But I must run the risk. Ienlisted in the Legion for its protection in getting to Africa, becauseI was in danger of arrest. And you know the Legion, once it's got a man, won't give him up to the police unless he's a murderer. I'm not that, though I came near it. Even while I signed for five years' service, Iknew I should have to desert the minute I could hope to get away. Ishall wait now till the big march begins, and get as far south as therest of you go, in my direction--the direction I want. Then I shall cutaway. "

"God help you!" said Max. 

"Maybe He will, though I'm a man of no religion. Is love the next bestthing? Everything I've done so far, and what I have to do, is for love. Does that make you think me a fool?"

"No. "

"I have to save a girl from being given to a man who isn't fit to kissher little embroidered shoes--bless them! To save her from him--or fromsuicide. The letter told me she would rather die than marry him. That'swhy I'm not in Paris to-night. There'd been other letters before; shesaid in the one which reached me at the theatre--reached me in themidst of rehearsal--thank God--if there is a God--I still have till theend of September. The crisis won't come till then, on her seventeenthbirthday. But what is five months and a half to a man handicapped as Iam? Caught in a trap, and with hardly any money, just when I had afortune almost in my grasp!"

"I can lend you a little, " said Max. "I've a few hundred dollars left. "He laughed. "It seems a lot here! These poor chaps look on me as amillionaire, a sort of prince, because I've got something behind thedaily five centimes--some dollars to buy decent tobacco for my friendsand myself, and pay fellows to do my washing and so on--fellows wildwith joy to do it! Jove! It makes me feel a brute to think what a fewsous mean to them, gentlemen, some of 'em, who've lived a more luxuriouslife than I have--and----"

"Maybe that's why they're here: because they lived too luxuriously--onother people's money. Tell me, St. George, did you ever hear the name ofManöel Valdez?"

Max thought for an instant. "Valdez? Let me see ... How ... I know, asinger! He sang last winter in New York, in something or other, a smallpart, and I wasn't there, but I saw great notices. I remember now. Why, you're----"

"Yes. You're right. Don't be afraid to speak. I asked for it. "

"Then you _are_----"

"Manöel Valdez. Saltenet, the man who wrote 'La Naïlia, ' wrote the man'spart for me, because he thought I could sing it, and because Iunderstand Arab music as maybe no other European does. I was brought upin the desert. The girl I love is a daughter of the desert. God! Howthat music they're playing makes me hear her call me, far away frombehind her ocean of dunes! There's a secret link binding our soulstogether. Nothing can keep them apart. Saltenet was my benefactor. Hehas done everything for me. He would have made my fortune--after I'dmade his; but that's human nature! And twelve nights ago I nearly killedhim because he wouldn't let me go when that girl called--my desertprincess! He vowed he'd have me arrested--anything to stop me. And hetried to hold me by force. I knocked him down in his own private room atthe theatre where we were rehearsing, and then I had to make sure hewasn't dead, for his blood was on my hands, my sleeves, my shirt front. It was only concussion of the brain, but I hoped it would keep himstill, until I'd got well away. That afternoon an officer I knew hadhappened to mention before me that a lot of men were being shipped offto Oran for the Foreign Legion. I remembered. It was as if some voicereminded me. Africa was my goal, but I'd next to no money. I thought, why shouldn't France pay? Well, here I am! Now you know why I mustdesert. Wouldn't you do the same in my place? Have you got it in you, Iwonder, to sacrifice everything in life for a woman?"

Max thought for a moment before risking a reply. Then he answeredslowly: "I--almost believe I have. But who knows?"

"Some day you will know, " said Manöel Valdez, looking away toward thedesert. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE BEETLE

When Max had served four months in the Foreign Legion he felt older byfour years. He looked older, too. There were faintly sketched linesround his mouth and eyes, and that indefinable expression which liesdeep down in eyes which have seen life and death at grip: a Legion look. 

In some ways he had been a boy when he took his sudden resolve in theSalle d'Honneur to prove what the Legion could do for a nature hehimself doubted. Now he was no longer a boy. He realized that, though hehad never found time to study the success of his experiment, and had noidea that it was being studied day after day by his colonel. Had heguessed, some dark hours might have been brightened by gleams of hope, for in spite of his luck in the Legion there were times when Max felthimself abandoned, a creature of as small consequence to any heart onearth as a half-drowned fly. A more conceited man would have beenhappier, but Max had not joined the Legion with the object of findinghappiness, and one who was watching believed that it would be good forhim to wait. 

Max and Manöel Valdez (alias Garcia) had looked forward to the greatmarch, already vaguely talked of when they joined. But it had not beena march for marching's sake: its real purpose was more grave. A band ofArab thieves and murderers on the border of the M'zab country had to becaught and punished. No recruits were taken: disappointment for Max anddespair for Valdez. He had hoped everything from that chance, and, inhis rage at losing it, made a dash for liberty from Sidi-bel-Abbés. Hegot no farther than the outskirts, the forbidden _Village Négre_, wherehe risked a night visit in search of the man bribed to hide a certainprecious bundle. Fortunately he was arrested before securing it, for hadhe been trapped with civilian clothes not even his marvellous voice (thetalk of the garrison since it had been heard in the soldier's theatre)could have saved him from the fate of caught deserters: the penalbattalion for months, if not a year; death, perhaps, from fever orhardship. As it was, he escaped with the penalty for a night visit tothe Arab quarter: eight days _cellule_. But the clothes were safe. Hewould try again. Nothing on earth, he said, should keep him from tryingagain; because he might as well be a "Zephir" in the dreaded "Battd'Aff, " if he could not answer the cry for help he seemed always to hearfrom across the desert. 

Since his first failure and imprisonment nearly four months had passed, and he had tried again and failed in the same way. The second time hissentence was twice as long; but before it was over the _medecin major_sent him into hospital. He came out emaciated, sullen, dangerous, caringfor nothing, not even to sing. Max yearned over him, but could donothing except say, "It isn't too late yet. Maybe, if we brace up, we'llbe taken on the big march that they talk of for the first of September. Even then there'll be time. "

He said "we, " because it was more comforting to Valdez that their namesshould be bracketed together as friends; but as Legionnaires they werealready far apart. Max had never been censured, had never seen theinside of the prison building (that low-roofed, sinister building thatruns along the walls of the barrack-yard). He was in the school ofcorporals. Soon he would wear on his blue sleeve the coveted red woollenstripe. Garcia, on the contrary, was constantly falling into trouble. Hehad even drunk too much, once or twice, in the hope of drowning trouble, as Legionnaires do. The September march to the south was ostensibly forroad-laying; but there was again a rumour of other important work to bedone. The great secret society of the Senussi threatened trouble througha new leader who had arisen, a young man of the far south called the"Deliverer. " And when there was prospect of fighting in the desert orelsewhere for the Legion, recruits--even those who had served for sixmonths--were seldom taken if a long list of black marks stood againsttheir names. Max feared that there was little hope for Valdez, though hemeant to do what he could to help. And he found it strange that he, aborn soldier as he knew himself to be, should think of tacitly aidinganother to desert, no matter on what pretext. At home in the sameposition it could not have been so; but in the Foreign Legion recruitstalked freely, even before old Legionnaires to whom the Legion wasmother and father and country. There was no fear of betrayal. The wholepoint of view seemed different. If a man felt that he had borne all hecould, and was desperate enough to risk death by starvation or worse, why let him go with his comrades' blessing--and his blood on his ownhead! If he had money he might get through. If not, he was lost; butthat, too, was his own business. 

March was bitterly cold in wind-swept Sidi-bel-Abbés. April was mild;May warm; June hot; July and August a furnace, but Legionnaires drank noless of the heavy, red Algerian wine than before the summer heatengulfed them. Max had heard men say jokingly or solemnly of each other, "He has the _cafard_. " Vaguely he knew that _cafard_ was French forbeetle, or cockroach; that soldiers who habitually mixed absinthe andother strong drinks with their cheap but beloved _litre_ were oftenaffected with a strange madness which betrayed itself in weird ways, andthat this special madness was familiarly named _le cafard_. When the hotwave arrived he saw for himself what the terrible insect could do in aman's brain. 

In the canteen it was bad enough on pay nights--so called "the Legion'sholidays"--but there reigned Madame la Cantiniere, young, good looking, a respected queen, who would go on march with the Legion in her cart, and who must at all times to a certain extent be obeyed. But in dimside-streets of the town, far from the lights of the smart, out-of-doorscafés, were _casse croutes_ kept by Spaniards who cared nothing for thefate of Legionnaires when they had spent their last sou. The _cafard_grew and prospered there. He tickled men's gray matter and kneaded it inhis microscopic claws. There his victims fought each other, for noreason which they could explain afterward, or mutilated themselves, tearing off an ear, or tattooing a face with some design to rival FourEyes; or they sold parts of their uniforms to buy a little more drink, or tried to blow out their brains, or the brains of some one else. Afterward, if they survived, they went to prison; but if it could beproved that they were indeed suffering from _cafard_, they got off withlight sentences. 

Officers of the Legion old enough to have won a few medals seemed torespect the _cafard_ and make allowances for his deadly work. If the mendid not survive, they--what was left of them--went to the cemetery torest under small black crosses marked with name and number, their onlymourners the great cypresses which sighed with every breath of wind fromthe mountains. 

One August night of blazing heat and moonlight Max could not sleep. There had been a scene in the dormitory which had got every man out ofbed, but an hour after the tired soldiers were dead to the worldagain--all save Max, who felt as if a white fire like the moonlight wasraging in his brain. 

He lay still, as though he were gagged and bound, lest a sigh, or arustle in turning over--as he longed to turn--might waken a neighbour. The hours set apart for the Legion's repose were sacred, so profoundlysacred that any man who made the least noise at night or during theafternoon siesta was given good cause to regret his awkwardness. Themost inveterate snorers were cured, or half killed; and to-night, inthis great room with its double row of beds, the trained silence of thesleepers seemed unnatural, almost terrible, especially after the horrorthat had broken it. Max had never before felt the oppression of thisdeathlike stillness. Usually he slept as the rest slept; but now, wearyas he was, he resigned himself to lie staring through the slow hours, till the orderly's call, "_Au jus!_" should rouse the men to swallowtheir coffee before reveille. 

The dormitory, white with moonlight streaming through curtainless openwindows, seemed to Max like a mausoleum. He could see the still, flatforms, uncovered and prone on their narrow beds, like carven figures ofsoldiers on tombs. He alone was alive among a company of statues. Themen could not be human to sleep so soon and so soundly after the thingthat had happened!

In his hot brain the scene repeated itself constantly in bright, movingpictures. He had been rather miserable before going to bed, and hadlonged for forgetfulness. Sleep had brought its balm, but suddenly hehad started awake to see a man bending over him, a dark shape withlifted arms that fumbled along the shelf above the bed. On that shelfwas the famous _paquetage_ of the Legionnaire; all his belongings, underclothes, and uniforms, built into the wonderful, artistic structurewhich Four Eyes had shown his pet how to make. A thief was searchingamong the neat layers of the _paquetage_ for money: every one knew thatSt. George had money, for he was continually lending or giving it away. This one meant to save him the trouble by taking it. Max felt suddenlysick. He had thought all his comrades true to him. It was a blow to findthat some one wished to steal the little he had left, though he hadgrudged no gift. 

Just as Max waked the thief satisfied himself that the well-known walletwas not hidden in the _paquetage_, and stooped lower to peer at thesleeper's face before feeling under the pillow. His eyes and Max'swide-open eyes met. In a flash Max recognized the man. He was of anothercompany, and had risked much to steal into the dormitory of the Tenth. The fellow must be desperate! A wave of mingled pity and loathing rushedover Max. Fearing consequences for the wretch, should any one wake, hewould mercifully have motioned him off in silence; but the warninggesture was misunderstood. The thief started back, expecting a blow, stumbled against the nearest bed, roused Four Eyes, and in a second thewhole room was in an uproar. 

The full moon lit the intruder's face as if with a white ray from apolice lantern. Pelle and a dozen others recognized the man from theEleventh, who could have but one midnight errand in the sleeping-room ofthe Tenth: the errand of a thief. Like wolves they leaped on him, snapping and growling, swearing the strange oaths of the Legion. Bayonets flashed in the moonlight; blood spouted red, for a soldier ofthe Legion may "decorate" himself with a comrade's belt, or bit ofequipment, if another has annexed his: that is legitimate, even _chic_;but money or food he must not steal if he would live. It is the Legion'slaw. 

All was over inside two minutes. The guard, hearing shouts, rushed inand stoically bore away a limp, bloodstained bundle to the hospital. Nobody blamed the men. Nobody pitied the bundle--except Max, whose firstexperience it was of the Legion's swift justice. But nothing, not evenexciting prospects of a march, can be allowed to spoil the Legion'srest; and so it was that in half an hour the raging avengers had becomeonce more stone figures carved on narrow tombs in a moonlit mausoleum. 

For the first and only time since he had joined Max thoroughly hated theLegion and wished wildly that he had never come near Sidi-bel-Abbés. Yetdid he wish that? If he had not come he would not have met ColonelDeLisle, his beau ideal of a man and a soldier. He would be a boy again, it seemed, with his eyes shut in the face of life. And he would miss hissweetest memory of Sanda: that hour in the Salle d'Honneur of theLegion, when she had christened him St. George and called him "hersoldier. " But after all, of what use to him could be his acquaintancewith the Legion's colonel? There was a gulf between them now. And wouldit not be as well or better to forget that little episode of friendshipwith the colonel's daughter? She had probably forgotten it by this time. And a Legionnaire has no business with women, even as friends. Besides, Max was in a mood to doubt all friendship. He had had a letter thatday--his first letter from any one in four months--telling him thatGrant Reeves had married Josephine Doran. 

Of course, Grant had a right to marry Josephine; but not to write untilthe wedding day was safely over--as if he had been afraid Max would tryto stop it--and then to confess how he had come with his mother to meetJosephine at Algiers! That was secret and unfriendly, even treacherous. Max remembered very well how Grant had proposed accompanying Mrs. Reeves, and he--Max--had rather impetuously vetoed the arrangement, saying it was unnecessary, and guessing instinctively the budding ideain Grant's mind. It was clear now that Grant had never abandoned it, that he had from the first planned a campaign to win the heiress beforeany other man had a chance with her, and that he had carried out thescheme with never a hitch. The letter, written on the eve of thewedding, had been three weeks on the way. Grant (the only person exceptEdwin Reeves to whom Max had revealed himself as Maxime St. George, Number 1033, in the Tenth Company, First Regiment of the Foreign Legion)wrote that he was telling nobody where his friend was, or what he haddone. "The day will surely come, dear boy, " Grant said--and Max couldalmost hear his voice speaking--"when you will wish to blot out thesepages from your book of life. I want to make it easy for you to do so;and I advise you to keep your present resolve: confide in none of yourpals. They might not be as discreet as the governor and I. "

"He's glad I'm out of the way, " thought Max. "He wants me to beforgotten by every one, and he wants to forget me himself. If I were onthe spot, poor, and hustling to get on somehow or other in business, itmight worry him a little to be seen spending money that used to bemine. "

Perhaps it was morbid to attribute these motives to Grant Reeves, whohad once been his friend, but he did attribute them; and conscious thathe was actually encouraging morbid thoughts, Max wondered if he, too, were getting the _cafard_, the madness of the Legion? Lying there, theonly waking one among the sleepers, fear of unseen, mysterious things, the fear that sometimes attacks a brave man in the night, leaped at himout of the shadows. He could almost feel the sharp little claws of thedreaded beetle scratching in his brain. Yes, he'd been a fool to jointhe Legion, and to hand over Jack Doran's house and fortune to GrantReeves! It was impossible that Grant had married Josephine for love. Hehad simply taken her with the money, and he meant to have the spendingof it. 

In the letter, Grant said that they planned to alter the old Doran houseand "bring it up to date. " It was he, Grant, who had all the ideas, apparently. Josephine was letting him do as he pleased. What should sheknow about such matters? If she could have all the dresses and jewelsand fur she wanted, Grant would be allowed to go his own way with otherthings. He was clever enough to understand that, and to manageJosephine. 

With the letter Grant had posted a bundle of Sunday newspapers andillustrated magazines, such a bundle of old news as one sends to aninvalid in hospital. Max had glanced through some of the papers beforegoing to bed, looking with a sad, far-off sort of interest at portraitsof people whose names he knew. There had been a page of "America's mostbeautiful actresses" in one Sunday supplement, and among them, ofcourse, was Billie Brookton. No such page would be complete without her!It was a new photograph that Max had never seen. The smiling face, headdrooped slightly in order to give Billie's celebrated upward look fromunder level brows, had the place of honour in the middle of the page. And a paragraph beneath announced that Billie would leave the stage onher marriage with "Millionaire Jeff Houston, of Chicago. "

No doubt Houston was the man she had mentioned in her last letter. Roundher neck, in the picture, Max thought he recognized his pearls, and onthe pretty hand, raised to play with a rope of bigger pearls--"MillionaireHouston's" perhaps--was the ring Max had given her the night when thetelegram came. The photograph, which was large and clearly reproduced, showed the curiously shaped stone on the middle finger of Billie's lefthand. A large round pearl adorned the finger on which Max had once hopedshe might wear the blue diamond, a pearl so conspicuous that the originalof the picture appeared to display it purposely. "Millionaire Houston"would be flattered; and that was what Billie Brookton wanted. As for whatMax Doran might think if he saw the portrait, why should she care? Forher, he was numbered with the dead. 

Max was no longer in love with Billie. The shock of Rose Doran'sterrible accident, the story she had to tell, and her death, had chilledthe fire of what he thought was love. The letter of farewell had put itout. But the scar of the burn sometimes hurts. To-night was one of thosetimes; and Max believed that his disappointment in Billie had had itsinfluence in driving him to the Legion. She stood now as a type of whatwas mercenary, calculating, and false in womankind, just as (almostunknown to himself) Sanda DeLisle stood for what was gentle, yet braveand true. He felt that Billie Brookton had made him hard, with ahardness that was not good; and that not only she, but all those he hadcared for most in his old life, had deceived and tricked or at bestforgotten him. Lying in his narrow bunk, Max lifted his head and lethis eyes wander over the faces of his comrades, turned to gray stone bythe moonlight. Not one which was not sad, except that of the Alsatianwho had joined on the day of his own recruitment. The boy was smiling insome dream and looked like a child, but a sickly child, for the heat andthe severe marching drill for _les bleus_ were telling upon him. Facesof twenty different types, faces which by day masked their secrets withsullenness, defiance, or stolidity, could hide nothing in sleep, butfell into lines of sadness that gave a strange family resemblance to thestone soldiers on the tombs. Saddest of all, after Manöel Valdez, perhaps, was the wrecked visage of Pelle, whose own particular _cafard_had been leading him a merry dance the last few days. 

To Sidi-bel-Abbés, with a letter of introduction to the colonel, hadcome an old officer of the British army, a man of distinction. Pelle, asan Englishman and an ex-soldier, had been honoured by being appointedhis guide. The two had recognized one another. Pelle had served underthe officer years ago. The encounter had been too much for Quatro Oyos:that, and the money the general gave him at parting. Remembrance of pastdays was the enemy in the Legion. Four Eyes had been half drunk eversince, and had escaped prison only by a miracle. That, however, wasnothing new for him. He had been corporal twice and sergeant once; eachtime he had been "broke" because of drink. In spite of all, he had stuckto the Legion. There was no other place for him on earth. The Legion washis country now--his only country and his only home. His medals he hadasked Max to keep till he "settled down again. " They mustn't go to theplaces where the _cafard_ would take him. They mustn't risk disgracethrough things which the _cafard_ might make him do. He looked like theruin of a man in the revealing moonshine. But to-morrow he would be asoldier again till night came, and sooner or later he would pull himselftogether--more or less. The medals he had won and his love of sport werehis incentives. Yet there were other men who had no medals and nospecial incentives, and to-night Max felt himself down on a level withthose. 

"What incentive have I?" he asked, in a flash of furious rebellionagainst fate, conscious yet not caring that such thoughts spawned thebeetle in the brain. Five years of this life to look forward to!--thelife he had pledged himself to live. The officers did their best. It was_vieux style_ nowadays for an officer of the Legion to be cruel. But tryas they might to break the sameness of barrack life by changing theorder of drill and exercise--fencing one day, boxing the next, thengymnastics, target-practice, marching, skirmishing, learning first aidto the wounded, giving all the variety possible, the monotony washeart-breaking, as Colonel DeLisle had warned him it would be. And agreat march, when a march meant the chance of a fight, didn't alwayscome in the way of a young soldier, even one whose conduct wasunsmirched by any stain. Max did not know yet whether he would be takenon the march that all the garrison was talking of. To-night the beetlein his brain tried to make him think he would not be taken. There was noluck any more for him! And as for his corporal's stripe, if he got itsoon, what a pathetic prize for a man who had been a lieutenant in the--th Cavalry, the crack cavalry regiment of the United States 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 they wanted to forgeteven as they had been forgotten: take the few pleasures in their reach, do the very things he had been prig enough to warn Valdez not to do! Letthe beetle burrow, as a counter-irritant!

"Soldier St. George--my soldier!" a girl's voice seemed to encouragehim. 

Max heard it through the scratching of the beetle in his brain. 

Sanda! Yes, Sanda might care a little, a very little, when she had timeto think of him--Sanda, who loved another man, but had promised to behis friend. He thought of her eyes as they had looked at him that day inthe Salle d'Honneur. He thought of her hair, her long, soft hair.... 

"She'd be sorry if I let go, " he said to himself. "Jove! I _won't_! I'llfight this down. And if I'm taken on the march----"

He fell suddenly asleep, thinking of Sanda's hair, her long, soft hair. 

And the moonlight turned him also into a stone soldier on a tomb. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE MISSION

It is the darkest hour that comes before the dawn. Next day Soldier St. George became Corporal St. George, and felt more pleasure in the bit ofred wool on his sleeve than Lieutenant Max Doran would have thoughtpossible. 

It was Four Eyes who brought him the news, a week later, that his namewas among those who would go on "the great march. " Four Eyes was somehowinvariably the first one to hear everything, good news or bad. Life wasnot so black after all. There need be no past for a Legionnaire, butthere might be a future. None of the men knew for certain when the startwas to be made, but it would be soon, and the barracks of the Legionseethed with excitement. Even those who were not going could talk ofnothing else. They swore that there was no doubt of the business to bedone. The newly risen leader of the Senussi had summoned large bands ofthe sect to the village, El Gadhari, of which he was sheikh, callingupon them ostensibly to celebrate a certain feast. Close to this villagewas one of the most important Senussi monasteries. Tribes were movingall through the south, apparently with no warlike intention; but theDeliverer was dangerous. Just such a leader as he--even to the gray eyesand the horseshoe on his forehead--had been prophesied for this time ofthe world. The Legion would march. And it would maneuver in the desert, in the neighbourhood of El Gadhari. If the warning were enough--therewould be no fighting; but the Legion hoped it might not be enough. To bethe regiment ordered to give this warning was in itself an honour, forwherever work is hardest there the Legion goes. The Legion must sustainits reputation, such as it is! Desperate men, bad men, let them becalled by civilians in times of peace, but give them fighting and theyare the glorious soldiers who never turn back, who, even when they fallin death, fall forward as they rush upon the enemy. All the world knewthat of them, and they knew it of themselves. They knew, also, that whenthe moment of starting came men of Sidi-bel-Abbés who drew away fromthem in the streets and the Place Carnot would take off their hats asthe Legion went by. It would be "Vive la Legion!" then. 

With each day of burning heat the excitement grew more feverish. Surelythis morning, or this night, the order would come! The soldiers whistledas they polished their accoutrements, whistled half beneath their breaththe "March of the Legion" which the band is forbidden to play ingarrison. Quarrels were forgotten. Men who had not spoken to each otherfor weeks grinned in each other's faces and offered one another theircheap but treasured cigarettes. 

Almost every one seemed to be happy except Garcia. He was among thosewho would not be taken on the march--he, who craved and needed to go, asdid no other man in the Legion! Max feared Garcia meant to kill himselfthe night when he lost hope, and would not let him go out alone to walkin the darkness. "I don't want to ask if you have any plans, " he said. "But there's one thing I do ask: share with me the money I've got left. You may need it. I shan't. And if you'll take it, that'll be proof thatyou think as much of me as I do of you. "

Garcia took it, from the wallet which a man now lying in the hospitalhad tried to empty the other night. Then Max knew for certain what thequeer light in Manöel's eyes meant. He could not help a rejoicing thrillin the other's desperate courage which no obstacle had crushed. 

That same night, when the two had separated (St. George reassured, andbelieving that Garcia had use for his life after all), Max met ColonelDeLisle face to face, for the first time alone and unofficially sincethey had parted in the Salle d'Honneur. The colonel was walkingunaccompanied, in the street not far from the little garden of theofficers' club, where the band was to give a concert, and returningMax's quick salute he turned to call him back. 

"Good evening, Corporal! I should like to speak with you a minute!"DeLisle cried out cheerfully in English. Max's heart gave a bound. Surely never could the word "Corporal" have sounded so like fine musicin a poor, non-commissioned officer's ears!

He wheeled, pale with pleasure that his beau ideal should wish to speakwith him, and in English, the language they had used when they werestill social equals. "My Colonel!" he stammered. 

"I want to congratulate you on your quick promotion, " said DeLisle. "Ithas come to you in spite of your resolution to take no advantage in thebeginning over your comrades. I congratulate you on that, too, and onkeeping it, now it has turned out so well. I hoped and believed it wouldbe so, though I advised you for your good. "

"I know that, my Colonel, " answered Max, determined not to presume inspeech or act upon his superior officer's kindness. "I knew it then. "

"It may seem a pitifully small step up, " DeLisle went on, "but it's thefirst reward the Legion can give a soldier. There will be others. Ishall have to congratulate you again before long, I'm sure. Meanwhile, Ihave a message for you. " He paused for an instant, slightly hesitating, perhaps. "It is from my daughter. She is in the south, visiting thedaughter of an Agha who is very loyal to France as a servant, very loyalto me as a friend. Because of the march last spring, and again this one, now coming (which I expected for this time, and on which I must gomyself), I could not have a young girl like Sanda living inSidi-bel-Abbés. She is happy and interested where she is, and she hasnot forgotten you. In more than one letter she has wished to beremembered to you, if possible. To-night, Corporal, it _is_ possible, and I'm glad to give the message. "

"I thank you for it, my Colonel, " Max said, half ashamed of the deepfeeling which his voice betrayed. "I--wish I might be able to thank MissDeLisle. It is a great deal to me that she should remember me--my----"

"Your chivalry? It would be impossible to forget, " DeLisle took him upcrisply. Then he dismissed the subject, as Max felt. "Tell me, " he wenton in the same cheerful tone in which he had called out "Corporal!" "Areyou happy to escape the caserne, and get away to the desert?"

Suddenly a wild idea sprang into Max's head. Desperately, not daring tolet himself stop and think, he spoke. "I should be happy, my Colonel, but for one thing. Have I your permission to tell you what it is?"

"Yes, " said DeLisle. "If I can help you in the matter, I will. "

"My Colonel, it's in your power to do me a favour I would repay you forwith my life if necessary, though"--and Max began to stammeragain--"that would be at your service in any case. The best friend Ihave made in the regiment would give his soul to go on this march. Iknow he hasn't always behaved as a soldier ought, but he's as brave ashe is hot tempered and reckless. If it could be reconsidered----"

"You mean Garcia?" broke in Colonel DeLisle sharply. 

Max was astonished. Instantly he saw that the colonel must have beenwatching his career. He might have guessed as much from the reward ofmerit just given him--friendly congratulations and Sanda's message, athousand times more valued for the delay; and he had begun to realizethat he had never been abandoned, never forgotten. But the colonel'sknowledge of his friendship with Garcia brought the thrilling truthhome, almost with a shock. 

"Yes, my Colonel--Garcia, " he replied. 

"Well, I can make no promise, " said DeLisle, speaking now more in thetone of an officer with a subordinate, yet showing that he was notvexed. "But--I should like you 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 the colonel was gone, turning in atthe garden gate of the _Cercle Militaire_. The meeting, and all that hadpassed, seemed like a waking dream. Max could hardly believe it hadhappened, that Sanda had sent him a message, that her father had givenit, and that he, scarcely more than a _bleu_, had dared to speak forManöel Valdez. 

That day it proved not to be a dream, for Garcia learned officially thathe was to go with his comrades. Max hardly knew whether or not it wouldbe wise to explain how the miracle had come to pass, but there was areason why he wished to tell. When the truth was out, and Valdez readyto worship his friend, Max said: "I did it before I stopped to think; ifI _had_ stopped, I don't know--for you see, in a way, this makes me atraitor to the colonel. I begged him for a favour and he granted it. _Yet you and I understand what your going means. _ I've been asking himfor your chance to--well, we won't put it in words! Only, for God'ssake, try to think of some other way to do what you've got to do!"

"Even you admit that I _have_ got to do it!" Valdez argued. "To save awoman--it's to save her life, you know. "

"I know, " said Max. "But there may be some other way than this one inyour mind. "

"If there is, I'll take it. And now I can give you 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 all waiting for sounded, and though itwas expected at any hour, it came as a surprise. 

"_Aux armes!_" rang out the call of the bugle from the barrack-yard andwaked the stone soldiers to instant life. The flat, carved figures satup on their narrow tombs in the moonlight, then sprang to their feet. There was no need or thought of discipline with that glorious alarmsounding in their ears! The men yelled with joy and roared fromdormitory to dormitory in the wonderful Legion language made up ofchosen bits from every other language of the world. 

"Faites les sacs. En tenue de campagne d'Afrique!" bawled excitedcorporals. Everything had to be done in about ten minutes; and thoughall soldiers knew the programme thoroughly, and young soldiers had gonethrough it in drill a hundred times, the real thing was somehowdifferent. Men stumbled over each other and forgot what to do first. Corporals swore and threatened; but to an onlooker the work of packingwould have seemed to go by magic. At the end of the ten minutes thebarrack-yard was full of men lined up, ready for marching, and soldiersof all nations thanked their gods for finding that the cartridges servedout to them from the magazine were not blank ones. They had allprotested their certainty that this march was for business; and whenthey had heard that their colonel was going with them they had beendoubly sure; yet in their hearts they had anxiously admitted that itwas guesswork. Now these blessed cartridges packed full of the rightstuff put an end to furtive doubts. 

As the companies formed up, the "Legion's March" was played, and theyoung soldiers who had never heard it, unless whistled _sotto voce_ byold Legionnaires, felt the thrill of its tempestuous strains in themarrow of their bones. 

Nowadays the great marches of the Foreign Legion are not what they oncewere, unless for government maneuvers. When there is need of haste theLegion goes by the railway the Legion has helped to lay; and only at theend of the line begins the real business for which the Legion lives. Forthe Legion is meant for the hardest marching (with the heaviest kits inthe world) as well as the fiercest fighting; and when the Legion marchesthrough the desert, it is "_marcher ou mourir_. "

The cry of the bugles reached the ears of the heaviest sleepers in town;for those who knew the Legion and the Legion's music knew that thesoldiers were off for a great march, or that wild air would not beplayed. Windows flew up and heads looked down as the soldiers trampingthe bright moonlit street went to the railway station. So the "luckyones" of the Legion passed out of Sidi-bel-Abbés, some of them never toreturn. And perhaps that was lucky, too, for it's as well for aLegionnaire to rest in the desert as under one of the little blackcrosses behind the wall of cypresses in the Legion's burial ground. 

 * * * * *

They had to go by the new railway line to Touggourt, as Sanda DeLislehad gone, but instead of travelling by passenger train, the soldierswent as Max had seen the batch of recruits from Oran arrive atBel-Abbés: in wagons which could be used for freight or France's humanmerchandise: "_32 hommes_, _6 cheveaux_. " After Touggourt their waywould diverge from Sanda's. There was no chance for Colonel DeLisle togo and see his daughter, but in a letter he had told her the date of hisarrival in the oasis town and the hope he had--a hope almost acertainty--of hearing from his girl there, or having a message of loveto take with him on the long march, warmed his heart. It was verystrange, almost horrible, to remember how he had felt toward hisdaughter until the day she came to him, in the image of his dead love, at Sidi-bel-Abbés. He had not wanted to see her. He had even felt thathe could not bear to see her. Unjust and brutal as it was, he had neverbeen able to banish the thought that, if it had not been for her, hiswife might have been with him through the years. Sanda had cost him thehappiness of his life. 

He had easily persuaded himself that in any case, even if he had wantedher with him, for her sake it was far better not. Such an existence ashis was not for a young woman to share, even after she had passed theschoolgirl age. It had seemed to DeLisle that the only place for Sandawas with her aunts, and passing half her time in France, half inIreland, gave the girl a chance to see something of the world. She wasnot poor, for she had her mother's money; and because he wished tocontribute something toward his daughter's keep, rather than because sheneeded it, he always paid for her education and her board. What she hadof her own, from her mother, must be saved for her _dot_ when shemarried; and half unconsciously he had hoped that she would marry early. 

After he saw her--the lovely young thing who had run away to him, as hermother had--all that had been changed in an instant. His heart was ather little feet, as it had been at the feet of the first Sanda, whosecopy she was. 

His time for the next few months was so mapped out that he could nothave the girl with him for more than the first few days of joy, for shecould not be left in Sidi-bel-Abbés while he was away on duty. He haddone the best he could for his daughter by giving her a romantic tasteof desert life in the house of a tried friend whom he believed he mighttrust; but he thought tenderly and constantly of _la petite_, and offuture days when they might be together--if he came back alive fromthose "maneuvers" near El Gadhari. Approaching Touggourt, the firstscene of his life's great love tragedy, he could hardly wait for theletter he hoped for from Sanda. He expected another event, also thepleasure of meeting Richard Stanton, whom he had not seen for years, andwho would be, he knew, at Touggourt, getting together a caravan for that"mad expedition" (as every one called it) in search of the Lost Oasis. But if Stanton had cared as much for his old friend as in past days, hehad protested, he would have given a day or two to go out of his way andvisit the Colonel of the Foreign Legion at its headquarters. He had notdone that, and though DeLisle told himself that he was not hurt, hisenthusiasm at the thought of the meeting was slightly dampened. Helooked forward more keenly to Sanda's letter than to an encounter withhis erratic friend. It was good to have something heart-warming to hopefor in a place so poignantly associated with the past. 

There was plenty for the Legionnaires to do in Touggourt. Having come byrail, their first camp was made in the flat space of desert between thebig oasis town and the dunes. They were to stay only a few hours, forthe first stage of their march would begin long before sun-up, and mostof their leisure was to be spent in sleep. Yet somehow there was timefor a look at the sights of the place. One of these was a large Arabcafé on the outskirts of the town where the trampled sand of the streetsbecame a vast, flowing wave of gold. Four Eyes had been in Touggourtmore than once, having marched all the way from Bel-Abbés, long beforethe railway was begun or thought of. He urged Max to come into the lowwhite building where at dusk the räita and the tomtom had begun toscream and throb. 

"Prettiest dancing girls of the Sahara, " he said, "and a fellow there Iused to know in Bel-Abbés--in the Chasseurs--has just told me there's agreat show for to-night. "

There were several cafés in Sidi-bel-Abbés, where the proprietorsengaged Arab girls to dance, but Max, who had paid one visit, incuriosity, thought the women disgusting and the dancing dull. He saidthat he had no faith in the Touggourt attractions, and would rather takea stroll. 

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Four Eyes scouted hisobjections. "Haven't you heard the scandal about this Stanton, theexploring man, who's here--our colonel's old pal?"

"No, I've heard that Stanton's at Touggourt. But I've heard no scandal, "answered Max. "What has he got to do with the dancing girls?"

As he spoke, it was as if he saw Stanton sitting with Sanda DeLisle atone of the little tea-tables on the terrace of the Hotel St. George atAlgiers; the square, resolute, red-tanned face, and the big, square blueeyes, burning with aggressive vitality. 

"Everything to do with one of them, " said Four Eyes. "That's thescandal. Seems Stanton's been playing the fool. They say he's half mad, anyhow, about a lot of things--always was, but it is a bit worse since atouch o' the sun he had a year or two ago. He's off his head about anOuled Nail--don't know whether she came here because of him, or whetherhe picked her up at Touggourt, but the story is, he could o' got awaybefore now, with his bloomin' caravan, on that d----d fool expedition ofhis you read of in the papers, only he couldn't bring himself to leavethis Ahmara, or whatever her crack-jaw name is. The chap that wastalkin' to me says she's the handsomest creature you'd see in alifetime, an' she's going to dance to-night to spite Stanton. "

"To spite him?" Max repeated, not understanding. 

"Yes, you d----d young greenhorn! Anybody'd know _you_ was new toAfrica! These girls, when they get to be celebrated for their looks orany other reason, won't dance in public as a general thing. They leavethat to the common ones, who need to do something to attract. Anyhow, Stanton wouldn't have let this Ahmara dance in a café before a crowd ofnomads from the desert. She lives with the dancing lot, because there'ssome law or other about that for these girls, but that's all, tillto-night. There's been a row, my old pal told me, because Stanton givesmy lady the tip not to come near or pretend to know him while his friendthe colonel is here. She's in such a beast of a rage she's announced tothe owner of the café that she'll dance to-night; and I bet every man inTouggourt except Stanton and DeLisle'll be there. You'll come, won'tyou?"

"Yes, I'll come, " said Max. He was ashamed of himself for so readilybelieving the scandal about Stanton, yet he did believe it. Stanton hadstruck him as the type of man who would stop at nothing he wanted to do. And Max was ashamed, also, because he felt an involuntary rush ofpleasure in thinking evil of Stanton. He knew what that meant. He hadbeen jealous of Stanton at Algiers, and he supposed he was mean enoughto be jealous of him still. If Sanda knew the truth, would she bedisgusted and cease to care for her hero, her "Sir Knight?" Maxwondered. But perhaps she would only be sad, and forgive him in herheart. Girls were often very strange about such things. Max, however, could not forgive Stanton for ignoring the exquisite blossom of lovethat might be his, and grasping instead some wild scarlet flower of thedesert not fit to be touched by a hand that had pressed Sanda's littlefingers. He did not know whether or not to be equally ashamed of thecuriosity which made him say to Pelle that he would see the dancer; buthe yielded to it. 

Already the great bare café was filling up. In the dim yellow light oflamps that hung from the ceiling, or branched out from the smoky, white-washed walls, the throng of dark men in white burnouses, crowdingthe long benches or sitting on the floor, was like a company of ghosts. Their shadows waved fantastically along the walls as they strodenoiselessly in, wild as spirits dancing to the voice of their masterSatan, the seductive räita. At one end of the room sat the musicians, all giant negroes, the scars and tattoo marks on their sweating blackfaces giving them a villainous look in the wavering light. They wereplaying the bendir, the tomtom, the Arab flute, as well as the räita;but the räita laughed the other music down. 

This café was celebrated for the youth and beauty of its dancers, andone after another delicate little sad-faced girls, almost children, danced and waved gracefully their thin arms tinkling with silverbracelets, but the ever-increasing crowd of Arabs and French officersand soldiers (tourists there were none at that time of year) scarcelytroubled to look at the dainty figures. They were waiting, eager-eyed. If Max had not known beforehand that something was expected, he wouldhave guessed it. At last she came, the great desert dancer said to bethe most beautiful Ouled Nail of her generation. 

Max did not see how or whence she arrived, but he heard the rustling andindrawing of breaths that heralded her coming. And then she was there, in the square left open for the dancing. All the light in the roomseemed to focus upon her, so did she scintillate from head to foot withspangles. Even he felt a throb of excitement as the tall, erect figurestood in the space between the benches, eying the audience from under along veil of green tissue almost covered with sparkling bits of gold andsilver. On her head she wore a high golden crown, and under the greenveil fell a long square shawl of some material which seemed wovenentirely of gold. Her dress was scarlet as poppy petals, and sheappeared to be draped in many layers of thin stuff that flashed outmetallic gleams. For a long moment she stood motionless. Then, when shehad made her effect, suddenly she threw up her veil. Winding it aroundher arm, she snatched it off her head, and paused again, unsmiling, statue-still, except for her immense dark eyes, encircled with kohl, which darted glances of pride and defiance round the silent room. Perhaps she was looking for some one whom she half expected might bethere. Max felt the long-lashed eyes fix themselves on him. Then, receiving no response, they passed on and shot a fiery challenge intothe eyes of a young caid in a gold-embroidered black cloak, who bentforward from his carpeted bench in a dream of admiration. 

She was perfect in her way, a living statue of pale bronze, with theeyes of a young tigress and the mouth of a passionate child. The goldcrown, secured with a scarf of glittering gauze, the rows of goldencoins that hung from her looped black braids over her bosom and down tothe huge golden buckle at her loosely belted waist, gave her the look ofan idol come to life and escaped from some shrine of an eastern temple. As she moved, to begin the promised dance, she exhaled from her body andhair and floating draperies strange, intoxicating perfumes which seemedto change with her motions--perfumes of sandalwood and ambergris andattar-of-rose. 

For the first time Max understood the meaning of the Ouled Nail dance. This child-woman of the desert, with her wicked eyes and sweet mouth, made it a pantomime of love in its first timid beginnings, its fears andhesitations, its final self-abandon and rapture. Ahmara was a dangerousrival for a daughter of Europe with such a man as Richard Stanton. 

When she had danced once, she refused to indulge the audience again, butstaring scorn at the company, accepted a cup of coffee from the handsomeyoung caid in the black mantle. She sat beside him with a fierce air ofbravado, and ignored every one else, as though the dimly lit room inwhich her spangles flamed was empty save for their two selves. So shewould have sat by Max if he had given back glance for glance; but hepushed his way out quickly when Ahmara's dance was over, and drew inlong, deep breaths of desert air, sweet with wild thyme, before he daredlet himself even think of Sanda. Sanda, who loved Stanton--with thisrecompense!

As he walked back to camp, to take what rest he could before the earlystart, he met a sergeant of his company, a tall Russian, supposed to bea Nihilist, who had saved himself from Siberia by finding sanctuary inthe Legion. 

"I have sent two men to look for you, " he said. "The colonel wants you. Go to his tent at once. "

Max went, and at the tent door met Richard Stanton coming out. Maxrecognized his figure rather than his features, for the light was at hisback. It shone into the Legionnaire's face as he stepped aside to letthe explorer pass, but Stanton's eyes rested on the corporal of theLegion without interest or recognition. The colonel had just bidden himgood-bye, and he strode away with long, nervous strides. "Will he go tothe café and see Ahmara with the caid?" The thought flashed throughMax's mind, but he had no time to finish it. Colonel DeLisle was callinghim into the tent. 

The only light was a lantern with a candle in it; yet saluting, Max sawat once that the colonel's face was troubled. 

"Have I done anything I oughtn't to have done?" he questioned himselfanxiously, but the first words reassured as much as they surprised him. 

"Corporal St. George, I sent for you because you are the only one amongmy men of whom I can ask the favour I'm going to ask. "

"A favour--from me to you, my Colonel?" Max echoed, astonished. 

"Yes. You asked me for one the other night, and I granted it because itwas easy, but this is different. This is very hard. If you do the thing, you will lose the march and the fight which we may come in for at theend. Is there anything that could make up to you for such a sacrifice?"

"But, my Colonel, " answered Max, "you have only to give me your orders, and whatever they may be I shall be happy to carry them out. " He spokefirmly, yet he could not hide the fact that this was a blow. He hadlooked forward to the march, hard as it might be, and to the excitementat the end as a thirsty man looks forward to a draught of water. 

"But I am not going to give you any orders, " said DeLisle. "It would notbe fair or right. This is a private matter. I have just received aletter from my daughter with rather bad news. I told you she wasstaying in the house of one of the great chiefs of the south, a friendof years' standing, who has a daughter of her age. I needn't give youdetails, but Sanda has unfortunately offended this man in perhaps theone way an Arab, no matter how enlightened, cannot forgive. From whatshe tells me I can't wholly blame him for his anger, but--it'simpossible for her to stop longer in his house. Not that she's indanger--no! that's incredible, Ben Râana being the man he is. An Arab'sideas of hospitality would prevent his offering to send a guest away, nomatter how much he might want to be rid of her. Yet I can't endure thethought of asking him for a caravan and guard after what seems to havehappened. You realize that it is impossible for me to go myself. My dutyis with my regiment. Once before, you watched over my daughter on ajourney--watched over her as a brother might watch over a sister. Thatis why I ask, as a favour from one man to another, whether you would bewilling to go to the Agha's house and escort my daughter here toTouggourt. I know how much I am exacting of a born soldier likeyourself. "

"My Colonel, you are conferring on me the Cross of the Legion ofHonour!" Max cried out impulsively. 

"Then you accept?"

"I implore you to accept _me_ for the service. "

"But do you thoroughly understand what it means? We go on without you. It will be hopeless for you to follow us. I give you eight days' leave, which will be ample time for the engaging of a small caravan--three orfour good men and the wife of one to act as servant to mydaughter--going to Ben Râana's place at Djazerta, arriving again atTouggourt, 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'm sorry to lose the experience, I'd rather be able to do this for you and for Mademoiselle DeLisle thananything else. "

"Thank you. That's settled then, except details. We'll arrange them atonce, for you must get off to-morrow as soon as possible after ourstart. Another man must be appointed in your place, Corporal. AtSidi-bel-Abbés you shall have special work while we are gone. Therehasn't been much time for thinking since I got the news, but I havethought that out. At first, I may as well tell you, my idea was to askStanton to put off his expedition and go to Ben Râana's. But--somethingI heard to-night turned me against that plan. I should like to haveanother man with you out of the regiment in case of trouble. Not thatthere can be trouble! But I shouldn't feel justified in asking for asecond volunteer. All the men are so keen! It's bad enough to send oneaway on a private matter of my own, and----"

In his flush of excitement the soldier interrupted his colonel. 

"Sir, I know of one! My friend would be glad 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 back to me afterward, and I'll giveyou all instructions. "

The name of the Agha and the name of the place where he lived wereringing through Max's head. Ben Râana--Djazerta!

The father of the girl Manöel Valdez loved and must save was the Agha ofDjazerta. Now Valdez need not desert!

CHAPTER VIII

GONE

There was keen curiosity and even jealousy concerning the errand whichsuddenly separated Corporal St. George and his chum Juan Garcia from themarch of the Legion. None of their late comrades knew why they had goneor where, unless it were Four Eyes, who swaggered about lookingsecretively wise. 

"I told St. George, " said he to such young men of the Tenth as wereadmitted to the honour of speech with the ex-champion, "I told St. George to fire first at an Arab's face if he got any fighting. That'sthe way! The Arab ain't prepared, and he's scared blue for fear of hishead bein' busted off his body. If that happens only his head goes toParadise 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 went round that St. George andGarcia had been sent off on special reconnaissance duty. And the Legionmarched as only the Legion can, with its heavy kit, its wonderful tricksto cure footsore feet, its fierce individual desire to bear more fatiguethan is human to endure, its wild gayety, its moods of sullen brooding. For a while it expected to see St. George and Garcia appear as suddenlyand mysteriously as they had disappeared. But they did not come back. And days and nights passed by; so at last, as the Legion drew nearer toEl Gadhari, the absent pair were talked of no more. There was much tothink of and to suffer, and it was not strange if they werehalf-forgotten except by two men: one who knew the secret and one whopretended to know: Colonel DeLisle and Four Eyes. 

 * * * * *

When Corporal St. George arrived at the oasis town of Djazerta he hadwith him in his small caravan no other man in the uniform of the Legion. He had only camel-drivers in white or brown burnouses, nomads who livein tents, and whose womenfolk go unveiled without losing the respect ofmen. They had come from the black tents outside Touggourt, all but one, who joined the party after it had started, following on a fast camel. Hewas a dark-faced man like the rest, and wore such garments as the otherswore, only less shabby than theirs, and none but the leader knew him orwhy he had come. The Arab fashion of covering the body heavily, andespecially of protecting the mouth in days of heat as well as cold, wasobserved religiously by this tall, grave person. The one woman of theband, Khadra, wife of the chief camel-driver, wondered if the strangerhad any disfigurement; but her husband smiled a superior smile, remarking that women have room in their minds only for curiosity aboutwhat can never concern them. As for the newcomer, he was as other men, though not as pleasant a companion as some. According to his ownaccount, he had been born in Djazerta, though he had lived in manyplaces and learned French and Spanish in order to make money as aninterpreter. 

When the caravan reached Djazerta they found the oasis town indulging infestivities because of the marriage of the Agha's daughter. Thecustomary week of feasting and rejoicing was at its height, but, to thedisappointment of every one, the bride and all the Agha's family had inthe midst of the celebrations suddenly gone out to the _douar_, thedesert encampment of the tribe over which Ben Râana ruled as chief. Thiswas unprecedented for the wedding of great personages that the end ofthe entertainment should take place in the _douar_; but it was said thatthe bride was ill with over-excitement, and rather than put off themarriage, her father had decided to try the effect of desert air. 

This was the news which was told to Max at the Agha's gates after hisforced march from Touggourt. It was translated for him into French byhis interpreter, the dark-faced man who covered his mouth even moreclosely than did the dwellers in the black tents near Touggourt; forMax, though he had studied Arabic of nights in the Legion's library, andtaken lessons from Garcia, could not yet understand the desert dialectswhen spoken quickly. An interpreter was a real necessity for him on adesert journey with Arabs to command, and as the two talked togetheroutside the open gate in the high white wall, discussing the situation, neither the Agha's men nor any man of the caravan could understand aword. The language they used was a mystery. French, English, Spanish--all were jargons to these people of the southern desert. 

"At the _douar_!" Max repeated. "Where is it?"

"Not twenty miles away, " answered Manöel, keeping all feeling out of hisvoice, as an interpreter should. "But it's between here and Touggourt. Not exactly on the way, still we could have reached it by taking adétour of a few kilometres off the caravan track and saved hours, precious hours. "

"Never mind, " said Max, worried though he was because of the delay thatmeant something to him, if not as much as to Manöel. "Never mind. Weshall be in time yet. They say the festivities are only half over. Thatmeans she isn't married. Buck up! I know this is a shock; but it isn't asurprise that the wedding feast should be on. You've been expectingthat. You've even been afraid it might be all over. "

"But something has happened, or they wouldn't have taken her away, "Manöel said. 

"Perhaps she tried to escape, " Max suggested. "Would it be harder forher to do that at the _douar_ than here?"

"In a way, yes. Here she might be hidden for a while in some house ofthe village: it's a rabbit warren, as you can see. Whereas, round the_douar_ lies the desert open 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 friend with an air of cheerfulness. Manöel knew the errandwhich had brought Corporal St. George (and incidentally himself) toDjazerta at this eleventh hour, but Max and he had never spoken togetherof Colonel DeLisle's daughter Sanda except casually, as Ourïeda's guest. Manöel, his thoughts centred upon his own affairs, had no idea thatMademoiselle DeLisle was personally of importance in St. George's life. If he had seen that Max was anxious, he would have taken the anxiety forsympathy with him, or else the nervousness of a keen soldier who hadonly eight days' leave and small provision for delays. 

Having finished their discussion, they politely refused an invitation, in the absent Agha's name, to spend the night in his guest house, andstarted out to retrace some kilometres of the track they had justtravelled. This, thought the Agha's head gatekeeper, was a foolishdecision, no matter how pressing might be the soldier's business withBen Râana, for already it was past sunset, and there was no moon. Thesemen were strangers, and could not know their way to the _douar_ exceptas it was described to them. But what could one expect? Their leader wasa Roumi, a Christian dog, and all such were fools in the eyes of God'schildren who knew that the lesson of life was patience. 

CHAPTER XIX

WHAT HAPPENED AT DAWN

Sanda DeLisle's short life had not been brilliantly happy. She had knownthe ache of feeling herself unwanted by the only two human beings ofparamount importance in her world: her almost unknown father, and heradored "Sir Knight" and hero Richard Stanton. But never for more than afew hours of concentrated pain, like those at Algiers, had she sufferedfor herself as she suffered for Ourïeda. 

The "Little Rose, " defenceless against the men who had power over herfate (as all Arab women are defenceless, unless they choose deathinstead of life), appealed to the latent motherhood that slept in theheart of Sanda, as in the heart of every normal girl: appealed to theromance in her: appealed to the sympathy born of her own love forStanton, which seemed as hopeless as Ourïeda's love for Manöel Valdez. Would Manöel come in answer to one of those secretly sent letters? Wouldanything happen to save Ourïeda from Tahar? The girl brought up to be aRoman Catholic prayed to the Blessed Virgin. The girl brought up to be aMohammedan prayed to Allah. And the prayers of both, ascending fromdifferent altars, like smoke of incense in a Christian church and in amosque, rose toward the same heaven. Yet no help came; and the summerdays slipped by, until at last it was September, the month fixed for thewedding. 

With the subtlety and soft cowardice of Mussulman women, young or old, Ourïeda said no word to her father of her loathing for Tahar. When Sandabegged her to tell him at least so much of the truth and trust to hislove, the girl replied always dully and hopelessly in the same way: itwould be useless. He was very fond of her, for her dead mother's sakeand her own. But the fire of youth had died down in his heart. He hadforgotten how he felt when love was the greatest thing on earth. Besides, his own wife had been the exception to all womanhood, in hiseyes. The child she had left had been his dear plaything, hisconsolation. Now he counted upon her to fulfil the ambitions of hislife, thwarted so far, because she had been a daughter. To have hisnephew, his heir by law, become the father of his grandsons, was hisbest hope now, and nothing except Ourïeda's death or Tahar's death wouldmake him give it up. 

"My dear nurse Embarka would kill Tahar for me if she could get at him, "the "Little Rose" said one day, calmly. "That would end my trouble, butshe cannot reach him, and there is no one she can trust among those whocook or serve food in the men's part of our house. "

Sanda was struck with horror, but Ourïeda could not at first evenunderstand why she was shocked. "If a viper were ready to strike you orone you loved, would you think harm of killing it?" she asked. "Tahar isvenomous as a viper. I should give thanks to Allah if he were dead, nomatter how he died. But since Allah does not will his death, I must prayfor courage to die myself rather than be false to Manöel, who hasperhaps himself gone to Paradise, since he does not answer when I call;and if a woman can have a soul, I may belong to him there. "

Sanda had forgiven her, realizing if not understanding fully thedifference between a heart of the East and a heart of the West, andloving the Arab girl with unabated love. Up to the hour when Ben Râanacame into the garden of the harem and bade his daughter praise Allahbecause her wedding day was at hand, Sanda hoped, and begged Ourïeda tohope, that "something might happen. " But even to her that seemed theend, for the girl listened with meekness and offered no objection exceptthat the hot weather had stolen her strength: she was not well. 

"Let the excitement of being a bride bring back thy health, like wine inthy veins, Little Rose, " said the Agha, speaking in French out ofcompliment to the guest, and to show her that there was no family secretunder discussion which she might not share. 

"It is not exciting to marry my cousin Tahar, " Ourïeda sighed ratherthan protested. "He is an ugly man, dreadful for a girl to look upon asher husband. "

"Thou makest me feel that thine aunt is right when she tells me I waswrong ever to let thee look upon him or any man except thy father, " theAgha answered quickly, with a sudden light behind the darkness of hiseyes like the flash of a sword in the night. Sanda, knowing what sheknew, guessed at a hidden meaning in the words. He was rememberingManöel, and wishing his daughter to see that he had never for a momentforgotten the thing that had passed. The Agha, despite his eagle face, had been invariably so gentle when with the women of his household, andhad seemed so cultured, so instructed in all the tenets of the twentiethcentury, that Sanda had sometimes wondered if his daughter were notneedlessly afraid of him. But the unsheathing of that sword of lightconvinced her of Ourïeda's wisdom. The girl knew her father. If shedared to urge any further her dislike of Tahar he would believe it wasbecause of Manöel, and hurry rather than delay the wedding. Illness wasthe only possible plea, and even to that Ben Râana seemed to attachlittle importance. Marriage meant change and new interests. It should bea tonic for a Rose drooping in the garden of her father's harem. 

"Thou seest for thyself that it is no use to plead, " whispered Ourïedawhen her father had gone, and Leila Mabrouka and her woman, Taous, onthe overhanging balcony, were loudly discussing details of the feast. "Now, at last, is the time to tell the thing I waited to tell, till theworst should come: the thing thou couldst do for me, which would be evenharder to do, and take more courage--oh! far more courage!--than leavingthe letters open. "

The look in Ourïeda's eyes of topaz brown was more tragic, morestrangely fatal than Sanda had ever seen it yet, even on the roof in thesunset when the story of Manöel had been told. The heart of her friendfelt like a clock that is running down. She was afraid to know the thingwhich Ourïeda wanted her to do; yet she must know--and make up her mind. It seemed as if there were nothing she could refuse, still----

"What is it you mean?" she whispered back, the two heads leaningtogether over a frame of bright embroidery in Ourïeda's lap, and thetinkle of the fountain drowning the soft voices, even if the chatter atthe door of Leila Mabrouka's room above had not covered the secretwords. 

"When I said there was a thing I would ask, if the worst came, " Ourïedarepeated, "I meant one of two things. If thou wilt do either, they arefor thee to choose between. But thou wilt think them both terrible, andmy only hope is that thou lovest me. "

"You know I do, " Sanda breathed. 

"Enough to do what I am too poor a coward to do for myself, and Embarkahas refused to do?"

"Not--oh, no, no, you can't mean----"

"Yes, thou hast guessed. No one need ever suspect. I would think of away. I've thought of one already. There'd be no pain for me. And yet--Isuppose because I am young and my blood runs hot in my veins, I fear--Iam sure--I couldn't, when the moment came, do it myself. "

"Even for you, I can't be a murderess, " Sanda said miserably, almostapologetically. 

"It is thy strange Christian superstition which makes thee call it that. It would be our fate; and thou couldst go away and be happy, feelingthou hadst saved me from life which is worse than death sometimes. Still, if thou wilt not, there is the other thing. Will thou help me toescape?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Sanda. 

"Wait till thou hast heard my plan. Maybe thou wilt change thy mind. "

"I feel sure I shan't change it. "

"But the plan may make thee hate me, and think I am cruel and selfish, caring for no one except myself. Besides, there will be lies to tell;and I know thou dost not like lies, 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 the balcony her AuntMabrouka--Tahar's mother--chatted of the merchants in Djazerta who soldsilks from Tunis and perfumes from Algiers. 

The plan was very hateful, very dangerous and treacherous. But--it wasto save Ourïeda. The Arab girl proposed to Sanda that she should pretendto have a letter from Colonel DeLisle calling her back at once toSidi-bel-Abbés, not giving her even time to wait for the wedding. BenRâana would reluctantly consent to her going: he would give her anescort--not Tahar, because Tahar must stay for his marriage--but sometrustworthy men of his _goum_, and good camels. On the camel preparedfor her would be of course a bassourah with heavy curtains: probably theone in which she had already travelled. It went also without saying thatSanda would make the journey in Arab dress, such as she had worn duringher visit. Ourïeda would pretend to be ill with grief because her friendmust leave her at such a time; already she had prepared the Agha's mindby complaining of weakness. She would take to her bed and refuse to seeany one but her nurse, Embarka. Lella Mabrouka, glad to be rid of theRoumia girl (of whom, beneath her politeness, she had alwaysdisapproved), and hating illness, would gladly keep out of the way fortwo or three days, while the wedding preparations went on. It would beeasy, or almost easy, if no accident happened, Ourïeda argued, for herto go away veiled and swathed in the bassourah, while Sanda lay in bedin a darkened room. At Touggourt the veiled lady would be met by thatCaptain Amaranthe and his wife of whom Sanda had spoken: they must bewritten to immediately and told to expect Mademoiselle DeLisle. Thentrouble might come, if they suspected, but perhaps they would not, ifSanda wrote that she had been ill with influenza and had nearly lost hervoice. They might send her off by train, guessing nothing, or, if theydid guess, she must throw herself on Madame Amaranthe's mercy. No womanwith a heart would give her up! And if the plan succeeded, instead ofgoing to Sidi-bel-Abbés she would go to Oran where she could find a shipthat would take her to Marseilles. Her jewels (some which had been hermother's, and many new ones given by her father) would pay the expensesand keep her in France, hidden from Ben Râana and beyond his power, until perhaps Manöel found her through advertisements she would put intoall the French papers. 

As for Sanda, the result for her when the trick was discovered (as itought not to be until Ourïeda had got out of Algeria) would be simple. She was the daughter of Ben Râana's friend, a soldier of importance inthe eyes of France. Colonel DeLisle had entrusted her to the Agha'scare, and she could not be punished as though she were an Arab woman. IfEmbarka or any member of Ben Râana's household so betrayed him and hisdearest hopes the right revenge would be death, and no one outside wouldever hear what had been done, for tragedies of the harem are sacred. ToMademoiselle DeLisle, however, her host could do nothing, except sendher with a safe escort out of his home. And that would be her onedesire. 

At first it seemed to Sanda that she could not do what Ourïeda asked. With tears she said no, they must think of some other way. And theLittle Rose did not argue or plead. She answered only that she hadthought, and there was no other way but the one which Sanda had refused. Then she was silent, and the light died out of her eyes, leaving themdull, almost glazed, as if her soul, that had been gazing through thewindows, had gone to some dark sepulchre of hope. 

It was because of this silence and this look that Sanda changed hermind, after one day and night, all of which she spent--vainly--in tryingto find another plan. A letter did come from her father, as she andOurïeda had hoped it might (Colonel DeLisle, while still atSidi-bel-Abbés, found time to scribble off a few lines to his girl foreach camel post that travelled through the dunes from Touggourt toDjazerta), and in sickness of heart Sanda pretended that she was wanted"at home. " The Agha was grieved and astonished, but, great Arabgentleman that he was, would have cut out his tongue rather thanquestion his guest when no information was volunteered. He asked only ifshe had been in all ways kindly treated in his house; and when withswimming eyes she answered "yes, " it was enough. The caravan wasprepared to take her to Touggourt, where she would be met by her formertravelling companions, Captain Amaranthe and his wife; and the Aghaassured her that only the marriage--an event unlucky topostpone--prevented him from sending his nephew as before, or goinghimself as her escort. 

The start was to be made very early in the morning, before dawn, inorder that the caravan might rest during the two hours of greatest heatwithout shortening the day's march; and this was in the girl's favour. Sanda had said farewell to Lella Mabrouka the night before, that thelady need not wake before her usual hour: but not only did she wake; sherose, very quietly, and saw Embarka tiptoeing along the balcony fromSanda's room to Ourïeda's with the new gandourah and extra thick veilshe herself had given the guest to travel in. When Embarka was out ofthe way Lella Mabrouka, in her night robe, pattered softly to Sanda'sclosed door and knocked. No answer. She peeped in and saw the roomempty. 

Sanda might have gone to bid Ourïeda good-bye at the last minute: thatwould be natural; and it was the last minute, because the sky waschanging its night purple for the gray of dawn, and from the distantcourtyard Lella Mabrouka had heard some time ago the grunting of thecamels. (She was a light sleeper always: and afterward she told BenRâana and Tahar that Allah had doubtless sent some messenger to touchher shoulder at this hour of fate. ) She had had no definite suspicionsuntil that moment, except that she was always vaguely suspicious of thegirls' confidences; but suddenly an idea leaped into her mind, thesuggestion of just such a trick as she herself would have been subtleenough to play. If the Roumia went to the room of her friend to disturbher (though Ourïeda had been ailing for days), why did she not goalready dressed, by Embarka's help, for the start, since it was time toset out, and the Agha must be waiting in the courtyard to bid Allahspeed his guest? There might be a simple and innocent reason for whatstruck Lella Mabrouka as mysterious, but she determined to find out. With suddenness she flung open the door of Ourïeda's room (whichEmbarka, believing Lella Mabrouka safely asleep, had not locked), and bythe light of a French lamp she saw the old nurse draping Ourïeda in theRoumia's veil. In Ourïeda's green and gold bed from Tunis lay Sanda in anightdress of Ourïeda's with her head wrapped up as Ourïeda's was oftenwrapped by Embarka as a cure for headache. 

Instantly the whole plot was clear to the mother of Tahar. She saw howOurïeda had meant to go, and how Sanda would have kept her place, guarded from intrusion by the old nurse, until the fugitive was safelyout of reach. 

Ourïeda, quick of mind as the older and more experienced woman, explained without waiting to be asked that she and her dearest Sanda hadexchanged clothing, just for a moment, according to the old Arabsuperstition that garments changed between those who love have the powerof giving some quality of the owner to the friend. Sanda said nothing atall, knowing that she would but make matters worse by speaking. When sheunderstood what the story was to be (she had given hours of each dayduring the past months to learning Arabic) she sat up in bed and begununwrapping her head as if to prepare for the journey, now that timepressed, and she must again put on her own things. But if she had hadthe slightest hope that Lella Mabrouka might be deceived by Ourïeda'splausible excuse, the cold glint of black eyes staring at her in thelamplight would have stabbed it to death. 

A woman of Europe, burning with rage like Mabrouka's, might have blurtedout fierce reproaches or insults; but the woman of the harem did noteven put her discovery into words. She looked at Ourïeda and the Roumia, and said quietly: "It was a charming idea to wear each other's clothesso that each might have something of the other in her heart forever. Already I can see a likeness. But do not hurry to change now. I came tosay that for a reason, to be explained later, the caravan cannot startto-day. Our Little White Moon will light our sky for a time longer. Comewith me, Embarka, I have work for thee. These dear children may have thepleasure of dressing each other. "

Ashy pale under her bronze skin, Embarka obeyed without protest, throwing one look at her beloved mistress as she followed Lella Mabroukato her fate. Her great, dilated eyes said: "Good-bye forever, oh, thouwhom I love, and for whom I have given myself without regret. "

When they were left alone the girls fell into each other's arms as iffor protection against some terrible fate coming swiftly to destroythem. Though the September dawn had in it the warmth of summer, theyshivered as they clung together. 

"It is all over!" Ourïeda said. "Allah is against me. "

"What will happen?" asked Sanda, a horror of the unknown upon her. 

"Nothing to thee. Do not be afraid. "

"I'm not afraid for myself. I am thinking of you. "

"For me this is the end. "

"You don't mean--surely your father will not----"

"He will not take my life. He will take from me his love. And I shall bewatched every instant till I have been given to Tahar. I shall not evenhave a chance to kill myself--unless I do it now. "

"Ourïeda! No--there's hope still. Who can tell----"

But Ourïeda did not hear. Suddenly she tore herself free from Sanda'sarms, and running to one of the carved cedarwood doors in the white wallof the bedroom, opened a little cupboard. There, fumbling among perfumedparcels, rolled as Arab women roll their garments, she snatched from abundle of silk a small stiletto with a jewelled handle. Sanda had seenit before, and had been bidden to admire its rough, square emeralds andqueerly shaped pearls. The thing had belonged to Ourïeda's mother, andhad been given to the daughter by the Agha on her sixteenth birthday, nearly a year ago. Ben Râana's Spanish wife had worn it in her darkhair; but Ben Râana's daughter, even from the first, had thought of itfor another purpose. Last night, when Embarka had packed the jewelsamong Sanda's things for the secret journey, Ourïeda had kept out thestiletto in case of failure. Now it was ready to her hand, and beforeSanda could reach her the point of its thin blade pressed the flesh overthe heart. But the pin prick of pain as the skin broke was too sharp aprophecy of anguish for the petted child who knew herself physically acoward. She gave a cry, dropped the stiletto as if the handle had burnther, and, stumbling against the girl who tried to hold her up, fell in alimp heap on the floor. 

There was no time to hide the stiletto, even if Sanda had thought to doso, before Taous, Lella Mabrouka's woman, came quietly into the room. Nodoubt Mabrouka had meant to send her, but had not told the girls, because she wished her servant to surprise them. Gathering up Ourïeda, who had fainted, or seemed to faint, the negress's bright eyes spied thedagger. Freeing one hand as easily as if Ourïeda's weight had been thatof a baby, she took the weapon and slipped it into her dress. Whethershe meant to show the dagger to her mistress, or to keep it for herself, who could say?

Sanda would not leave Ourïeda when the girl had been laid on the bed byTaous, but presently, after half an hour's absence, Lella Mabroukareturned. "Thou mayest go now, " said the formidable woman. "We who loveand understand her will restore our Rose with her name's perfume, whichhas the power of bringing back lost senses. Have no fear for her health, Little Moon. All will be well with our sweet bride. Dress thyself, notfor a journey, but for a visit from my brother, the Agha, who will dohimself the honour of calling upon thee when thou art ready to descendto our reception-room. Thou being a Roumia, with customs different toours, may receive him alone, otherwise I would leave our Little Rose toTaous, and go with thee. "

Despite the unbroken courtesy of Mabrouka's manner, or all the morebecause of its frozen calm, Sanda was sick with a deadly fear. She wasnot afraid that the Agha would do her bodily harm, but the whole worldseemed to have come to an end because of her treachery. She did not knowhow she could meet his eyes, those eyes of an eagle, after what she hadtried to do. She was afraid he would question her about what she knew ofOurïeda's secrets, and though she resolved that nothing should make herspeak, her heart seemed turning to water. 

CHAPTER XX

THE BEAUTY DOCTOR

"If my father were only here!" Sanda said as she went down to the greatroom of state where the ladies of the Agha's harem received their fewvisitors. And then she thought of Maxime St. George, her soldier. Sherecalled the night when she had been afraid of the storm, and he had satby her through the long hours. Somehow, she did not know why, it helpeda little to remember that. 

Ben Râana, graver and sterner than she had seen him, was waiting in theearly dawn which struck out bleak lights from the dangling prisms of thebig French chandeliers--the ugly chandeliers of which Lella Mabrouka wasproud. He asked no questions; and somehow that seemed worse than theordeal for which Sanda had braced herself. The Agha's voice, politelyspeaking French, was studiously gentle, but icy contempt was in his darkeyes when they were not deliberately turned from the trusted guest whohad betrayed him. He said he had summoned her to announce, with regret, that, owing to the illness of the man appointed as conductor of thecaravan, it would not be able to start for some time. At present therewas no other person equally trustworthy who could be spared. "I amresponsible to thy father for thy safety, " he added. "And though we poorArabs are behind these modern times in many ways, we would die ratherthan betray a trust. "

That was a stroke well aimed under the roses of courtesy, and Sandacould but receive it in silence. She had supposed when Lella Mabroukaspoke of the caravan not going that it was only a threat. Herexpectation was to be sent out of the house at once, in disgrace, andthough her soul yearned over Ourïeda, all that was timid in her pined togo. It was surprising--if anything could surprise her then--to hear thatshe must remain. 

"Almost surely I shan't be allowed to see Ourïeda again, and if I can'thelp her any more I might as well beg father to send for me at once, "she told herself, when Ben Râana, formally taking leave of her, withhand on forehead and heart, had gone. She went slowly and miserably toher own room to await developments, and while she waited, hastily wrotethe message to Colonel DeLisle which three days later found him atTouggourt. 

In writing, she feared that her letter might never be allowed to reachher father; but she wronged Ben Râana. He had spoken no more than thetruth (though he spoke to hurt) in saying he would rather die thanbetray a trust. At that time he still kept his calmness, because theplot arranged by the two girls had not succeeded. His daughter was stillsafe under his own roof, and it was not an unexpected blow to him thatshe should have wished to escape from Tahar. He knew in his heart thatOurïeda was more to blame than Sanda, and seeing shame on the young, pale face of the Roumia he had no fear of anything George DeLisle'sdaughter might report to her father. Her letter went by the courier, asall her other letters had gone. Mabrouka's advice to keep it back, orat least to steam the envelope open and see what was inside, was scornedby Ben Râana; and to Sanda's astonishment she was actually sent for tovisit Ourïeda. 

This was in the afternoon of the day whose dawn had seen the girls'defeat. Ourïeda was in bed, and Taous sat by the open door with anembroidery frame. But Taous understood neither French nor English. Inexchange for the lessons Ourïeda gave Sanda in Arabic, Sanda had givenlessons in English; therefore, lest Aunt Mabrouka might be listening, and lest she might have picked up more French than she cared to confess, the two girls chose the language of which Ourïeda had learned tounderstand more than she could speak. 

"How thankful I am to see you, dearest!" cried Sanda. "Didn't you think, after what your aunt said, that I should be sent away this morning?Would you have dreamed, even if I stayed, that we should be allowed tomeet and talk like this?"

Ourïeda answered, slowly and brokenly, that she had not believed Sandawould be permitted to go. Aunt Mabrouka had not stopped to reflect whenshe had made that threat, or else she had hoped to part them, and tomake Ourïeda believe Sanda had gone. "You see, " the girl explained inher halting English, "they--my father and my aunt--shall have too muchof the fear to let you go till after all is finished. "

"Finished?"

"When the marrying has been over thou canst go. Then it too late. Myfather shall be sure, thee and me, we know where M---- is, that our planwas for him. I say no, but he not believe. That is for why they keepthee here, so thou not tell M---- things about me. But my father, heshall not be mean and little in his mind like my aunt. He not listen tothe words she speak when she say not let us meet together. My fatherknow very well now we shall be finded out, it is the end for us. He nothave fear for what we do if some person shall watch to see I not killmyself. "

"What has become of poor Embarka?" Sanda asked. 

Ourïeda shook her head, unutterable sadness in her eyes. "I think nevershall I know that in this world. "

Ill, without feigning, as the girl was, the wedding was to be hurriedon. The original idea had been for the week of wedding festivities tobegin on the girl's seventeenth birthday; but now Ben Râana said that, in promising his daughter the delay she asked for, he had alwaysintended to begin the week before and give the bride to the bridegroomon the anniversary of her birth. 

Ourïeda no longer pleaded. She had given up hope, and resigned herselfwith the deadly calmness of resignation which only women of theMussulman faith can feel. It was clear that her will was not as Allah'swill. And women came not on earth for happiness. It was not sure thatthey even had souls. 

"Allah has appointed that I marry my cousin Tahar, " she said to Sanda, "and I shall marry him, because I have not another stiletto nor anypoison, and I am always watched so that, even if I had the courage, Icould not throw myself down from the roof. But afterward--I am not sureyet what I shall do. All I know is that I shall never be a wife toTahar. Something will happen to one of us. It may be to me, or it maybe to him. But something _must_ happen. "

The Agha himself had caused to be built at Djazerta a _hammam_ copied inminiature after a fine Moorish bath in Algiers, at which he bathed whenhe went north to attend the governor's yearly ball. All Arab brides ofhigh rank or low must go through great ceremonies of the bath in theweek of the wedding feast, and no exception could be made in Ourïeda'scase. The privacy of the _hammam_ was secured for the Agha's daughter byhiring it for a day, and no one was to be admitted to the women's partof the bath except the few ladies who had enough social importance toexpect invitations. That Lella Mabrouka and Sanda would be there was amatter of course; and, besides them, there were the wives and daughtersof two or three sheikhs and caids, all of whom Sanda already knew bysight, as they had paid ceremonious visits to the great man's haremsince her arrival at Djazerta. 

The Agha had a carriage, large, old-fashioned, and musty-smelling, butlined with gold-stamped crimson silk from Tunis. It could be used onlybetween his house and the town, or to reach the oasis just beyond, forthere was nowhere else to go; but, drawn by stalwart mules in Spanishharness, for years it had taken the ladies of his household to the bathsand back. Lella Mabrouka and Taous (both veiled, though they had passedthe age of attractiveness when hiding the face is obligatory) chaperonedthe bride and her friend, the coachman and his assistant being fat andelderly eunuchs. 

At the doorway of the domed building, the only new one in Djazerta, there was much stately fuss of screening the ladies as they left theseclusion of the carriage. Then came a long, tiled corridor, whichopened into a room under the dome of the _hammam_, and there the partywas met not only by bowing female attendants, but by the guests, who hadarrived early to welcome them. Ourïeda was received with pretty criesand childlike, excited chattering, not only by her girl friends, but theolder women. All were undressed, ready for the bath, or they could nothave followed the bride to the hot rooms; and that was the object andpleasure of the visit. Every one shrieked compliments as the clothing ofthe Agha's daughter was delicately removed by the beaming negresses; andgifts of gold-spangled bonbons, wonderfully iced cakes, crystallizedfruit, flowers, gilded bottles of concentrated perfume, mother-o'-pearland tortoise boxes, gaudy silk handkerchiefs made in Paris for Algerianmarkets, and little silver fetiches were presented to the bride. Shethanked the givers charmingly, though in a manner so subdued and with aface so grave that the visitors would have been astonished had not LellaMabrouka explained that she had been ill with an attack of fever. 

From hot room to hotter room the women trooped, resting, when they feltinclined, upon mattings spread on marble, while the bride, the queen ofthe occasion, was given a divan. They ate sweets and drank pink sherbetor syrup-sweet coffee, and, instead of being bathed by one of theattendants, Ourïeda was waited upon by a great personage who came toDjazerta only for the weddings of the highest. Originally she was fromTunis, where her profession is a fine art; but having been supersededthere she had moved to Algiers, then to Touggourt; and thence the Aghahad summoned her for his daughter. She was Zakia, _la hennena_, askilled beautifier of women; and she had been sent for, some days inadvance of the great occasion, in order (being past her youth) torecover from the fatigue of the journey. None of the young girls hadever seen her, and exclaiming with joy they fingered her scented pastesand powders. 

This bridal bath ceremony, being more intricate than any ordinary bath, took a long time, and when it was over, and Ourïeda a perfumed statue ofivory, the cooling-room was entered for the dyeing of the bride's hair. The girl's face showed how she disliked the process; but it being anunwritten law that the hair of an Arab bride must be coloured with_sabgha_, she submitted. After the first shudder she sat with downcasteyes, looking indifferent, for nothing mattered to her now. Since Manöelwould never see it again, and perhaps it would soon lie deep under earthin a coffin, she cared very little after all that the long hair he hadthought beautiful must lose its lovely sheen for fashion's sake. 

Now and then, as she worked, Zakia stooped over her victim, bringing herold, peering face close to the bowed face of the girl to make sure thedye did not touch it. Sanda, who had been grudgingly granted a thinmuslin robe for the bath because of her strange Roumia ideas of baringthe face and covering the body, noticed these bendings of _la hennena_, but thought nothing of them until she happened to catch a new expressionin Ourïeda's eyes. Suddenly the gloom of hopelessness had gone out ofthem: and it could not be that this was the effect of the complimentsrained upon her in chorus by the guests, for until that instant the mostfantastic praise of hair, features, and figure had not extorted a smile. What could the woman have said to give back in an instant the girl'slost bloom and sparkle? Sanda wondered. It was like a miracle. But itlasted only for a moment. Then it seemed that by an effort Ourïedamasked herself once more with tragedy. She turned one of her slow, sadglances toward her aunt; and Sanda was sure she looked relieved onseeing Lella Mabrouka absorbed in talk with the plump wife of a caid. 

According to custom in great houses of the south, _la hennena_ wasescorted, after the women's fête at the _hammam_, to the home of thebride, where she was to spend the remainder of the festive week inheightening the girl's beauty. She was given the guest-room of theharem, second in importance to that occupied by Colonel DeLisle'sdaughter. This, as it happened, was nearer to Ourïeda's room thanSanda's or even Lella Mabrouka's; and as, during the two days thatfollowed, Zakia was almost constantly occupied in blanching the bride'sivory skin with almond paste, staining her fingers red as coral with adecoction of henna and cochineal, and saturating her hair and body witha famous permanent perfume, sometimes Lella Mabrouka and Taous venturedto leave the two girls chaperoned only by _la hennena_. That was becauseneither had seen the sudden light in Ourïeda's eyes after the face ofZakia had approached hers at the _hammam_. 

For the first day there was no solution of the mystery for Sanda, whohad waited to hear she knew not what. But at last, in a room litteredwith pastes and perfume bottles, and lighted by the traditional longcandles wound with coloured ribbon, Ourïeda spoke, in Arabic, that the_hennena_ might not be hurt. 

"Zakia says I may tell thee our secret, " she said. "At first she wasafraid, but now she sees that she may trust thee as I do. Didst thouguess there was a secret?"

"Yes, " answered Sanda. 

"I thought so! Well, it is this: At the _hammam_ is employed a cousin ofEmbarka's. I feared never to hear of Embarka again; but my father ismore enlightened than I thought. He might have ordered her death, andthe eunuchs would have obeyed, and no one would ever have known. Yet hedid no more than send her away, giving her no time even to pack thatwhich was hers. He did not care what became of her, being sure that shecould never again enter our house. But he did not know of the cousin inthe _hammam_. And perhaps he did not stop to think that I might havegiven Embarka jewels for helping me. She would have helped withoutpayment, because she loved me. But I wished to reward her. She hid thethings in her clothing; and when she was turned out she still thought ofme, not of herself. She knew I would go to the _hammam_ before mymarriage, and that Zakia had been sent for to bathe me and make mebeautiful. So she gave her cousin there a present, and all the rest ofthe jewels she gave to Zakia, for a promise Zakia made. Nothing hasEmbarka kept of all my gifts. It was like her! The rest is easy now. Ishall never again know happiness, but neither shall I know the shame ofgiving myself to a man I hate when heart and soul belong to one Ilove. "

"Can _la hennena_ help you to escape?" Sanda wanted to know. 

"From Tahar, yes. Here is the way, " Ourïeda answered. And she held outfor Sanda to see a tiny pearl-studded gold box, one of many quaintornaments on a chain the girl always wore round her neck. She hadexplained the meaning or contents of each fetich long ago, and Sandaknew all about the sacred eye from Egypt, the white coral horn to wardoff evil, the silver and emerald case with a text from the Koran blessedby a great saint or marabout, and the pearl-crusted gold box containinga lock of hair certified to be that of Fatma Zora, the Prophet'sfavourite daughter. 

"I have put the hair with the text, " said Ourïeda. "Look, in its placethis tiny bottle of white powder. Canst thou guess what it is for?"

The blood rushed to Sanda's face, then back to her heart. But she didnot answer. She only looked at Ourïeda: a wide-eyed, fascinated look. 

"Thou hast guessed, " the Agha's daughter said in a very little voicelike a child's. "But I shall not use it if, when I have told him how Ihate him, he consents to let me alone. If he is a fool, why, he bringshis fate on himself. This is for his lips, if they try to touch mine. "

"But, " Sanda gasped; "you would be a----"

"I know the word in thy mind. It is 'murderess. ' Yet my conscience wouldbe clear. It would be for the sake of my love--to keep true to mypromise at any cost. And the cost might be my life. They would findout; they would know how he died. This is no coward's act like smilingat a man and giving him each day powdered glass or chopped hair of aleopard in his food, which many of our women do, to kill and leave notrace. If I break, I pay. "

As she spoke the door opened and Lella Mabrouka came swiftly into theroom, fierce-eyed as a tigress whose cub is threatened. She wastight-lipped and silent, but her eyes spoke, and all three knew that shehad listened. Such words as she had missed her quick wit had caught andpatched together. Ourïeda's wish to propitiate Zakia by not seeming totalk secrets before her had undone them both. But it was too late forregrets, and even for lies. 

Lella Mabrouka clapped her hands, and Taous came, to be told in a tensevoice that the Agha must be summoned. Then Mabrouka turned to theRoumia. 

"Go, thou! This has nothing to do with thee, " was all she said. 

Sanda glanced at her friend, and an answering glance bade her obey. Sherose and went out, along the balcony to the door of her own room. Thisshe left open, thinking with a fast-beating heart that if there were anycry she would run back, no matter what they might do to her. But therewas no cry, no sound of any kind, only the cooing of doves which hadflown down into the fountain court, hoping Ourïeda might throw themcorn. 

The custom of the house was for the three ladies to take their mealstogether in a room where occasionally, as a great honour, the Agha dinedwith them. That evening a tray of food was brought to Sanda with politeregrets from Lella Mabrouka because she and her niece were tooindisposed by the hot weather to forsake the shelter of their rooms. Politeness, always politeness, with these Arabs of high birth andmanners! thought the Irish-French girl in a passionate revolt againstthe curtain of silk velvet softly let down between her and the secretsof Ben Râana's harem. This time it might be, she said to herself, thatpoliteness covered tragedy. But the same night she received anothermessage from Mabrouka. It was merely to say that, the air of Djazertanot being healthful at this time of year, the Agha had decided, for hisdaughter's sake, to finish the week of the wedding feast out in thedesert, at the _douar_. 

CHAPTER XXI

THE ELEVENTH HOUR

When Max, at the head of his small caravan, came in sight of the Agha's_douar_, it was almost noon, and the desert, shimmering with heat, wasmotionless, as if under enchantment. They had travelled through thenight, after learning that Ben Râana and his family had gone fromDjazerta, with intervals of rest no longer than those allowed to theLegion on march. What they saw was a giant tent as large as a circustent in a village of America or Europe surrounded at a distance by anarmy of little tents, black and dirty brown, so flat and low that theywere like huge bats with outstretched wings resting on the sand. Thegreat tent of the chief with its high roof, its vast spread of white, red, and amber striped cloth of close-woven camel's hair, rose noblyabove all the others, as a mosque rises above a crowd of prostrateworshippers at prayer. For background, there was a clump of trees; forhere, in the far southern desert, just outside a waving welter of dunes, lay a region of _dayas_, where a wilderness of sand and tumbled stoneswas brightened by green hollows half full of gurgling water. 

Never before had Max seen a _douar_ of importance, the desert dwellingof a desert chief. But Manöel had been here before; and thecamel-drivers, if they had not visited this _douar_, were familiar withothers. Max alone wondered at the great tent, whose many differentcompartments sheltered the Agha, his whole family, and servants broughtfrom Djazerta. As the caravan wound nearer to watching eyes, anothertent, not so big, but new and brilliant of colour, separated itself fromthe vast bulk of the _tente sultane_. 

"What is that?" Max asked Manöel, who rode beside him as interpreter, his dark-stained face almost covered by the white folds of his woollenhood, the fire of his young eyes dimmed and aged by a pair of cheap, silver-rimmed spectacles such as elderly Arabs wear. 

"The Agha must have ordered that new tent to be set up for Tahar, "Manöel answered gruffly; and Max guessed from the sharpening of his toneand the brevity of his explanation that this was the desert dwellingappointed for the bridegroom when he should take his bride. 

In the boldness of their plan lay its hope of success; for though BenRâana's suspicions were on the alert he would not expect the banishedlover to ride brazenly up to his tent, side by side with a soldiermessenger from Colonel DeLisle. There was an instant of suspense afterthe corporal on leave and his Arab interpreter were received by the Aghain a reception-room whose walls were red woollen draperies; but it wasscarcely longer than a heartbeat. Ben Râana had just come out fromanother room beyond, where, the curtains falling apart, several guestsin the high turbans of desert dignitaries could be seen seated oncushions and waited upon by Soudanese men who were serving a meal. 

The Agha scarcely glanced at Max's companion, the dark, spectacled Arab, but announcing in French that no interpreter would be needed, he clappedhis hands to summon a servant. One of the black men lifted the redcurtains higher and came in, received instructions as to theinterpreter's entertainment, and led him away. Max could hardly keepback a sigh of relief, for that had been a bad moment. Now it was over, and with it his personal responsibility in his friend's adventure. Ithad been agreed between them that Colonel DeLisle's messenger to BenRâana should have no further hand in the plot against the Agha. The restwas for Manöel alone, unless at the end help should be necessary (andpossible) for Ourïeda's rescue. 

Max delivered a letter from DeLisle, and the Agha read it slowlythrough. Then he raised his eyes and fixed them upon the Legionnaire asif wondering how far he might be in his colonel's confidence. 

"My friend has sent thee to escort his daughter to Sidi-bel-Abbés, " BenRâana said thoughtfully. "Although he cannot be there himself, hebelieves the northern climate will be better for her health at this timeof year. Perhaps he is right; though my daughter, whom she has visited, would have been delighted as a married woman to keep MademoiselleDeLisle with her. However, my friend's will is as Allah's will. It mustbe done. The day after to-morrow my daughter's wedding feast will beover and she will go to her husband's tent. Remain here quietly tillthen as my guest. Thy interpreter and the persons of thy caravan shallbe well cared for, I promise thee, by my household. When my daughterleaves me the daughter of my friend shall go in peace at the same hour, in thy charge. "

As he spoke his eyes remained on the messenger's face, watching for anychange of expression, and noting the flush that mounted through thesoldier-tan. 

"I am very sorry, " said Max, "but Colonel DeLisle has given me onlyshort leave. There was just enough time to get me to Djazerta, fromTouggourt, and to do the journey comfortably to Sidi-bel-Abbés. He is aprompt man, as you know. He thinks and acts quickly. It didn't occur tohim that there need be any great delay. Already there has been a daylost returning from Djazerta, where I heard that you were at your_douar_. A day and a half here, much as I should like to be your guest, would mean overstaying my leave. That, you will see, is impossible. "

"If it is impossible, I fear that thou must go from here with thymission unfulfilled and without Mademoiselle, " replied the Agha, irritatingly calm. "For on my side it is impossible to let her go beforemy daughter is--_safely_ married. "

He smiled as he spoke, but the pause and the emphasis on a certain wordwere deliberate. Max was meant to understand it, in case DeLisle hadconfided in him. If not, it did not matter; he would realize that he hadhad his ultimatum. Max did realize this, and, after a stunned second, accepted the inevitable. 

"I'll write to Sidi-bel-Abbés and explain. It's all I can do, " was thethought which ran through his head as he politely informed the Agha thathe would, at any cost, wait for Mademoiselle DeLisle. 

"May I see her and deliver in person a letter I have from her father?"he asked. 

But Ben Râana regretted that this might not be until all was ready forthe start, which must be made in the evening after the end of themarriage feast, unless Corporal St. George preferred to wait till themorning after. The customs of a country must be respected by thosesojourning in that country; and the Arab ladies visiting the _douar_would be scandalized if a young girl were allowed to speak with astrange man. There was nothing for it but submission, and Max submitted, inwardly raging. He wrote explanations to the officer left in charge atSidi-bel-Abbés, the man to whom he must report; but no letter couldreach DeLisle for many weeks. 

He was entertained as the Agha's guest, being introduced to Tahar BenHadj and several caids invited for the bridegroom's part of thefestivities. There was much feasting, with music and strange dances inTahar's tent at night, and outside, fantasia for the _douar_ in honourof the wedding; sheep roasted whole, and "powder play. " What was goingon in the bride's half of her father's great tent Max did not know, buthe fancied that, above the beating of Tahar's tomtoms and the wildsinging of an imported Arab tenor, he could hear soft, distant wailingsof the ghesbah and the shrill "You--you--you!" of excited women. Hewondered if Sanda knew that he had come to take her away, and whetherManöel had contrived to send a message to the bride. 

 * * * * *

That same night Khadra Bent Djellab, the woman who had travelled fromTouggourt to return as Sanda's attendant, came from the camp of thecaravan asking if she might see her new mistress. All was hurry andconfusion in the women's part of the _tente sultane_, for a great feastwas going on which would last through most of the night. The excitedservants told Khadra that she must go, and come again to the tent in themorning; but just then the music for a dance of love began, and Khadrabegged so hard to stay that she was allowed to stand with the servants. She had never seen Sanda DeLisle, but she had been told by theinterpreter ("an order from the master, " said he, slipping a five-francpiece into her hand) that there would be no other Roumia in the company. When Khadra caught sight of a golden-brown head, uncovered among theheads wrapped in coloured silks or gauze, she cautiously edged nearerit, behind the double rank of serving-women. All were absorbed instaring at the dancing-girl, a celebrity who had been brought from anoasis town farther south. She had arrived at Djazerta and had travelledto the _douar_ when the family hastily flitted; but this was the nightof her best dance. Nobody remembered Khadra. When she was close behindSanda she pretended to drop a big silk handkerchief, such as Arab womenlove. Squatting down to pick it up, she contrived to thrust into a smallwhite hand hanging over an edge of the divan a ball of crumpled paper, and gently shut the fingers over it. A few months, or even weeks, agoSanda would have started at the touch and looked round. But her longstay among Arab women, and the drama of the last eight days, hadschooled her to self-control. Instantly she realized that some new plotwas on, and that she was to be mixed up in it. She was deadly sick ofplotting, but she loved Ourïeda, and had advised her not to give up hopeuntil the last minute. Perhaps something unexpected might come to pass. With that soft, secret touch on her hand, and the feel of the paper inher palm, she knew that her prophecy was being fulfilled. 

Not far away sat the bride, raised high above the rest of the company ona kind of throne made of carved wood, painted red and thickly gilded. Ithad served generations of brides in the Agha's family, and had beenbrought out from Djazerta. Sanda glanced up from the divan of cushionson which she and the other women guests reclined to see if Ourïeda waslooking her way. But the girl's great eyes were fixed and introspective. 

When Sanda was sure that Lella Mabrouka and Taous, her spy, were bothintent on the figure posturing in the cleared space in the centre of theroom, she cautiously unfolded the ball of paper. Holding it on her lap, half hidden by the frame of her hands, she saw a fine, clear blackwriting, a writing new to her. The words--French words--seemed to springto her eyes:

 "Tell Ourïeda that I am here. She will know who. Perhaps you know also. There is only one thing to do. She must go, when the time comes, to Tahar's tent, but let her have no fear. At night, when her bridegroom should come to her, I will come instead and take her away. No one will know till the morning after, so we shall have a long start. For a while I will hide her in a house at Djazerta, where I have friends who will keep us safe until the search is over. No one will think of the town. All will believe that we have joined you and the caravan which your father has sent in charge of Corporal St. George. It is with him I have come, for I, too, am a Legionnaire. I hope to see St. George and explain my latest plans, but already he knows that I shall try and reach Spain or Italy. There I can make myself known without fear of capture and imprisonment. I can get engagements and money. If anything prevents my seeing St. George again, after I have started, show him this, or let him know what I have said. 

 M. V. "

Sanda's cheeks, which had been pale, brightened to carnation as sheread; but the dancer held all eyes. The girl crumpled up the letter andpalmed it again, wondering how to show it to Ourïeda, for they had notonce been allowed a moment alone in each other's company since the scenewith _la hennena_. Not that Sanda was suspected of a hand in thataffair, but she might have a hand in another plot. The thing was, politely and kindly, to keep her a prisoner until after Ourïeda had goneto her husband. Then Tahar could protect his property; and once an Arabgirl is married, she is seldom asked to elope, even by the bravest andmost enterprising of lovers. Some pretext must be thought of for thegiving of Manöel's letter. But what--what?

The answer was not long in coming. After the dance all the women, withthe exception of the throned, bejewelled bride, sprang or scrambled upfrom their cushions to congratulate the celebrity. Some of themtestified their admiration by offering her rings, anklets, or littlegilded bottles of attar-of-rose which they had been holding in theirhandkerchiefs; and even Aunt Mabrouka's sharp eyes did not see Sandaslip the ball of paper into Ourïeda's hand when passing the throne togive a gold brooch to the favourite. 

The bride herself was forgotten for a few minutes. Every one wascaressing the dancer, patting her much-ringed hands, or touching herbracelets and counting the almost countless gold coins of her headornaments and necklace. When Sanda dared glance across the crowd towardOurïeda she saw by the look in her eyes that the girl had read theletter. 

CHAPTER XXII

THE HEART OF MAX

Max had resigned himself days ago to Juan Garcia's desertion from theLegion, since the girl must be saved. But he was far from happy abouthis own position. The danger was that the day when he was due to reporthimself at Sidi-bel-Abbés would come and he would be absent. His letterof explanation ought to have arrived by that time, but it might beconsidered the trick of a deserter. And even when he appeared, the newsof Garcia's desertion from his caravan must be told. The loss of a manwould be a black mark against him, and he would probably forfeit thestripe on which he had been congratulated by the colonel. 

There was consolation in the thought of seeing Sanda again, and thecertainty that she would "stand up" for him; but he did not realize justhow much that consolation would mean, until, after the delay of a dayand a half, word came that Mademoiselle DeLisle was ready to leave herfriend. The caravan had been assembled and waiting for the last hour, and Max knew that the bride must have gone to her husband's tent. Themusic had been wilder than before, the women's cries of joy louder andmore triumphant; and while he had been examining the trappings ofSanda's camel a procession had gone by carrying aloft several big boxesdraped with brocade and cloth-of-gold: the bride's luggage on its way toher new home. The feasting in the _tente sultane_ would continue allthat night, as on other nights; but Ourïeda and Tahar would be leftquietly in the tent of the bridegroom, alone until after dawn, whenTahar would steal away and the girl's women friends would rush in towish her joy. That would be the hour, Max told himself, when all wouldbe found out, and the chase would begin. He had seen Manöel once sincethe last details of the plot to rescue Ourïeda had been settled. He knewthat Manöel had sent a letter to her through Sanda, to whom it had beengiven; but he was not sure if Sanda had been warned of the part shewould have to play. 

It was of this, more than the personality of Sanda herself, that hethought, as he waited, expecting her to come out from the Agha's tent. But instead, she came from another direction, and he did not recognizethe slim figure in Arab dress until the well-remembered voice spokethrough the white veil:

"It is--my Soldier St. George!" Sanda cried in English, and a thrill ranthrough the young man's blood. He forgot all about himself, his risksand his perplexities, and nothing seemed to matter except that SandaDeLisle had come back into his life--the girl whose long, soft hairbrushed his face in dreams, the girl who had saved his belief inwomanhood and raised up for him, in his black need, a new ideal. 

A tall negro woman, whose forehead was a strip of ebony, whose eyes werebeads of jet above her snowy veil, accompanied Mademoiselle DeLisle, andthe two had arrived from the bridegroom's tent, where doubtless Sandahad been bidding the bride good-bye. Max realized that her attendantwould be shocked if he should offer to shake hands with the girl, so heonly bowed, and answered hastily in English that he was glad--glad tosee her again--glad to have the honour of being her guide. Khadra wasbrought forward, and Sanda spoke a few words to her in Arabic. Then thegirl was helped into her bassourah, luggage being brought out by eunuchsfrom the Agha's tent and packed in to balance the other side. Only whenthe Roumia had retired behind the blue and red and purple curtains didBen Râana appear to wish his friend's daughter and messenger theblessing of Allah on their journey. The caravan started, and it was notuntil after the _douar_, with its green _daya_ and background of trees, was dim in the distance that Sanda's curtains parted. Max, riding theonly horse in the party, saw the trembling of the rainbow-colouredstuff, and glanced up, expectant. He found that his heart and all hispulses were hammering, and as the girl's gold-brown head appeared, herveil thrown off, something seemed to leap in his breast, something thatgave a bound like that of a great fish on a hook. She looked down andsmiled at him rather sadly, yet more sweetly it seemed to Max than anyother woman had ever smiled. He had not realized or remembered howbeautiful she was. Why, it was the most exquisite face in the world! Anangel's face, yet the face of a human girl. He adored it as a man mayadore an angel, and he loved it as a man loves a woman. A great andirresistible tide of love rushed over him. What a fool, what a young, simple fool he had been to think that he had ever loved BillieBrookton! That seemed hundreds of years ago, in another incarnation, when he had been undeveloped, when his soul had been asleep. His soulwas awake now! Something had awakened it; life in the Legion, perhaps, for that had begun to show him his own capabilities; or else loveitself, which had been waiting to say: "I am here, now and forever. "

Max was almost afraid to look at Sanda lest she should read through hiseyes the words written on his heart. But then he remembered in a flashher love for Stanton, which would blind her to such feelings in othermen. He felt sick for an instant in his hopelessness. Wherever heturned, whatever he did, happiness seemed never to be for him. 

"You don't know how glad I am to see you!" the girl explained. "I'vethought of you so often and--" she was going to add impulsively--"anddreamed about you, too!" but she remembered the Arab saying whichOurïeda had told her: that when a woman dreams of a man, that is the manshe loves. It was a silly saying, and untrue; yet she kept back thewords in a queer sort of loyalty to Stanton--Stanton, who neitherthought nor dreamed of her. 

"I was so thankful when I heard my father had sent for me, " she quicklywent on. "I heard about it only through _that letter_--you know the oneI mean. "

"Yes, I know, " said Max. "I felt they didn't mean to tell you till thelast minute, though I could see no reason why. I--I was more than gladand proud to be the one to come. "

He was not hoping unselfishly that Colonel DeLisle mightn't have told inhis letter how the great march and the expected fight had beensacrificed for her sake. He was not hoping this, because in his suddenawakening to love he had forgotten the march. He was thinking of Sandaand the wild happiness that would turn to pain in memory of being withher for days in the desert. If, when he reached Sidi-bel-Abbés, he wereblamed for the delay, and punished by losing his stripe, or even byprison, it would be nothing, or almost a joy, because he would besuffering for her. 

"It was only to-day they gave me father's letter, which you brought, "Sanda was saying. "It was short, written in a hurry, in answer to one Isent begging him to take me away. Yet he mentioned one thing: that hedidn't order you, but only asked if you were willing, to come. And hetold me what you answered. I can never thank you, but I do appreciateit--_all_!"

"It was my selfishness, " answered Max. "I said that the colonel wasgiving me the Cross of the Legion of Honour. I felt that, then. I feelit a lot more now. " There was more truth in this than he wished her toguess. 

"You are the _realest_ friend!" cried Sanda. "Why, do you know, now Icome to think of it, unless I count my father, you are the only realfriend I have in the world?"

"You forget Mr. Stanton!" Max reminded her, without intending to becruel. 

She blushed, and Max hated himself as if he had brought the colour toher face with a blow. 

"No, " she answered quietly. "I never forget him. But you understand, because I told you everything, that in my heart I can't call him myfriend. _He_ doesn't care enough, and _I_--care too much. "

"Forgive me!" Max begged. "All the same I know he must care. He wouldn'tbe human not to. "

"He isn't human! He's superhuman!" She laughed, to cover her pain ofhumiliation. "I suppose--long ago--he has started out on his wonderfulmission. I keep thinking of him travelling on and on through the desert, and I pray he may be safe, and succeed in finding the Lost Oasis hebelieves in. He told me in Algiers that to find it would crown hislife. "

"He hadn't started when I left Touggourt, " Max said rather dryly. 

"What--he was still there? Then my father must have seen him. Howstrange! He didn't refer to him at all. "

"You mentioned that the colonel wrote in a hurry. " Max hinted at thisexplanation to comfort her, but he guessed why DeLisle had not been in amood to speak of Stanton to his daughter. "There is a reason, " he hadsaid, "why I don't want to ask Stanton to put off starting and go toDjazerta. " And Max, having seen the dancer, Ahmara, had known withouttelling what the reason was. 

"Do you think Richard may be there when we get to Touggourt?" she asked, shamefaced, yet not able to resist putting the question. 

"I think it's very likely. " Max tried to keep his tone at reassuringlevel, though he hoped devoutly that Stanton might be gone. He could notbear to think of his seeing Sanda again after the Ahmara episode. With aman of Stanton's strange, erratic nature and wild impulses, who couldbe sure whether--but Max would not let the thought finish in his mind. 

Sanda suddenly dropped the subject. Whether this was because she sawthat Max disliked it, or whether she had no more to say, he could notguess. 

"Tell me about yourself, now, " she said. "My father has told me somethings in letters, but I long to know from you if I made a mistake inwanting you to try the Legion. "

"You made no mistake. It's one of the things I have to thank youfor--one of several very great things, " said Max. 

"What _other_ things? I can't think of one unless you thank me forhaving a splendid father. "

"That's one thing. "

"Are there more?"

"Yes. "

"Tell me, please. Anyway, the greatest, or I shan't believe in any. "

Max was silent for an instant. Then he said in a voice so low she couldhardly hear it, bending down from her bassourah, "For giving me back myfaith in women. "

"I? But you hadn't lost it. "

"I was in danger of losing it, with most of my mental and moral baggage. Through you--I've kept the lot. "

"That's the most beautiful thing ever said to me. And it does me so muchgood after all I've gone through and been blamed for!"

"Who's dared to blame you for anything?"

"I asked you to tell me about yourself. When you have done that I'lltell you things that have happened here, things concerning ManöelValdez and Ourïeda--poor darling Ourïeda, whom I ought to be thinking ofevery instant! And so I am, only I can't help being happy to getaway--with you. "

There was sweet pain in hearing those last words, and the emphasis thecaressing girl-voice gave. Max hurried through a vague list of suchevents as seemed fit for Sanda's ears. They were not many, since he didnot count his fights among the mentionable ones. He told her, with moredetail, about his acquaintance with Valdez, whose face she had remarkedat the railway station at Sidi-bel-Abbés; and then claimed her promise. She must tell him, if she would (with a sudden drop from the happy wayof Max Doran with women to the humbler way of Max St. George, Legionnaire), what she had gone through in the Agha's house. 

She began by asking a question. "Didn't you think it queer that no onebut a servant came out to see me off?"

"I did a little, but I put it down to Arab manners. "

"It was because I left in disgrace. Oh! no one was ever rude! They werepolite always. It was like being stuffed with too much honey. And Idon't mean Ourïeda, of course. Ourïeda's a darling. I'd do anything forher. I've proved that! Did my father give you any idea why he had tosend for me in a hurry, though he has to leave me alone--or rather incharge of people I don't know--at Bel-Abbés? He must have told yousomething, as he asked such a sacrifice. "

"He needn't have told me anything at all. But he took me into hisconfidence--it was like him--far enough to say the Agha was offendedsomehow, and you were anxious to leave. "

"I should think the Agha _was_ offended! I tried to help Ourïeda toescape, even though she hadn't heard from her Manöel. She had lots ofjewels, and thought she might get to France. We failed in our attempt, and after that we were never alone together, though they--her father andaunt--didn't want me to go till she was married. The idea at firstwas--when I arrived, I mean--that my visit shouldn't end till fathercame back. They meant me to stop on with Ourïeda, as she and her husbandwould live at her old home at Djazerta. The last plot wasn't mine. Itwas got up by an old nurse they'd sent away, and a weird woman, a kindof Arab beauty-doctor. But all the same they were afraid of me. Theylonged to have me gone, yet, for their own superstitious, secretivereasons, they were afraid to let me go. As I _had_ to stay so long, I'drather have stopped a little longer, so as to know what becomes ofOurïeda. They made me say good-bye to her in Tahar's tent, where she iswaiting, all dressed up like a doll, till the hour at night when herhusband chooses to come to her. Instead, we hope---- But I can hardlybear it, not to know! Shall we _ever_ know?"

"It may be a long time before Manöel can send us any word, " said Max. "But we shall hear, I suppose, about Tahar. "

"Oh, Manöel doesn't mean to _kill_ him, does he? Ourïeda said hewouldn't do that! But Arab women are so strange, so different from us, Idon't believe she'd care much if he did; except that if he were amurderer they could seize him, even in another country--Spain, wherethey both hope to go when they can get out of Djazerta. "

"Manöel wouldn't care much, either, except for that same reason, " Maxadmitted. "But he does care for that. He intends only to surprise andstun Tahar. He doesn't want his life with Ourïeda spoiled, for he'll bea public character, you know, if he succeeds in escaping from Algeria. He'll be a great singer. He can take back his own name. "

"Why not France?" Sanda wanted to know. "Surely France would be betterfor a singer than Spain, or even Italy?"

"Perhaps, but, you see, he has had to desert from the Legion. In Francehe could be brought back to Algeria to the penal battalion. "

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that!"

"It was--a hateful necessity, his deserting. "

Sanda looked at him anxiously. "Will it make trouble for you?"

"Possibly. I hoped it needn't happen. But it had to. There was no otherway in the end. "

"How he must love Ourïeda, to risk all that for her sake!"

"He risked a great deal more. "

"What--but, oh, yes, you told me! The way he came into the Legion, andall that. I wonder--I wonder if there are many men in the world whowould do as much for a woman?"

"I think so, " said Max quietly. "You don't count the cost very much whenyou are in love. "

He was to remember that speech before many days. 

"They're wonderful, men like that!" Sanda murmured. "And there's morerisk to come, for Ourïeda and himself. A little for us, too, isn'tthere?"

"Not for you, please God! And very little for any of us. But I see youknow what Manöel expects to happen. "

"Oh, yes, that they'll run after us, thinking that he has followed withOurïeda, to join our caravan. I do hope the Agha will send his men afterus, for that will make us sure those two have got away. If we hearsounds of pursuit we'll hurry on quickly. Then the chase will havefarther to go back, and Manöel and Ourïeda will gain time. The moreground we can cover before we're come up with by the Agha's camels, 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 slipout of the town sooner than he dared hope, well disguised, in a caravanof strangers not of Ben Râana's tribe. In that case the Agha of Djazertawould have no right to search among the women. And Manöel's splendid atdisguise. His actor's training has taught him that. "

"I feel now that he _will_ get Ourïeda out of the country. They'vesuffered too much and dared too much to fail in the end. "

"I hope so; I think so, " Max answered. But he knew that in real lifestories did sometimes end badly. His own, for instance. He could see nohappy ending for that. 

They pushed on as fast as the animals could go when a long march and nota mere spurt of speed was before them. Through the mysterious sapphiredarkness of the desert night the padding feet of the camels strodenoiselessly over the hard sand. Sanda asked Max to offer extra pay tothe men if they would put up with an abbreviated rest. Only three hoursthey paused to sleep; and then, in the dusk before dawn, when all livingthings are as shadows, the camels were wakened to snarl with rage whiletheir burdens were ruthlessly strapped on again. As Max gave Sanda a cupof hot coffee (which he had made for her, as Legionnaires make it, strong and black) she said, shivering a little, "Do you think they'llhave found Tahar yet if--if----"

"Hardly yet! Not till daylight, " answered Max. "Are you cold? Thesedesert nights can be bitter, even in summer. Won't you let me putsomething more around you?"

"No, thanks. It's only excitement that makes me shiver. I'm thinking ofOurïeda and Manöel. I've been thinking of them instead of sleeping. ButI'm not tired. I feel all keyed up; as if something wonderful were goingto happen to me, too. "

Something wonderful was happening to Max. But she had no idea of that. She would never know, he thought. 

All day they journeyed on, save for a short halt at noon, and Max washappy. He tried to recall and quote to himself a verse of Tennyson's"Maud"--"Let come what come may; What matter if I go mad, I shall havehad my day!" He was having his day--just that one day more, because onthe next they would come to Touggourt, and if Stanton were there hewould spoil everything. 

At night they went on till late, as before; but the camel-men said thatthe animals must have a longer rest. Luckily it did not matter now ifthey were caught. If Manöel and Ourïeda had escaped they had had a longstart. A little after midnight the vast silence of the sand-ocean wasbroken with cries and shoutings of men. The Arabs, not knowing of theexpected raid, stumbled up from their beds of bagging and ran to protectthe camels; but Max, who had not undressed, walked out from the littlecamp to meet a cavalcade of men. 

Ben Râana himself rode in advance, mounted on a swift-running camel. Inthe blue gloom where the stars were night lights Max recognized the longblack beard of the Agha flowing over his white cloak. None rode nearhim. Tahar was not there. Max took that as a good sign. 

"Who are you?" demanded the uniformed Legionnaire in his halting Arabic. "In the name 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 Agha of Djazerta. But what can weknow of your daughter? We left her being married. "

"I think thou knowest well, " Ben Râana cut him short furiously, "thather marriage was not consummated. I cherished a viper in my bosom when Ientertained in my house the child of George DeLisle. She has deceivedme, and helped my daughter to deceive. "

"I cannot hear Mademoiselle DeLisle spoken of in that way, even by mycolonel's friend, sir, " said Max. "If your daughter has run away----"

"If! Thou knowest well that she has run away with her lover, who hashalf murdered the man who should by now be her husband. Thou knowestand Mademoiselle knows!"

"You are mistaken, " broke in Max, not troubling to hide his anger. "Ifyou think your daughter----"

"I think she is here! But thou canst not protect her from me. Try, andthou and every man with thee shall perish. "

"Search our camp, " said Max. 

As he spoke, Sanda appeared at the door of the mean little tent hiredfor her at Touggourt. From the shelter of the bassourah, close by on thesand, Khadra peeped out. The search was made quickly and almost withoutwords. If the power of France had not been behind the soldier and thegirl whom Ben Râana now hated, he would have reverted--"enlightened" manas he was--to primitive methods. He would have killed the pair with hisown hand, while the men of his _goum_ put the Arabs to death, and allcould have been buried under the sand save the camels, which would havebeen led back to Djazerta. But France was mighty and far reaching, andhe and his tribe would have to pay too high for such indulgence. 

When he was sure that Ourïeda and Manöel Valdez were not concealed inthe camp, with cold apologies and farewells he turned with his men androde off toward the south--a band of shadows in the night. The visit hadbeen like a dream, the desert dream that Sanda had had of Max, Max ofSanda. Yet dimly it seemed to both that these dreams had meant more thanthis. The girl let her "Soldier St. George" warm her small, icy hands, and comfort her with soothing words. 

"You were _not_ treacherous, " he said. "You did exactly right. Youdeserve happiness for helping to make that girl happy. And you'll haveit! You must! You shall! I couldn't stand your not being happy. "

"Already it's to-day, " she half whispered, "to-day that we come toTouggourt. The greatest thing in my father's life happened there. Ithought of that when I passed through before, and wondered what wouldhappen to me. Nothing happened. But--_what about to-day_?"

"May it be something very good, " Max said steadily. But his heart washeavy, as in his hands her own grew warm. 

CHAPTER XXIII

"WHERE THE STRANGE ROADS GO DOWN"

Shadows of evening flowed over the desert like blue water out of whosedepths rose the golden crowns of the dunes. The caravan had still somemiles of sand billows between them and Touggourt, when suddenly a faintthrill of sound, which might have been the waking dream of a tiredbrain, or a trick of wind, a sound scarcely louder than heart-throbs, grew definite and distinct: the distant beating of African drums, theshriek of räitas, and the sighing of ghesbahs. The Arabs on their camelscame crowding round Max, who led the caravan, riding beside Sanda'smehari. 

"Sidi, " said their leader, "this music is not of earth, for Touggourt istoo distant for us to hear aught from there. It is the devil. It comesfrom under the dunes. Such music we have heard in the haunted desertwhere the great caravan was buried beneath the sands, but here it is thefirst time, and it is a warning of evil. Something terrible is about tohappen. What shall we do--stop here and pray, though the sunset prayeris past, or go on?"

"Go on, of course, " ordered Max. "As for the music, it must be that thewind brings it from Touggourt. "

"It is not possible, Sidi, " the camel-man, husband of Khadra, persisted. "Besides, there is no great feastday at this time, not even a weddingor a circumcision, or we should have heard before we started away thatit was to be. Such playing, if from the hands of man, would mean somegreat event. "

Even as he spoke the music grew louder and wilder. Max hurried thecaravan on as fast as it could go among the sand billows, fearing thatthe Arabs' superstition might cause a stampede. With every stride of thecamels' long, four-jointed legs, the music swelled; and at the crest ofa higher dune than any they had climbed, Sanda, leaning out of herbassourah, gave a cry. 

"A caravan--oh! but a huge caravan like an army, " she exclaimed, "orlike a troop of ghosts. What if--what if it should be Sir Knight juststarting away?"

"I think it is he, " Max answered heavily. "I think it must be Stantongetting off. "

"We shall meet him. I can wish him good-bye and Godspeed! Soldier" (thiswas the name she had given Max), "it does seem as if heaven must havetimed our coming and his going for this moment. "

"Or the devil, " Max amended bitterly in his heart. But aloud he saidnothing. He knew that if he had spoken Sanda would not have heard himthen. 

"Let's hurry on, " she begged, "and meet him--and surprise him. He can'tbe angry. He must be glad for father's sake, if not for mine. Oh! come, Soldier, come, or I will go alone!"

The man whose duty it was to guide her camel had dropped behind, as hadoften happened before at her wish and Max's order, for the mehari was awell-trained and gentle beast, knowing by instinct the right thing todo. Now Sanda leaned far out and touched him on the neck. Squatting inthe way of camels brought up among dunes, he slid down the side of a biggolden billow, sending up a spray of sand as he descended. Below lay avalley, where the blue dusk poured in its tide; and marching through theazure flood a train of dark forms advanced rhythmically, as if moving tothe music which they had outstripped. It was a long procession of menand camels bearing heavy loads, so long that the end of it had not yetcome into sight behind the next sand billow; but at its head a man rodeon a horse, alone, with no one at his side. Already it was too dark tosee his face, but Max knew who it was. He _felt_ the man's identity withan instinct as unerring as Sanda's. 

Also he longed to hasten after her and catch up with the running camel, as he could easily do, for his horse, though more delicate and not asenduring, could go faster. But, though Sanda had cried "Come!" he heldback. She had hardly known what she said. She did not want him to bewith her when she met Stanton; and if he--Max--wished to be there, itwas a morbid wish. Whether Stanton were kind or unkind to the girl, he, the outsider, would suffer more than he need let himself suffer, sincehe was not needed and would only be in the way. Riding slowly andkeeping back the men of his own little caravan, who wished to dashforward now their superstitious fears were put to flight, Max sawStanton rein up his horse as the mehari, bearing a woman's bassourah, loped toward him; saw him stop in surprise, and then, no doubtrecognizing the face framed by the curtains, jump off his horse andstride forward through the silky mesh of sand holding out his arms. Thenext instant he had the girl in them, was lifting her down withoutwaiting for the camel to kneel, for she had sprung to him as if from thecrest of a breaking wave; and Max bit back an oath as he had to seeAhmara's lover crush Sanda DeLisle against his breast. 

It was only for an instant, perhaps, but for Max it was a red-hoteternity. He forgot his resolution to efface himself, and whipped hishorse forward. By the time he had reached the two figures in the sand, however, the big, square-shouldered man in khaki and the slim girl inwhite had a little space between them. Stanton had released Sanda fromhis arms and set her on her feet; but he held both the little whitehands in his brown ones; and now that Max was near he could see a lookon the square sunburnt face which might have won any woman, even if shehad not been his in heart already. Max himself was thrilled by it. Herealized as he had realized in Algiers, but a thousand times morekeenly, the vital, compelling magnetism of the man. 

No need for Sanda to wonder whether "Sir Knight" would be glad to seeher! He was glad, brutally glad it seemed to Max, as the lion might beglad after long, lonely ways to chance upon his young and willing mate. 

"Curse him! How dare he look at her like that, after Ahmara!" thoughtMax. His blood sang in his ears like the wicked voice of the räitafollowing the caravan. All that was in him of primitive man yearned todash between the two and snatch Sanda from Stanton. But the soldier inhim, which discipline and modern conventions had made, held him back. Sanda was Mademoiselle DeLisle, the daughter of his colonel. He who hadbeen Max Doran was now nobody save Maxime St. George, a little corporalin the Foreign Legion, with hardly enough money left to buy cigarettes. Ahmara had been an episode. Now the episode was over, and in allprobability Sanda, like most women, would have forgiven it if she knew. She was happy in Stanton's overmastering look. She did not feel it aninsult, or dream that the devouring flame in the blue eyes was only aspurt of new fire in the ashes of a burnt-out passion. 

She must be mistaking it for love, and her heart must be shaken toecstasy by the surprise and joy of the miracle. Max knew that if herudely rode up to them in this, Sanda's great moment, nothing he couldsay or do would really part them, even if he were cad enough to speak ofAhmara, the dancer. Sanda would not believe, or else she would not care;and always, for the rest of her life, she would hate him. He pulled uphis horse as he thought, and sat as though he were in chains. He was, according to his reckoning, out of earshot, but Stanton's deep baritonehad the carrying power of a 'cello. Max heard it say in a tone to reacha woman's heart: "Child! You come to me like a white dove. God blessyou! I needed you. I don't know whether I can let you go. "

Slowly Max turned his horse's head, and still more slowly rode back tothe caravan which he had halted fifty feet away. For an instant he hopedagainst hope that Sanda would hear the sound of his going, that shewould look after him and call. But deep down in himself he knew that nogirl in her place, feeling as she felt, would have heard a cannon-shot. He explained to the astonished men that this was the great explorer, theSidi who found new countries where no other white men had ever been, and the young Roumia lady had known him ever since she was a child. TheSidi was starting out on a dangerous expedition, and it was well thatchance had brought them together, for now the daughter of the explorer'soldest friend could bid him good-bye. They must wait until the farewellhad been given, then they would go on again. 

The camel-men assented politely, without comment. But Max heard Khadrasay to her husband, "It is the Sidi who loved Ahmara. One would think hehad forgotten her now. Or is it that he tries this way to forget?"

Max wished angrily that his ears were less quick, and that he had notsuch a useless facility for picking up words out of every _patois_. 

Half an hour passed, and the blue shadows deepened to purple. It wasnight, and Touggourt miles away. Still the two were talking, and thedarkness had closed around them like the curtains of a tent. They hadhalted not only the little caravan returning from the south, but thegreat caravan starting for the far southeast. Nothing was of importanceto Stanton and Sanda except each other and themselves. Max hatedStanton, yet was fascinated by the thought of him: virile, magnetic, compelling; a man among men; greater than his fellows, as the greatstars above, flaming into life, were brighter than their dim brothers. 

The music, which still throbbed and screamed its notes of passion in thedesert, seemed to be beating in Max's brain. A horrible irritationpossessed him like a devil. He could have yelled as a man might yell inthe extremity of physical torture. If only that music would stop!

When he had almost reached the limit of endurance there came a softpadding of feet in the sand and a murmur of voices. Then he saw Stantonwalking toward him with the girl. Sanda called to him timidly, yet witha quiver of excitement in her voice:

"Monsieur St. George, mon ami!"

Not "Soldier" now! That phase was over. Max got off his horse and walkedto meet the pair. 

"You know each other, " Sanda said. "I introduced you last March inAlgiers. And perhaps you met again here in Touggourt with my father, notmany days ago. I've told Mr. Stanton all about you now, mon ami; heknows how good you have been. He knows how I--confided things to you Inever told to anybody else. Do you remember, Monsieur St. George, mysaying how, when I was small, I used to long to run away dressed like aboy, and go on a desert journey with Richard Stanton? Well, my wish hascome true! Not about the boy's clothes, but--_I am going with him_! Hehas asked me to be his wife, and I have said 'yes. '"

CHAPTER XXIV

THE MAD MUSIC

Max was struck dumb by the shock. He had expected nothing so devastatingas this. What to do he knew not, yet something he must do. If he had notloved the girl, it would have been easier. There would have been no fearthen that he might think of himself and not of her. Yet she had been putunder his charge by Colonel DeLisle. He was responsible for her welfareand her safety. Ought he to constitute himself her guardian and standbetween her and this man? On the other hand, could he attempt playingout a farce of guardianship--he, almost a stranger, and a boy comparedto Stanton, who had been, according to Sanda, informally her guardianwhen she was a little girl? Max stammered a few words, not knowing whathe said, or whether he were speaking sense, but Stanton paid him thecompliment of treating him like a reasonable man. Suddenly Max becameconscious that the explorer was deliberately focussing upon him all theintense magnetism which had won adherents to the wildest schemes. 

"I understand exactly what you are thinking about me, " Stanton said. "You must feel I am mad or a brute to want this child to go with meacross the desert, to share the fate all Europe is prophesying. "

"It's glory to share it, " broke in Sanda, in a voice like a harp. "Do Icare what happens to me if I can be with you?"

Stanton laughed a delightful laugh. 

"She _is_ a child--an infatuated child! But shouldn't I be more--orless--than a man, if I could let such a stroke of luck pass by me? Yousee, she wants to go. "

"_He_ knows I love you, and have loved you all my life, " said Sanda. "Itold him in Algiers when I was so miserable, thinking that I shouldnever see you again, and that you didn't care. "

"Of course I cared, " Stanton contradicted her warmly; yet there was adifference in his tone. To Max's ears, it did not ring true. "Seeing agrown-up Sanda, when I'd always kept in my mind's eye a little girl, bowled me over. I made excuses to get away in a hurry, didn't I? It wasthe bravest thing I ever did. I knew I wasn't a marble statue. But itwas another thing keeping my head in broad daylight on the terrace of ahotel, with a lot of dressed-up creatures coming and going, from what itis here in the desert at night, with that mad music playing me away intothe unknown, and a girl like Sanda flashing down like a falling star. "

"The star fell into your arms, and you saved it from extinction, " shefinished for him, laughing a little gurgling laugh of ecstasy. 

"I caught it on its way somewhere else! But how can I let it go when itwants to shine for me? How can I be _expected_ to let it go? I ask youthat, St. George!"

Racked with an anguish of jealousy, Max felt, nevertheless, a queerstirring of sympathy for the man; and struggling against it, he knewStanton's conquering fascination. He knew, also, that nothing he coulddo or say would prevent Sanda from going with her hero. However, hestammered a protest. 

"But--but I don't see what's to be done, " he said, "MademoiselleDeLisle's father, my colonel, ordered me to take her to Sidi-bel-Abbés. "

"Not ordered; asked!" the girl cut in with an unfairness that hurt. 

"All the blame is mine, " Stanton assured him with a warm friendliness ofmanner. "My shoulders are broad enough to bear it. And you know, St. George, your colonel and I are old friends. If he were here he'd givehis consent, I think, after he'd got over his first surprise. I believeas his proxy you'll do the same, when you've taken a little time toreflect. "

"Why, of course he will!" cried Sanda, sweet and repentant. "He knowsthat this is my one chance of happiness in life. Everything looked sogray in the future. I was going to Sidi-bel-Abbés to be with strangerstill my father came. And even at best, 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 I knew I were going straightto death, I'd go just the same, and just as joyously. "

"We both realized what was in our hearts, and what must happen, when shelooked out between her curtains like the Blessed Damozel, and I took herout of her bassourah and held her in my arms. That settled our fate, "said Stanton, attractively boyish and eager in the warmth of hispassion. It was genuine passion. There was no doubting that, but lit inan instant, like a burnt wick still warm from a flame blown out. Howlong would it last? How clear and true a light would it give? Max didnot know how much of his doubt of Stanton was jealousy, how much regardfor Sanda's happiness. 

"To think this should come to me at Touggourt, where my father'shappiness came to him!" Sanda murmured rapturously, as Max stood silent. "It is Fate, indeed!"

"Listen to the music of Africa, " said Stanton. "The players followed usfor 'luck. ' What luck they've brought! Child, I was feeling lonely andsad. I almost had a presentiment that my luck was out. What a fool! Allthe strength and courage I've ever had you've given back to me withyourself!"

"I could die of happiness to hear you say that!" Sanda answered. "Yousee how it is, my friend, my dear, kind soldier? God has timed my cominghere to give me this wonderful gift! You wouldn't rob me of it if youcould, would you?"

"Not if it's for your happiness, " Max heard something that was only halfhimself answer. "But"--and he turned on Stanton--"how do you propose tomarry her--here?"

The other hesitated for an instant, then replied briskly, as if he hadcalculated everything in detail. This was characteristic of him, to mapout a plan of campaign as he went along, as fast as he drew breath forthe rushing words. Often he had made his greatest impressions, hisgreatest successes, in this wild way. 

"Why, _you_ will pitch your camp here for the night, instead of marchingon to Touggourt, " he said. "I camp here, too. My expedition is delayedfor one day more, but what does that matter after a hundred delays?Heavens! I've had to wait for tents a beast of a Jew contracted to giveme and didn't. I've waited to test water-skins. I've waited for newcamel-men when old ones failed me. Haven't I a right to wait a few hoursfor a companion--a wife? The first thing in the morning we'll have thepriest out from Touggourt. Sanda's Catholic. He'll marry us and we'llstart on together. "

"Couldn't we, " the girl rather timidly ventured the suggestion, "couldn't we go to Touggourt? There must be a church there if there's apriest, and I--I'd like to be married in a church. "

"My darling child! The priest shall consecrate a tent, or a bit of thedesert, " Stanton answered with decision, which, she must have realized, would be useless to combat. "He'll do it all right! Marriage ceremoniesare performed by Catholic priests in houses, you know, if the man or thewoman is ill; deathbed marriages, and--but don't let us talk of suchthings! I know I can make him do this when I show him how impossible itwould be for us to go back to Touggourt. Why, the men I've got together, mostly blacks, would take it for a bad omen if I left the escortstranded here in the desert the first day out! Half of them would bolt. I'd have the whole work to do over again. You see that, don't you?"

Sanda did see; and even Max admitted to himself that the excuse wasplausible. Yet he suspected another reason behind the one alleged. Stanton was afraid of things Sanda might hear in Touggourt; perhaps hefeared some more active peril. 

"I thought, " Max dared to argue, "that it took days arranging the legalpart of a marriage? You're an Englishman, Mr. Stanton, and ColonelDeLisle's daughter's a French subject, though she is half British. Youmay find difficulties. "

"Damn difficulties!" exclaimed Stanton, all his savage impatience ofopposition breaking out at last. "Don't you say so, Sanda? When a manand woman need each other's companionship in lonely places outside theworld, is the world's red tape going to make a barrier between them? MyGod, no! Sanda, if your church will give you to me, and send us into thedesert with its blessing, is it, or is it not, enough for you? If not, you're not the girl I want. You're not my woman. "

"If you love me, I _am_ 'your woman, '" said Sanda. 

"You hear her?" Stanton asked. "If it's enough for her, I suppose it'senough for you, St. George?"

Through the blue dusk two blue eyes stared into Max's face. They put aquestion without words. "Have you any reason of your own for wanting tokeep her from me?"

"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 the world to spoil two lives for aconvention, " Sanda added. "Do you remember his love story that I toldyou?"

Did Max remember? It was not a story to forget, that tragic tale of loveand death in the desert. Must the story of the daughter be tragic, too?A great fear for the girl was in his heart. He believed that he couldthink of her alone, now, apart from selfishness. Realizing her worshipof Stanton, had her fate lain in his hands he would have placed it inthose of the other man could he have been half sure they would betender. But her fate was in her own keeping. He could do no more thanbeg, for DeLisle's sake, that they would wait for the wedding untilStanton came back from his expedition. Even as he spoke, it seemedstrange and almost absurd that he should be urging legal formalitiesupon any one, especially a man like Stanton, almost old enough to be hisfather. What, after all, did law matter in the desert if two peopleloved each other? And as Stanton said--patient and pleasant again afterhis outburst--they could have all the legal business, to make thingsstraight in the silly eyes of the silly world, when they won through toEgypt, under English law. 

The matter settled itself exactly as it would have settled itself hadMax stormed protests for an hour. Sanda was to be married by theCatholic priest from Touggourt, as early in the morning as he could befetched. The great caravan and the little caravan halted for the night. Stanton harangued his escort in their own various dialects, for therewas no obscure lingo of Africa which he did not know, and this knowledgegave him much of his power over the black or brown men. The news hetold, explaining the delay, was received with wild shouts of amusedapproval. Stanton was allowing some of his head men to travel with theirwives, it being their concern, not his, if the women died and rotted inthe desert. It was his concern only to be popular as a leader on thisexpedition for which it had been hard to get recruits. It was fair thathe, too, should have a wife if he wanted one, and the men cared aslittle what became of the white girl they had not seen as Stanton caredabout the fate of their strapping females. 

The mad music of the tomtoms and räitas played as Max, with his ownhands, set up Sanda's little tent. "For the last time, " he said tohimself. "To-morrow night her tent will be Stanton's. "

He felt physically sick as he thought of leaving her in the desert withthat man, whom they called mad, and going on alone to report atSidi-bel-Abbés, days after his leave had expired. Now that Sanda wasstaying behind, his best excuse was taken from him. He could hearhimself making futile-sounding explanations, but keeping MademoiselleDeLisle's name in the background. None save a man present at the scenehe had gone through could possibly pardon him for abandoning his charge. After all, however, what did it matter? He did not care what became ofhim, even if his punishment were to be years in the African penalbattalion, the awful _Bat d'Aff_, a sentence of death in life. "PerhapsI deserve it, " he said. "I don't know!" All he did know was that hewould give his life for Sanda. Yet it seemed that he could do nothing. 

When all was quiet he went to his tent and threw himself down justinside the entrance with the flap up. Lying thus, he could see Sanda'stent not far away, dim in the starlit night. He could not see her, nordid he wish to. But he knew she was sitting in the doorway with Stantonat her feet. Max did not mean to spy; but he was afraid for her, ofStanton, while that music played. At last he heard her lover in goingcall out "good night, " then it was no longer necessary to play sentinel, but though Sanda had slipped inside her tent, perhaps to dream ofto-morrow, it seemed to Max that there were no drugs in the world strongenough to give him sleep. He supposed, vaguely, that if a priestconsented to marry the girl to Stanton, after the wedding and the startof the explorer's caravan, he, Max, would board the first train he couldcatch on the new railway, and go to "take his medicine" atSidi-bel-Abbés. 

Before dawn, when Stanton came to tell Sanda that he was off forTouggourt to fetch the priest, no alternative had yet presented itselfto Max's mind, and he was still indifferent to his own future. But whenStanton had been gone for half an hour, and a faint primrose colouredflame had begun to quiver along the billowy horizon in the east, heheard a soft voice call 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. Sandawas standing near, a vague shape of glimmering white. 

CHAPTER XXV

CORPORAL ST. GEORGE, DESERTER

"Is anything the matter?" he asked. A wild hope was in his heart thatshe might wish to tell him she had changed her mind. The joy of thathope snatched his breath away. But her first words put it to flight. 

"No, nothing is the matter, except that I've been thinking about you. Icould hardly wait to ask you some things. But I _had_ to wait tillmorning. It is morning now that Richard is up and has gone, even thoughit isn't quite light. And it's better to talk before he comes back. There'll be--so much happening then---- You're all dressed! You didn'tgo 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 formyself, but I'm not _all_ happy. I'm anxious about you. I see that I'vebeen horribly, hatefully selfish--a beast!"

"Don't! I won't hear you say such things. "

"You mustn't try and put me off. Will you promise by--by your love formy father--and your friendship for me, to answer truly the questions Iask?"

"All I can answer. "

"If you don't answer, I shall know what your silence means. _Mon ami_, you made a great sacrifice for me. You gave up your march to take mesafely to Bel-Abbés. You had only eight days' leave to do it in. I know, because my father said so in his letter. But I, thinking always ofmyself, gave no thought to that. You lost time coming back from Djazertato the _douar_. Now I've kept you another night. Is there a trainto-morrow going out of Touggourt?"

"I think so, " said Max warily, beginning to guess the trend of herquestions. 

"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_ tell me, all the same. It goes inthe morning. Soldier, I've made you late. I see now you've been veryanxious all the time about overstaying your leave, but you wouldn'tspeak because it was for my sake. "

"I've written to the officer in command at Sidi-bel-Abbés, explaining. It will be all right. "

"It won't! You're keeping the truth from me. I see by your face. You'veoverstayed your leave already. I calculated it out last night. Even asit is, you are a day late. "

"What of it? There's nothing to worry about. "

"Do you suppose I can be a soldier's daughter and not have learnedanything about army life? Soldier, much as I'd want you to stand by meif it could be right for you, it isn't right, and you must go! Go now, and be in time for that train this morning. One day late won't be sobad. But there won't be another train till Monday. By _diligence_, it'stwo days to Biskra. That means--oh! go, my friend! Go, and forgive me!Let us say good-bye now!"

"Not for the world, " Max answered. "Not if they'd have me shot atBel-Abbés, instead of putting me into _cellule_ for a few days at worst. Nothing would induce me to leave you until"--he choked a little on thewords--"until you're married. "

"_Cellule_" she echoed. "You, in _cellule_! And your corporal's stripe?You'll lose it!"

"What if I do? I value it more for--for something Colonel DeLisle saidthan for itself. "

"I know you were an officer in your American army at home. To be acorporal must seem laughable to you. And yet, the stripe is more thanjust a mere stripe. It's an emblem. "

"I didn't mean you to think that I don't value it! I do! But I valueother things more. "

Day was quickening to life; Sanda's wedding day. In the wan light thatbleached the desert they looked at each other, their faces pale. Maxcould not take his eyes from hers. She held them, and he felt herdrawing from them the truth his lips refused to speak. 

"You are like a man going to his death, " she sobbed. "Oh, what have Idone? It will be something worse, a thousand times worse, than_cellule_. _Mon Dieu!_ I know what they do to men of the Legion whenthey've deserted--even if they come back. I implore you to go away now. Do you want 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 would be the use anyhow, even if I would go? If they're going tocall me a deserter, I'm that already. "

"Ah!" she hid her face in her hands, shivering with sobs. "_I've_ madeyou a deserter. I've ruined you! Your career my father hoped for! If hewere at Bel-Abbés he'd save you. But he's far away in the desert. " Thegirl lifted her face and brushed away the tears. "Soldier, _if you don'tgo now, don't go at all_! Don't offer yourself up to punishment for whatis not your fault, but mine, the fault of your colonel's daughter. Staywith me--stay with us! Keep the trust my father gave you, watching overme. Will you do that? _Will_ you, instead of going back straight toprison and spoiling your life? Join us and help us to find the LostOasis. "

The young man's blood rushed to his head. He could not speak. He couldonly look at her. 

"You say that already you've made yourself a deserter, " she went on. "Then desert to us, I wanted you to join the Legion, and you did join;so I've called you '_my soldier_. ' Now I want you not to go back to theLegion. It would be a horrible injustice for you to be punished as youwould be. I couldn't be happy even with Richard, thinking of you inprison. "

"The world is a prison, if it comes to that!" laughed Max. 

"For some people. Not for a man like you! Besides, some of the cells inthe world's prison are so much more terrible than others. Come with us, and by and by, if we live, we shall reach Egypt. There you'll be free, as Manöel Valdez will be free outside Algeria and France. "

"My colonel's daughter asks me to do this?" Max muttered, half under hisbreath. 

"Yes, _because_ I am his daughter as well as your friend. Do you thinkhe'd like you to go back to Sidi-bel-Abbés under a cloud, with him faraway, not able to speak for you? I know as well as if you'd told methat, if they tried you by court-martial at Oran, you wouldn't defendyourself as you would if my father had _ordered_ you to give up themarch, instead of _asking_ you to go on a private errand for him withyour friend. Because he did an irregular thing and trouble has come ofit, don't I know you'd suffer rather than let details be dragged fromyou which might injure 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 toldyou that you were one of those men who think too little of themselvesand sacrifice themselves for others. 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 them truly. Would you explain in acourt-martial that my father took you off duty, and told you, whateverhappened, to look after me?"

"I have already explained in a letter to the deputy commanding officer. Probably the colonel has explained, too--more or less, as much asnecessary. "

"I don't believe father would have thought it necessary to say muchabout me. He's old fashioned in his ideas of women and girls. And, yousee, he had no reason to dream that anything could go wrong. He supposedthat you would arrive on time. How much did you explain in yourletter?"

"I said I had been unavoidably delayed in finishing my official errand. "

"What would you say if you were court-martialled for losing Manöel andbeing five days late yourself?"

"I don't know. It would depend on the questions. "

"Would you answer in any way that might do harm to my father, or wouldyou sacrifice yourself again for him and for me?"

"It wouldn't be a sacrifice. "

"Do you think you could save yourself from prison?"

"Perhaps not, but I shouldn't care. "

"_I'd_ care. It would break my happiness. Father couldn't tell you, as Ido, to join us, but I know enough about his interest in you to be surethat in his heart he would wish it, rather than come back toSidi-bel-Abbés and find you in the _Bat d'Aff_. I've heard all aboutthat, you see. "

Max was silent for a moment, thinking, and Sanda watched his face in thegrowing light. It was haggard and set for a face so young, but there wasstill in the eyes, which stared unseeingly across the desert, the warm, generous light that had once convinced her of the man's heroic capacityfor self-sacrifice. "He is one who always gives, " she thought. Andsomething within her said that Stanton was not of those. He was one bornnot to give, but to take. Yet how glad every one must be, as she was, togive to him!

Max was greatly surprised and deeply touched by Sanda's care for him atsuch a time. And he was almost bewildered by the strange answer thathad come to his self-questioning. He had felt a passionate reluctance toleave her with Stanton, not only because he himself loved and wantedher, but because her marriage was to be only half a marriage, andbecause Stanton was what he was. If the man tired of her, if he foundher too delicate for the trials she would have to endure, the girl'slife in the desert would be terribly hard. Max dared not think what itmight be. He had felt that it would tear his heart out to see her goingunprotected except by that fanatic, to be swallowed up by the mercilessmystery of the desert. But because she had decided to go, and becauseshe thought she had need of no one in the world except Stanton, Max hadmade up his mind that he must stand by and let her go. Now, suddenly, itwas different. She wanted him as well as Stanton. True, it was onlybecause she wished to save him, but she would be grieved if he refused. What if he should accept--that is, if Stanton were of the same mind asSanda--and let them both suppose that his motive in joining them was tokeep out of prison? He knew that his true reason would be other thanthat if he went. But searching his soul, he saw there no wrong toStanton's wife. He would not go with that pair of lovers for his ownpleasure, and no suffering he could endure, even in the _Bat d'Aff_, would be equal to seeing Sanda day after day, night after night, whenshe had given herself to Stanton. All he wanted was to be near her if hewere needed. He could never justify himself to Colonel DeLisle or to anyone else in the world by telling the truth; but because it was thetruth, in his own eyes perhaps he might be justified. 

"Have you thought long enough?" Sanda asked. "Can't you decide, and savemy happiness?"

Save her happiness!... 

"I have decided, " Max said. "If Mr. Stanton will let a deserter join hiscaravan I will go. "

CHAPTER XXVI

SANDA'S WEDDING NIGHT

What arguments the explorer used none save himself and the priest fromTouggourt would ever know. But the priest came and married Sanda toStanton according to the rites of the Catholic Church. In his eyes, asin the eyes of the girl, it was enough; for was she not, in the sight ofheaven, a wife?

Stanton professed himself not only glad, but thankful, to have Max as arecruit for his expedition. He agreed with Sanda that it would beQuixotic, in the circumstances, to go back to Sidi-bel-Abbés. 

"You'd be a damn fool, my boy, " he said emphatically, "to go and offeryourself a lamb for the sacrifice!" It did not occur to him that Max wasoffering himself on the altar of another temple of sacrifice. He thoughtthe young man was "jolly lucky" to escape from the mess he had tumbledinto and get the chance of a glorious adventure with Richard Stanton. Ithad been a blow and even a humiliation to the explorer that all theEuropeans he had asked to accompany him had refused, either on the spot, or after deliberation. He believed in himself and his vision socompletely, and had snatched so many successes out of the jaws ofdisaster, that it was galling not to be believed in by others, in this, the crowning venture of his life. If he could find the Lost Oasis hewould be the most famous man in the world, or so he put it to himself;and any European with him would share the glory. It had been almostmaddening to combat vainly, for once in his career, the objections andsneers of skeptics. 

People had said that if no European, not even a doctor, would join himin his "mad mission, " he would be forced to give it up. But he had founda fierce satisfaction in disappointing them and in showing the worldthat he, unaided, could carry through a project which daunted all whoheard of it. He had triumphed over immense obstacles in getting togetherhis caravan, for Arabs and Soudanese had been superstitiously depressedby the fact that the mighty Stanton could persuade no man of his ownrace to believe in the Lost Oasis. It was only his unique force ofcharacter that had made the expedition possible at last; that and hisknowledge of medicine, even of "white and black" magic, his mastery ofdesert dialects, his eloquence in the language of those who hesitated, working them up to his own pitch of enthusiasm by descriptions of whathe believed the Lost Oasis to be: a land of milk and honey, with wivesand treasure enough for all, even the humblest. Napoleon, the greatestgeneral of the French, had wished to search for the Lost Oasis, marchingfrom Tripolitania to Egypt, but had abandoned the undertaking because ofother duties, not because he ceased to believe. The golden flower of thedesert had been left for Stanton and his band to pluck. Threats, persuasion, bribes, had collected for him a formidable force. If he hadlingered at Touggourt, after getting the necessary men together, no onehad dared to suggest in his hearing that it was because a desertdancing-woman was beautiful. He had always had weighty reasons toallege, even to himself: the stores were not satisfactory; the oilprovided was not good; camels fell ill and substitutes had to be got; hewas obliged to wait for corn to be ground into the African substitutefor macaroni; Winchester rifles and ammunition promised for his fightingmen did not turn up till long after the date specified in his contract. But now he was off on the great adventure; and, gloriously sure that allcredit would be his, he was sincerely glad to have Max as a follower, humble yet congenial. 

His meeting with Sanda seemed to Stanton a good omen. Since Ahmara haddeserted him in a fury, because of the humiliation put upon her duringDeLisle's visit, he had been in a black rage. Days had been lost insearching for her, because she had disappeared. He had dreamed at nightof choking the dancer's life out, and shooting the man who had stolenher from him, for he had no doubt of the form her revenge had taken. Inthe end, he had decided to put her from his mind, persuading himselfthat he was sick to death of the tigress-woman whom he had thought ofcarrying with him on the long desert march. Still, he had been sad andthwarted, and the music of the tomtoms and räitas, instead of tributesto his triumph, had been like voices mocking at his failure. Then Sandahad magically appeared in the desert: fair and sweet as the moon incontrast with the parching sun. He had held out his arms on the impulseand she had fallen into them. Her youth, her white beauty in the bluenight, lit a flame in him, and he fanned it greedily. It was good toknow that he was young enough still to light another fire so soon onhalf-cold ashes. He revelled in making himself believe that he loved thegirl. He respected and admired himself for it, and he drank in eagerlythe story she told him in whispers, at the door of her tent in thenight: the story of childish, hopeless hero-worship for her "SirKnight. " He was so confident of her adoring love that jealousy of Maxwould have seemed absurd, though Max was twenty-six and Stanton twentyyears older. If it had occurred to him that Max might be romantically inlove with Sanda, the idea would not have displeased him or made himhesitate to take the younger man as a member of his escort. There was acruel streak running through Stanton's nature which even Sanda dimlyrealized, though it did not diminish her love. There were moods when heenjoyed seeing pain and inflicting it; and there were stories told ofthings he had done in such moods: stories told in whispers; tales ofwhipping black men to death when they had been caught deserting from hiscaravans; tales of striking down insubordinates and leaving themunconscious to die in the desert. It would have amused Stanton, if theidea had presented itself, to think of a love-sick young man helplesslywatching him teach an uninstructed young girl the art of becoming awoman. But the idea did not present itself. He was too deeply absorbedin himself, and in trying to think how infinitely superior was a whitedove like Sanda to a creature of the Ahmara type. He wished savagelythat Ahmara might hear--when it was too late--of his marriage within afew days after their parting. 

When the wedding ceremony was over the caravan started on at once, inorder to reach, not too late, a certain small oasis on the route whereStanton wished to camp on his marriage night. He described the placeglowingly to Max. There was no town there, he said, only a few tentsbelonging to the chief of a neighbour tribe to Ben Râana's. The menthere guarded an artesian well whose water spouted up like a fountain. Though the oasis was small, its palms were unusually beautiful, and thegroup of tall trees with their spreading branches was like a greentemple set in the midst of the desert. Altogether, Stanton remarked, itwas an ideal spot for the beginning of a honeymoon. His eyes were morebrilliant than ever as he spoke, and Max turned his head away not to seethe other man's face, because the look on it made him want to killStanton. The martyrdom he knew awaited him had already begun. 

Before starting into the unknown Max bought from the leader of his owncamel-men some garments which Khadra had washed for her husband at BenRâana's _douar_. They were to be ready for his return to Touggourt, andwere still as clean as the brackish water of the desert could make them. Dressed as an Arab, Max made a parcel of his uniform with its treasuredred stripes of a corporal; and having addressed it for the post, paidthe camel-driver to send it off for him from Touggourt toSidi-bel-Abbés. The unpardonable sin of a deserting Legionnaire is torob France of the uniform lent him for his soldiering. But returning herproperty to the Republic, Max sent no letter of regret or apology. Hewas a deserter, and to excuse himself for deserting would be an insultto the Legion. Nobody except DeLisle could possibly understand, and Maxdid not mean to offer explanations, even to his colonel. If in his heartSanda's father could ever secretly pardon a deserter, it must be of hisown accord, not because of what that deserter had to say on his ownbehalf. 

Out of the little caravan Max had to discharge, Stanton kept the mehariwith the bassourah which Sanda had ridden during the journey from BenRâana's _douar_. It was, he said, laughing, a present direct fromProvidence to his bride, since not without delay could he have providedher with anything so comfortable for travelling. The finely bred cameland many other animals of the escort might fail or die en route, butthere were places on the way where others could be got, as well as mento replenish vacancies made by deaths. Stanton was too old an explorernot to have calculated each step of the way, as far as any white man'sstory or black man's rumour described it. And he talked stoically of thedepletion of his ranks. It was only his own failure or death whichappeared to be for him incredible. 

Stanton rode all day at the head of the caravan, with Sanda, on hermehari, looking down at him, "like the Blessed Damozel" as he had said, between her curtains. Max, on a strong pony which Stanton had bought asan "understudy" for his own horse, kept far in the rear. The desert hadbeen beautiful for him yesterday. It was hideous to-day. He thought itmust always be hideous after this. They saw the new moon for the firsttime that afternoon. Sanda, lost in a dream of happiness, pointed it outto Stanton, but he was vexed because they caught a glimpse of it overthe left shoulder. It was a bad sign, he said, and Sanda laughed at himfor being superstitious. As if anything could be a bad sign for them on_that day_!

"Little White Moon, " Ourïeda and the other Arab women had called her atDjazerta. Stanton said it was just the name for her, when she told him. The girl was perfectly happy now that Max was rescued. She had noregrets, no cares; for, though she dearly loved her father, it wouldhave been long before she saw him again even if she had gone toSidi-bel-Abbés; and she knew he had hated the necessity for leaving herthere without him. She believed it would be a great relief to such akeen soldier as he was not to be burdened with a girl. Often she felt ithad been wrong and selfish of her to run away from the aunts and throwherself upon his mercy. Their few weeks together, learning to know andlove each other, had been delicious, but the future might have beendifficult if she had stayed. 

Surely her father would be glad to have her married to his friend, and, even if there were dangers to be feared in the unknown desert, why, Colonel DeLisle was a soldier, and she was a soldier's daughter. 

She wrote a letter to her father and gave it to the priest who hadmarried her. Some day it must reach its destination, and there werethings in it which would make Colonel DeLisle happy. Sanda believedthere would be tender romance for him, as for her, in the thought of themarriage near Touggourt, where his love had come to him from half acrossthe world. 

Not a rap did the girl care for the hardships in front of her. Shelaughed and thought it a great adventure that she had no "trousseau, "but only the few clothes which were wearable after her long visit toDjazerta. And if they were never to find the Lost Oasis, or if theythemselves were to be lost, she would go forth with the same untroubledheart. 

The crescent moon had dropped behind the horizon, like a bracelet in thesea, before they came in sight of the oasis where they were to spend thewedding night; but the sky glittered with encrusting stars that spread asilver background for the tall, dark palms. As the caravan descendedinto a wide valley between dunes, Max heard Stanton's voice shouting tohim. He rode forward to the side of the "Chief, " as the explorer wascalled by his men. 

"Like a good chap, gallop ahead with my fellows and see that our tent isset up in the best place, " said Stanton in his deep, pleasant voice. "Ishould like Sanda to find it all ready when she gets there. Have it putwhere my wife would think it prettiest; you'll know the right place;place you'd choose yourself if it was _your_ honeymoon!"

There was no conscious malice in the words, but they cut like a lash ina raw wound. Max had the impulse to strike his horse with the whip, buthe was ashamed of it and stroked the animal's neck instead, as with aword he urged it on. 

"I must watch myself if this isn't to turn me into a beast, " he thought. "It shan't, or I'll be worse than useless to her. She shan't fallbetween two brutes. "

Stanton had already selected the men who were to pitch his bridal tent, and Max rode ahead with them and their loaded camels. He chose a spotbetween a miniature palm grove separated from the main oasis and theartesian well, far enough from the gushing water for its bubbling to beheard through canvas walls soothingly, like the music of a fountain. 

Fortunately for the comfort of the unprepared-for bride, Stanton was aman who "did himself well" when he could, though he had always beenready to face hardship if necessary. He had not considered it necessaryto stint himself when starting on this expedition, although, later on, he would be quite ready to throw luxuries away as encumbrances. Therewere cushions and thick rugs and fine linen and soft blankets. There wasalso some folding furniture; and one object which revealed itself amongthe rugs at first surprised, then unpleasantly enlightened, Max. It wasa rather large mirror with a gilded French frame, such as Arab womenadmire. For himself, Stanton would have had a shaving-glass a footsquare, and the gaudy ornament made Max's blood boil. Stanton hadcertainly brought it for a woman: Ahmara. Before the quarrel, then, hehad intended to take her with him! It was only by a chance that he hadgathered a fair white lily instead of a desert poppy. 

Max would have liked to break the mirror, but, instead, he saw that itwas safely hung on one of the tent-hooks and supported by a brightlypainted Moorish chest. 

As he stepped out of the tent when all was finished and ready for thebride--even to a vase of orange blossoms brought by the priest fromTouggourt--the caravan, which had been moving slowly at the last, hadnot yet arrived. Two elderly Arabs hovered near, however, the men wholived in the oasis to guard the well and the date palms in season. AsMax spoke to them in his laboured Arabic he saw in the distance theform of a woman. Standing as she did, in the open ground with no treesbetween her and the far silver horizon, she was a noble and commandingfigure, slender and tall like a daughter of the palms. She was for Maxno more than a graceful silhouette, majestically poised, for he couldnot see her face, or even be sure that the effect of crown and plumes onher high-held head was not a trick of shadow. Indeed it seemed probablethat it was a mere illusion, for crowns and waving plumes were worn bydesert dancers, and it did not appear likely that a wife or daughter ofthe well-guardians should be so adorned. 

As he exchanged elaborate compliments with the Arabs the woman's figurevanished and he thought no more of it, for Sanda and Stanton werearriving. Max turned away his eyes as Stanton took the bride out of herbassourah and half carried her toward their tent without waiting tothank the man who had placed it. Max busied himself feverishly insuperintending the arrangements of the camp, which Stanton had asked himas his "lieutenant" to undertake that night. 

The kneeling camels were tethered in long lines. No zareba would beraised, for there would be many a long march before the caravan reachedperilous country. Here a fire could be built, for there was no danger inshowing smoke and raising a rose-red glow against the silver. Theunveiled women, whom Stanton had diplomatically allowed to accompanytheir husbands, began to cook supper for the men; couscous and coffeeand thin, ash-baked bread. It was a long time since Stanton had takenSanda to the tent under the little grove of palms, but he had given noorders yet for food to be prepared. Max thought it unlikely that heshould be asked to eat with them, but if he were invited he intended torefuse. In spite of himself, he could not help glancing now and thentoward the tent. The door-flaps had not been let down, but there was nolight inside. Turning involuntarily that way, as iron turns to a magnet, at last he saw a man and woman come out of the tent. But the woman wasnot Sanda!

Max realized this with a shock. He saw both figures for an instantpainted in blue-black against the light, khaki-coloured canvas. Thewoman was very tall, as tall as Stanton, and on her head was somethinghigh, like a crown set with plumes. Stanton led her away, walkingquickly. They went toward the low, black tents of the guardians of theoasis. 

Max stood still with a curious sensation of being dazed after a stunningblow half forgotten. How long he remained without moving he could nothave told. His eyes had not followed the two figures very far. Theyreturned to the tent and focussed there in anguish. Some scene theremust have been between those three. He was not surprised when, after ashort time--or a long time, he did not know which--Sanda appeared. Hewondered if his soul had called her, and she was coming in answer to thecall. 

She hesitated at first, as if not sure where to go. Then catching sightof him at a distance, with the light of the fire ruddy on his face, shebegan to run. Almost instantly, however, she stopped, paused for asecond or two, and it seemed to Max that she swayed a little as if shemight fall. He started toward her with great strides; but he had nottaken more than three or four when he saw that she was walking slowlybut steadily straight toward him. He felt then, with a mysterious butcomplete certainty, that she wished him to go no farther, but to wait. He stopped, and in a moment she was by his side. She did not speak, butstood with her head drooping. Max could not see her face. After thefirst eagerly questioning glance he turned his eyes away. She did notwish him to look at her or break the silence. He held his tongue, but hewas afraid she might hear the pounding of his heart and his breathcoming and going. If she did she would guess that he knew somethingwhich, perhaps, she did not mean to let him know. At last, however, hecould bear the strain no longer; besides, Stanton might come back. Ifthere were anything he could do for her, if she wanted him to take heraway--God! how his blood sang at the thought of it!--there was no moretime to waste. 

His tone sounded flat and ineffectual in his own ears as he spoke. Theeffort to keep it down to calmness made it almost absurd, as it wouldhave been to mention the weather in that tingling instant. He askedsimply: "Is there something--something I can 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 comparedin his mind to the ripple of a brook steeped in sunshine. It was thinand weak, almost like the voice of a little, broken old woman. But, praise heaven, she was young, so very young that she would live thisdown, and, some day, almost forget. If she would let him take her backto Sidi-bel-Abbés after all! This marriage by a priest without sanctionof the law need not stand. She was not a wife yet, but a girl, oh! thankGod for that! It was not too late. If only he could say these things toher. But it seemed that he must stand like a block of wood and wait forher to point the way. 

"Are you--perhaps you're homesick?" he dared to give her a cue. 

"Homesick?" Her voice broke and, instead of being like an old woman's, it was like a little child's. "Yes, that's it, I'm homesick! And--and Ithink I'm not very well. I want my father, I want him so much!"

The heart of the man who was not her father yearned toward the girl. 

"Shall I take you back?" he panted. "We're not far past Touggourt. To-morrow it will be too late, but now--now----"

"Now it's already too late. Oh, Soldier! to have yesterday again!"

He did not ask her what she meant. He did not need to ask. 

"It can be yesterday for you, " he urged. 

"No. Yesterday I was Sanda DeLisle. To-day I'm Sanda Stanton. Nothingcan change that. "

"If you're unhappy your father can change it. You see, it's only thechurch that----"

"_Only_ the church!"

"Forgive me. But the law would say----"

"It doesn't matter to me what the law would say. It's the thing what youdon't think matters that matters entirely to me. And even if it wereso--even if I were--unhappy instead of only homesick, and somehow ill, Iwouldn't go back if I could. I've written to my father. And that priestfrom Touggourt will have told the Amaranthes. Every one knows. It wouldbe a disgrace to----"

"No! Not to you. "

"I think it would. And to Richard. I have taken him by storm and almostforced him to marry me. I would die and be left alone in the desertrather than disgrace him in the world's eyes just when he's starting outon the crowning expedition of his life. "

"Who put such an idea into your head that you'd taken him by storm, that----"

"Never mind. It is in my head, and it's true. I know it. Soldier, I'mglad, oh, _so_ glad, that you're here! Will you help me?"

"You know I will, " Max said, his heart bursting. If he had neededpayment for what he had done, he had it in full measure. She was glad hewas with her!

"Well, I've told you that I'm ill. It's my head--it aches horribly. Ihardly know what I'm doing or saying. I _can't_ be--in that tentto-night!"

"You shall have mine, " Max assured her quickly. "It's a good littletent, got for the French doctor Stanton was telling us about, whodecided at the last minute not to come. "

"Oh, thank you a thousand times. But you?"

"I shall rig up something splendid. They've got more tents than theyknow what to do with. Several men fell out after Stanton had bought hissupplies. "

"You _are_ good. Could I go to your tent now?"

"Of course. I'll take you there, and fetch your luggage myself. Butyou're sure you won't go back while there's time?"

"Sure. "

"If you're ill you can't ride on with the caravan. "

"I shall be better to-morrow. God will help me, and you will help me, too. I shall be able to go on for a while. Maybe it need not be forlong. People die in the desert. I've always thought it a beautifuldeath. When you promise to marry a person it's for better or worse. AndI've never said I was not _happy_, Soldier! Only a little homesick andtired. "

"Come with me to my tent, " Max said, realizing that all his persuasionswould be in vain. "Come quietly now, and I'll explain to--to Stanton. "

"He knows I feel ill, " she answered. "I told him. He will understand. "

CHAPTER XXVII

THE ONLY FRIEND

When Stanton returned to his tent and found it empty he went out quicklyagain and called for St. George. 

This was one of the few possibilities of which Max had not thought. Hehad imagined Stanton remaining sullenly in his tent as if nothing hadhappened, or searching for Sanda and ordering, perhaps even forcing, herto go back with him. In that eventuality, and that only, Max intended tointerfere. One side of his nature, the violent and uncontrolled side, which every real man has in him, wanted to "smash" Stanton; yearned foran excuse perhaps even to kill him and rid Sanda forever of a brute, nomatter what the consequences to himself. But the side of him wherecommon sense had taken refuge wished to keep neutral for Sanda's sake, in order to watch over her and protect her through everything. When heheard Stanton's call he was not far from the tent he had lent Sanda. She, and everything of hers which she could need for the night, wasalready there, but she had not lighted the candle he had given her. Thelittle khaki-coloured tent was an inconspicuous object in sand of thesame colour. Making an excuse of settling a dispute between two camelswhich disturbed the peace, Max had kept near the tent, and intended, unobtrusively, to play sentinel all night. 

He answered the "Chief's" call on the instant, braced for any emergency. 

"St. George, do you know where my wife is?" Stanton asked. 

"She told me she felt ill, and that you wouldn't object to my lendingher my tent, " answered Max promptly. 

"I felt sure she'd go to _you_, " said Stanton, without the signs ofanger Max expected. Then still greater was the younger man's surprisewhen the elder laughed. It was a slightly embarrassed laugh, but notill-natured. "What else did she tell you?" Stanton wanted to know. 

"She _told_ me--nothing else. " To save his life, Max could not resistthat telltale emphasis which flung a challenge. 

Stanton laughed again and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. 

"I see you've drawn your own conclusions. Fact is, St. George, I'm in adeuce of a damned scrape, and the only bit of luck is having a sensiblechap of my own colour, a friend of both sides, a gentleman and a soldierlike you, to talk it out with. You'd like to help, wouldn't you, for thefather's sake if not the daughter's?"

"Yes, " said Max, after a hair's breadth of hesitation. He was so takenaback by Stanton's attitude that he feared the other man might bedrawing him out in some subtle way detrimental to Sanda. 

"I was sure you would. Well! I'm going to tell you the facts. 

"You're a man of the world, I expect, or you wouldn't have found yourway into the Legion. Before I had any idea of marriage I thought ofcarrying along a--companion, only an Arab dancing-girl, but I'd take myoath there hasn't been a more fascinating creature since Cleopatra. Agorgeous woman! No man on earth--not if he were an emperor or king--butwould lose his head over her, if she tried to make him. No treachery toSanda in the plan. The child didn't enter into my calculations then. Itstruck me, after I'd asked you to see to my tent, you might spotsomething--from that mirror. "

"I did, " Max admitted. 

"Oh, well, anyhow, to make a long story short, the girl flew into one ofthose black rages of the petted dancer men have made a damned fuss over, and she disappeared. Lucky for Sanda! If Ahmara'd been with me I'd havehad to see Mademoiselle wend her way to Touggourt with you. But as itwas, in all good faith, I let myself go--one of my impulses that carryme along. I attribute most of my success in life to impulses;inspirations I call them. I honestly thought this was one, and that itwould make for my happiness. But by jove, St. George, when I took Sandainto my tent an hour ago if there wasn't Ahmara waiting for me!"

He stopped an instant, as if expecting Max to speak, but when only dullsilence answered he hurried on. 

"She hadn't got the news of my marriage. She wanted to give me apleasant surprise by forgiving me, and coming out here secretly, aheadof the caravan, to hide in my tent. Her arms were round my neck before Iknew what was up--and the smell of '_ambre_' that's always in that longhair of hers--God, what hair!--was in my nose. Unfortunately Sanda hadbeen picking up Arabic; so she understood some things Ahmara blurted outbefore I could stop her. She got on to the fact that there'd been arow--a sort of lover's quarrel--and if it hadn't been for amisunderstanding, Ahmara would have started out with me in herplace--_practically_ in her place. No need to tell you more except thatSanda and I had a few words, after she'd refused to see the situation inthe right light. I was sure she'd appeal to you. I am glad you thoughtof offering her your tent. I shall leave her to stew in her own juiceto-night, and come slowly to her senses. She's too fond of me not to dothat before long. "

"When you've sent that woman away to-morrow----" Max began. But Stantoncut him short. 

"I shan't send her away to-morrow. "

"What? You----"

"Sanda had the childish impudence to tell me to-night that nothing couldever make any difference between us after what had passed. Perhaps itwas partly my fault, for I lost my head for a minute when she accused meof tricking her into marrying me, or words to that effect. I'm afraid Isaid she had forced _me_ into it--thrown herself at me--taken meunawares--something of that sort. In a way it's true. Heart caught inthe rebound! But I wouldn't have been cad enough to throw it up to herif she hadn't said things so silly that a saint would have been wild. The girl vows she won't live with me as my wife. Well, I shall holdAhmara as a threat over her head till she sees the error of her ways. It's the one thing to do, as I look at it. Besides, if I try to packAhmara back to Touggourt she'll screech like a hen with her head cutoff. I won't be made a laughing stock before my men, at the start, before I've shown them what sort of a leader they've got. Ahmara comesfrom the south. If Sanda decides to behave herself I'll drop the dancerat her own place, _en route_. Meanwhile, I'll have time for bargainingover her with my wife, and Ahmara can travel with the other women. Several men with their wives have agreed to go only part of the way andget new fellows to join when they leave. That's the only way to shedAhmara without trouble, as she's landed herself on me. And that's theway I'll take--as I said, if Sanda behaves 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 meana duel with her father, and all the world would be down on me just atthe time I'm bidding highest for its applause. If Sanda travels with me, whether she lives with me or not, she'll keep her mouth shut. She's thatkind of girl. Don't you, as her friend--or anyhow, her father'sfriend--know her well enough to understand that?"

"I may think I'd know what _she'd_ do, " Max flung back at the other. "But God knows what _I'd_ do if you insulted Mademoiselle DeLisle--Mrs. Stanton, I mean--by keeping that woman in the caravan. I believe I'dkill you!"

Stanton stared. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, in a change of mood, lookingsuddenly like a great helpless schoolboy arraigned, "I thought I wastalking to a friend. I was asking your advice, and you turn on me like atiger. See here, St. George, if you're going to bite the hand I offer, _you'd_ better be the one to go. "

Max was staggered. He had made a false move. He could not go. Now, morethan ever, a thousand times more, Sanda needed a friend, and he was theonly one within reach. Perhaps he could not always help, but he could atleast keep near. Only these unexpected confidences from Stanton couldhave made him so lose grip upon himself; and it must not happen again. 

"I've just given you my advice, " Max reminded 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 or stay?"

"I want to stay. "

"Very well, then. I need a man like you, and I want you to stay, ifyou'll mind your own business. "

"I will, " Max promised fervently. 

But as to what his business was, there might be different opinions. 

 * * * * *

As the long days passed and the caravan toiled on through dunes andalkali deserts and strange, hidden mountainlands, it was hard to keepbefore his eyes the best way of "minding his own business"--the best wayfor Sanda. That which was highest in him prayed for peace between herand Stanton. That which was lowest wished for war. And it was war. Notloud, open warfare, but a silent battle never ceasing; and the one hopeleft in Sanda's heart for her own future was death in the desert. Shehad determined to go on, and she would go on; but blinding, blessed sunsof noon might strike her dead; she might take some malarial fever in theswampy, saltpetre deserts through which the caravan must travel. Therewere also scorpions and vipers. These things she had heard of as amongthe minor perils of Stanton's expedition, and there were many moreformidable, of course, such as Touaregs and Tibbu brigands. She made Maxswear that, if they were attacked, and there were danger for the women, he would shoot her with his own hand. That would not be a bad solution. And there were others. Her father had said that nearly all expertsprophesied annihilation for Stanton and his men. 

Sanda did not "behave herself. " Nothing less than force could havedragged her to Stanton's tent, and the man openly found consolation withAhmara; at first, perhaps, partly in defiance, but, as time went on, because such love as he had to give was for the "most fascinatingcreature since Cleopatra. " For the men of the caravan there was nothingvery startling in this arrangement. The law of their religion andcountry gave each of them four wives, if he could afford to keep them. Ahmara, darkly beautiful and bejewelled, condescended to travel with theother women of her race, but when the camp was made she moved aboutproudly, like an eastern queen, and went wherever it was her will to go. Sometimes she passed nearer than was necessary to Sanda's tent, andturning her crowned head on its full round throat let her long eyesdwell on the rival who ignored her existence. 

The life she had undertaken would have been impossible for Sanda withoutMax. If he had not been there, a self-appointed watchdog, Ahmara wouldcertainly have insulted Stanton's white bride, or might even haveattempted to kill her. But Ahmara was afraid of Max St. George. She hadcaught a murderous glint in his eye more than once, and knew that if shecrossed a certain dead line which that look defined he would nothesitate to deal with her as with a wildcat. 

As for Sanda, if she ever thought that Ahmara might stab her some nightwhen Max was off guard, she told herself that she did not care. Shelonged for death as the one way out of the cage into which she hadfoolishly flown, and would have prayed for it, if such a prayer were notto her mind sacrilegious. She was too young to realize that to wish isto pray. Sanda was always hoping that something might happen to put anend to everything for her. She disregarded precautions which others tookagainst sunstroke. If there came up a sandstorm she stole away and facedit while the rest sheltered, longing to be overwhelmed and blotted outof existence. But it seemed extraordinarily difficult to die. And then, there was always Max. Unfailingly he was on the spot to ward off danger, or to save her from the effects of what he called her "carelessness, "though he must have guessed the meaning underneath alleged imprudences. 

Sanda never confided in Max, yet she was aware that he could not helpknowing why she refused to live with Stanton. She could not bear tospeak of her humiliation, and Max 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 advanced on its march across the desert, Stanton ignored the presence of Sanda as she ignored Ahmara's. She ateand slept in her own tent, which had been Max's. He it was who saw thatshe had good food and filtered water. Wherever fruit could be got, byfair means or foul, there was some for her, whether others had it ornot. Max made coffee and tea for Sanda. He tended the camel she rode inorder that it might be strong and in good health. When the caravan cameinto the country of the Touaregs he rode near her day by day, and atnight lay as close to her tent as he dared. Sometimes he noticed thatStanton eyed him cynically when he performed unostentatious services forSanda, but outwardly the only two white men were on civil terms. Stantoneven seemed glad of Max's companionship, and discussed routes andprospects with him, asking his advice sometimes; and once, when theexplorer was attacked by a Soudanese maddened by the sun and Stanton'sbrutality, Max struck up the black man's weapon; almost before he knewwhat he was doing he had saved the life of Sanda's husband. 

"Why did I do it?" he asked himself afterward. Yet he knew some strange"kink" in his nature would compel him to do the same thing again underlike circumstances. 

Stanton, at his best, was an ideal leader of men. Many a forlorn hope hehad led and brought to success through sheer self-confidence and beliefin his star. But whether the failure of his mad marriage had disturbedhis faith in his own persistent luck, or whether Ahmara's influence madefor degeneration, in any case, a blight seemed to have fallen on theonce great man's mentality. It had been a boast of his that, though hedrank freely when "resting on his laurels" in Europe, he was strongenough to "swear off" at any moment. He had accustomed himself to takingtea and water only in blazing African heat; and since the seriousillness that followed his sunstroke he had been forbidden to touchalcohol anywhere, in any circumstances. For a time he had beenfrightened into obedience to doctors' orders; but gradually he haddrifted back into old habits; and after his quarrel with Ahmara atTouggourt he found oblivion in much Scotch whisky, his favourite drink. 

Perhaps if all had gone well with Stanton, if Ahmara had not come againinto his life and lost him Sanda's childlike worship, he might havepulled himself together after the starting of the caravan. But, as itwas, there were black thoughts to be chased away, and the simplestreceipt for replacing them with bright ones was to fill his head withfumes of whisky. 

When Sanda, riding behind her curtains, or shrinking in her tent, heardStanton cursing the negro porters, and roaring profane abuse at thecamels and camel-drivers, she did not know that he was drunk; but themen knew, and, being sober by religion, ceased to respect him. Amongthemselves, they began to question the wisdom of his orders, and suspecthim of treachery toward themselves. Losing faith in the leader, theylost faith in the wonderful hidden oasis he sought, the oasis peopled byrich Egyptians who had vanished into the desert to escape persecutionafter the Sixth Dynasty. Arabs and negroes said it must be true afterall that the "Chief" was mad, and they had been mad to trust themselvesto him, or to believe in the mysterious city lost beyond unexploredmountains and shifting dunes which were but shrouds for dead men. He waseither deliberately leading them all to death, for the insane pleasureof it, or else he had some plan for making his own fortune by sellinghis escort as slaves. Men began to desert whenever they came to anattractive stopping-place where there was food and water. They feignedillness, or fled in the night with their camels into the vastness of thedesert, their faces turned once more to the west. For soon, if theystayed, they would pass beyond the zone of known oases, into theterrible land of mystery, charted by no man, a land where it was saidthe sun had dried up all the springs of water. So the caravan dwindledas slowly, painfully it moved toward the east; and even while he hatedhim, Max was sometimes moved to pity for the harassed leader. Stantongrew haggard as the desert closed in round him and his disaffectedfollowers; but there were days when, instead of sympathizingreluctantly, Max cursed the explorer for a brute, and cursed himself forsaving the brute's life. There were days when Stanton shot or whipped aSoudanese for an impudent word, or ordered a forced march because Sandahad sent to beg respite for some wretch struck down with fever whom shewas nursing. 

As the men lost faith in Stanton and his vision of the Lost Oasis theyattached themselves fanatically to the wife of their Chief, the "LittleWhite Moon, " who seldom spoke to her husband save to defend one of theirnumber from his fits of anger, and who, with her golden hair and herskin of snow that the fierce sun could not darken, was like the shiningangel who walks at the right hand of a good Mohammedan. They saw nowrong in Ahmara's presence; but she was haughty and high-tempered, andtook part against them with Stanton. The whisper ran that thedancing-woman had brought bad luck to the expedition for so long as shewas with the caravan; whereas, if fortune were to come, it would comethrough the white girl who nursed the sick and had a smile or a kindword for the humblest porter. This whisper reached Ahmara's ears throughthe wives of the camel-drivers, and at first she was anxious to keep itfrom Stanton lest it should prejudice him and put into his head the ideaof leaving her at one of the far apart oasis towns where the caravantook supplies. But the more she turned over the thought in herunenlightened mind, the more impossible it seemed to her that Stantonwould give her up. Besides, he was very brave, even braver than thegreat chiefs of her own race, for they feared unseen things and omens, whereas he laughed at their superstition. She used every art of theprofessional charmer upon Stanton for the next few days, while she askedherself whether to tell what she had learnt, or not to tell, were wiser. 

When she was convinced that she had made herself more indispensable thanever, Ahmara put the story into the form that seemed to her very good. She said that nothing which passed in the caravan could escape her, because the life of the leader was her life. She wished to be for himlike a lighted candle set at the door of his tent, the flame her spirit, which felt each breath of evil threatening his safety. The men who hatedthe Chief for his power or because he had punished them hated her alsobecause she was true to him as the blood that beat in his heart. 

"Those who are cowards and find the greatness of thy adventures toogreat for them, now they have tasted hardship, mutter in secret againstthee, " Ahmara said. "There are some who mean to band together and refuseto follow thee past the last-known oasis which is marked on thy maps. They say, that from what they have heard, thou art indeed mad to thinkthat a caravan can live in unknown deserts where there is no water. Oncethey believed in thee so firmly if thou hadst told them thou couldstcause water to spout from dry sand they would have taken thy word fortruth. But now the white girl, who is too proud to be thy wife becausethy faithful one followed thee into the desert, has bewitched the men. They think she is a _marabouta_, a saint endowed with magic power, andthat her spirit is stronger than thine. They will offer themselves to_her_ man, when we come to the place where the known way ends, if hewill promise to lead them straight to Egypt, without wandering acrossthe open desert to seek thy Lost Oasis. "

"Her man!" echoed Stanton, the blood suffusing his already bloodshoteyes as in an instant it reddens those of an angry St. Bernard. "What doyou mean?"

"Thou knowest without my telling, my Chief. The man whose idol she is. There is but one man--the man who watches over her by day and night, andmakes himself her slave. "

"You're a fool, Ahmara, " Stanton said roughly. "Don't you suppose I'vegot sense enough to see why you want to put such ideas into my head?You're jealous of my wife. St. George and she are nothing to each other. As for the men, like as not they growl in your hearing because they hopeyou'll repeat their nonsense to me and give me a fright. That's allthere is in it. "

"I know thou art a lion and fearest nothing, " Ahmara meekly answered. But next day she saw that Stanton watched Max. 

On the following night they came to the oasis of which she had spoken. It was called Dardaï, and lay between two danger-zones. The first ofthese--danger from man--was practically passed at Dardaï, Stantoncalculated, and knew that he had been lucky to bring his caravan throughthe land of the Touaregs (which he had risked rather than face almostcertain death along the shorter, more northern way of Tripolitania) withonly a few thefts from marauders and no loss of life by violence. Perhaps the formidable size of the caravan and the arms it carried hadbeen its protection, rather than the repute of its leader; but Stantontook the credit to himself. He told himself that, after all, he hadtriumphed over difficulties as no other man in his place could havedone. It was monstrous and incredible that the spirit of the caravanshould have turned against him. He said this over and over, but in hisheart he knew that he had lost prestige through faults in his ownnature, and because of mistakes he had made ever since the badbeginning. He knew that, although he had brought his followers throughthe first danger-zone without too many accidents, the second zone, theuncharted zone of Libyan desert which stretched before them now, had tentimes more of danger in it than the zone of danger from men. Whiskycould not chase away his gloom that night when he had come to camp fromthe house of the sheikh who had entertained him at dinner in thevillage, and to whom he had given valuable presents in exchange for helpexpected. But if the liquor could not cheer him, it made him consciousof his own bulldog tenacity. 

"I'll show the ungrateful devils who is master, " he thought as helooked out from his tent door to the glow of the fire round which hismen had been watching some naked male dancers of Dardaï. The dancers hadgone, but the watchers had not yet moved. They were talking togethermore quietly than usual, in groups. Stanton wondered what they weresaying; and he stared, frowning, over their heads toward the east, wherelay the Libyan desert. They were practically out of the Sahara now. 

As he gazed, Ahmara came flitting across a moonlit space of sand thatlay like a silver lake between the tent and the rest of the camp. 

"Thou art back, O master of my heart, from thy visit to the sheikh, " shesaid. "Did it pass off well?"

"Well enough, " Stanton answered mechanically. For the moment he wasindifferent to Ahmara, though her strange face was tragically beautiful. In the pale light the figure of Max St. George became suddenly visibleto him. It moved out from behind the tents and walked over to the fire. Stanton, on a quick impulse, called out to Max harshly:

"Come here, St. George! I want you; hurry up!"

Ahmara slipped behind Stanton, who took a step forward, and, as heforgot her, she darted into his tent. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

SANDA SPEAKS

It was Max's policy, for Sanda's sake, never to give Stanton a pretextto send him away. He kept his temper under provocations almostintolerable; and now he obeyed the truculent summons. 

"What do you want?" he asked stiffly when he had come near enough tospeak in an ordinary tone. 

"I'll tell you inside my tent, " the explorer answered, stalking in firstand leaving his guest to follow. Stanton was somewhat surprised to seeAhmara sitting on her feet, her ringed hands on her knees, her crownedhead thrown back against the canvas wall; but on the whole, he was notsorry that she was there. She might be useful. He only smiledsarcastically when, at sight of her, Max stopped on the threshold. 

"Don't be afraid to come in, " Stanton laughed; "the lady won't mind. "

"But _I_ do, " Max returned, with the curt politeness of tone whichirritated Stanton. "I'll stand here if you please. "

"All right. My orders won't take long to give. I want you to go to yourfriend's tent with a message from me. "

"My friend's tent?" Max's eyes sent out a spark in the dull yellowlight. 

"My wife's tent, then, if you think the name's more appropriate. Ibelieve she's likely to favour you as a messenger, and she hasn't goneto bed, for her tent's lit up. Tell her from me, I find it subversive ofdiscipline in this caravan for a woman to set her will up against theleader and live apart from her husband. Entirely for that reason and notbecause I want anything to do with her, after the way I've been treated, I've made up my mind that she and I must live together like othermarried people. I wish the change to be made with the knowledge of thewhole caravan. Go and tell her to come here; and then give my orders toMahmoud and Zaid to bring anything over she may need. "

If eyes could kill, Stanton would have dropped like a felled ox. But Maxwould not give him the satisfaction of a blow or even of a word. With alook of disgust such as he might have thrown at a wallowing drunkard ina gutter, St. George turned his back on the explorer and walked away. Before he could escape out of earshot, however, the Chief was bawlinginstructions to Ahmara. 

"Since that fellow is above taking a message, go you, and deliver it, "roared Stanton, repeating in Arabic the orders flung at Max. "Herladyship knows enough of your language to understand. Say to her, if sheisn't at my tent door in ten minutes I'll fetch her. She won't likethat. "

Max had not meant to go near Sanda, but fearing insult for her from theArab woman, he changed his mind, and put himself between Ahmara andSanda's tent. As the tall figure in its full white robes came floatingtoward him in the moonlight, he blocked the way. But the dancer did nottry to pass. She paused and whispered sharply: "Thinkest thou I want thegirl to go to him? No, I'd kill her sooner. But he is watching. Let meonly tell her to beware of him. If she is out of her tent when hesearches, what can he do? And by to-morrow night I shall have had timeto make him change his mind. "

"You shan't speak to Mrs. Stanton if I can help it, " said Max. "Besides, I won't trust you near her. You're a she-devil and capable of anything. "

"Speak to her at the door thyself, if thou art afraid my breath willwither thy frail flower, " Ahmara sneered. "Tell her to escape quicklyinto the shadows of the oasis, for the master will not care to lose hisdignity in hunting her. As for thee, thou canst run to guard her fromharm, as thou hast done before when she wandered, and I will carry wordto the Chief that the White Moon refuses to shine for him. In tenminutes he will set out to fetch her, according to his word; but when hefinds her tent empty he will return to his own with Ahmara, I promisethee, to plan some way of punishment. Shelter thy flower from that alsoif thou canst, for it may not be to my interest to counsel thee then, asit is now. "

Max turned from the dancer without replying, and she hovered near whilehe spoke at the door of Sanda's tent, within which the light had nowgone out. 

"Mrs. Stanton!" he called in a low voice. "Mrs. Stanton!"

Sanda did not answer; and he called for the third time, raising hisvoice slightly, yet not enough for Stanton to hear at his distance. 

Still all was silence inside the tent, though it was not five minutessince the light had been extinguished, and Sanda could hardly havefallen asleep. Could she have heard what he and Ahmara were saying? Hewondered. It was just possible, for he had stepped close to the tent inbarring the dancer away from it. If Sanda had heard hurrying footstepsand voices she might have peeped through the canvas flaps; and havingmade an aperture, it would have been easy to catch a few words ofAhmara's excited whispers. 

"Perhaps she took the hint and has gone, " Max thought; and an instantlater assured himself that she had done so, for the pegs at the back ofthe tent had been pulled out of the sand. The bird had flown, but Maxfeared that it might only be from one danger to another. In spite of thefriendly reception given to the caravan at Dardaï, a young womanstraying from camp into the oasis would not be safe for an instant ifseen; and in the desert beyond Sanda might be terrified by jackals orhyenas. Bending down Max saw, among the larger tracks made by himselfand the men who had helped him pitch the tent, small footprints in thesand: marks of little shoes which could have been worn by nobody butSanda. The toes had pressed in deeply, while the heelprints wereinvisible after the first three or four. As soon as she was out of thetent, Sanda had started to run. She had gone away from the direction ofthe dying fire, in front of which the men of the caravan still squatted, and had taken the track that led toward the oasis. There was a narrowstrip of desert to be crossed, and then a sudden descent over rocks, down to an _oued_ or river-bed, which gave water to the mud village highup on the other side. This was the way the oasis dwellers had takenafter a visit of curiosity to the camp; and as the night was bright andnot cold, some might still be lingering in the _oued_, bathing theirfeet in the little stream of running water among the smooth, roundstones. Max followed the footprints, but lost them on the rocks, andwould have passed Sanda if a voice had not called him softly. 

The girl had found a seat for herself in deep shadow on a small plateaubetween two jutting masses of sandstone. 

"I saw you, " she said as he stopped. "I wondered if you would come andlook for me. "

"Weren't you sure?" he asked. "When I found the tent-pegs up, I knewyou'd gone; and I followed the footprints, because it's not safe for youto be out in the night alone. "

"Safer than in my tent, if he----" she began breathlessly, then checkedherself in haste. She was silent for a minute, looking up at Max, whohad come to a stand on the edge of her little platform. Then, for thefirst time since she had begged him to join the caravan instead of goingback to Bel-Abbés, she broke down and cried bitterly. 

"What am I to do, Soldier?" she sobbed. "You know--I never told youanything, but--you _know_ how it is with me?"

"I know, " said Max. 

"I've been always hoping I should die somehow, and--and that would makean end, " the girl wept. "Other people have died since we have started:three strong men and a woman, one from a viper's bite and the otherswith fever. But I can't die! Soldier, you never _let_ me die!"

"I don't mean to!" Max tried to force a ring of cheerfulness into hisvoice, though black despair filled his heart. "You've got to livefor--your father. "

"I hope I shall never see him again!" she cried sharply. "He'd know theinstant he looked into my eyes that I was unhappy. I couldn't bear it. Oh, Soldier, if only I had let you take me back when you begged to, evenas late as that morning--before Father Dupré came out from Touggourt. But it makes things worse to think of that now--of what might havebeen!"

"Let's think of what will be, when we get through to Egypt, " Maxencouraged her. 

"I don't want to get through. The rest of you, yes, but not I! Soldier, what am I to do if he tries to make--if he won't let me go on livingalone?"

"He _shall_ let you, " said Max between his teeth. 

"You mean that you--but that would be the worst thing of all, if youquarrelled with him about me. You've been so wonderful. Don't you thinkI've seen?"

Max's heart leaped. What had she seen? His love, or only the acts itprompted?

"Don't be afraid, that's all, " he said. His voice shook a little. As herface leaned out of the shadow looking up to him, lily-pale under themoon, he feared her sweetness in the night, feared that it might breakdown such strength as he had and make him betray his secret. How hewould hate himself afterward, if in a mad moment he blurted out his lovefor this poor child who so needed a faithful friend! In terror ofhimself he hurried on. "Better let me take you back now, " he suggestedalmost harshly. "You can't stay here all night. "

"Why can't I?"

"Because--it's best not. I'll walk with you as far as the camels, andthen drop behind--not too far off to be at hand if--anything disturbsyou. Did you hear all that woman said to me?"

"About his looking into my tent and then going back to his own--thatshe'd promise he _should_ go back? Yes, I listened before I ran away. Those were the last words I waited for. "

Max was glad she had not overheard the threat of future punishment. 

"Well, then, your tent will be safe. "

"Safe?" she echoed. "Safe from him--from my _hero_! What fools girls canbe! But perhaps there was never one so foolish as I. It seems æons sinceI was that person--that happy, silly person. Well! It doesn't bearthinking of, much less talking about; and I never did talk before, didI? We'll go back, since you say we must. But not to my tent. I'd rathersit by the fire all night, if the men have gone when we get there. Afterdawn I can rest, as we're not to travel to-morrow. "

She held out both hands to be helped up from her low seat, and Maxfought down the impulse to crush the slender white creature against hisbreast. Slowly they walked back over the rocks and through themoon-white sand, until they could see not only the glow of the fire, butthe smouldering remnants of palm-trunks. Dark, squatting figures werestill silhouetted against the ruddy light, and Sanda paused to considerwhat she should do. She stopped Max also, with a hand on his arm. 

"It's a wonderful picture, or would be if one were happy!" she muttered;and then Max could feel some sudden new emotion thrill through herbody. She started, or shivered, and the fingers lying lightly on hiscoat-sleeve tightened. 

"What is it?" he asked, but got no answer. The girl was standing withslightly lifted face, her eyes closed, as if behind the shut lids shesaw some vision. 

"Sanda!" he breathed. It was the first time he had called her by thatname, though always in his thoughts she was Sanda. "You're frighteningme!"

"Hush!" she said. "I'm remembering a dream; you and I in the deserttogether, and you saving me from some danger, I never found out what, because I woke up too soon. Just now it was as if a voice told me thiswas the place of the dream. "

What caused Max to tear his eyes from the rapt, white face of the girlat that instant, and look at the sand, he did not know. But he seemedcompelled to look. Something moved, close to Sanda's feet; somethingthin and long and very flat, like a piece of rope pulled quickly towardher by an unseen hand. Max did not stop to wonder what it was. Heswooped on it and seized the viper's neck between his thumb and fingerand snapped its spine before it had time to strike Sanda's ankle withits poisoned fang. But not before it had time to strike him. 

The keen pin-prick caught him in the ball of the thumb. It did not hurtmuch, but Max knew it meant death if the poison found a vein; and he didnot want to die and leave Sanda alone with Stanton. Flinging the deadviper off, he whipped the knife in his belt from its sheath, and withits sharp blade slit through the skin deep into the flesh. A slightgiddiness mounted like the fumes from a stale wine-vat to his head ashe cut down to the bone and hacked off a bleeding slice of his righthand, then cauterized the wound with the flame of a match; but he washardly conscious of the pain in the desperate desire to save a lifenecessary to Sanda. It was of her he thought then, not of himself at allas an entity wishing to live for its own pleasure or profit; and he wasdimly conscious, as the blood spurted from his hand, of hoping thatSanda did not see. He would have told her not to look, but the need toact was too pressing to give time for words. Neither he nor she haduttered a sound since his dash for the viper had shaken her clingingfingers from his arm; and it was only when the poisoned flesh and theburnt match had been flung after the dead snake that Max could glance atthe girl. 

When he did turn his eyes to her, it was with scared apology. He wasafraid he had made her faint if she had seen that sight; luckily, though, blood wasn't quite so horrid by moonlight as by day. 

"I'm sorry!" he stammered. But the words died on his lips. She waslooking straight at him with a wonderful, transfiguring look. Manyfleeting expressions he had seen on that face of his adoration, butnever anything like this. He did not dare to think he could read it, andyet--yet----

"Have you given your life for me this time?" she asked, in a strange, deadly quiet tone. 

"No, no. I shall be all right now I've got rid of the poison, " heanswered. "I'll bind my hand up with this handkerchief----"

"I'll bind it, " she cut him short; and taking the handkerchief from himshe tore it quickly into strips. Then with practised skill she bandagedthe wound. "That must do till we get to my tent, " she told him. "ThereI've lint and real bandages that I use for the men when they hurtthemselves, and I'll sponge your hand with disinfectant. But, mySoldier, my poor Soldier, 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 cut all 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, I know!" Sanda said. "And _I_can't let you die--anyhow, without telling you something first. Does thepoison, if you've got it in you, kill very quickly?"

"It does, rather, " Max admitted, still apologetically, because he couldnot bear to have Sanda suffer for him. "But it's a painless sort of anend, not a bad one, if it wasn't for--for----"

"For leaving me alone. I understand. And because you may have to--verysoon, though I pray not--I shall tell you what I never would have toldyou except for this. Only, if you get well, you must promise not tospeak of it to me--nor even to seem to remember; and truly to forget, ifyou can. "

"I promise, " Max said. 

"It's this: I know you care for me, Max, and I care for you, too, dearly, dearly. All the love I had ready for Richard flowed away fromhim, like a river whose course had been changed in a night by atremendous shock of earthquake. Gradually it turned toward you. You wonit. You deserve it. I should be a wretch--I shouldn't be natural if Ididn't love you! That's all I had to tell. I couldn't let you go withoutknowing. And if you do go, I shall follow you soon, because I couldn'tlive through a day more of my awful life without you. "

"Now I _know_ that I can't die!" Max's voice rang out. "If there waspoison in my blood, it's killed with the joy of what you've said to me. "

"Joy!" Sanda echoed. "There can be no joy for us in loving each other, only sorrow. "

"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 it again. "

So they came to Sanda's tent; and Stanton, sitting in his open doorway, saw them arrive together. With great strides he crossed the strip ofdesert between the two tents, and thrust his red face close to theblanched face of Max. His eyes spoke the ugly thing that was in his mindbefore his lips could utter it. But Sanda gave him no time for wordsthat would be unforgivable. 

"I had gone to the river, " she said, with a hint of pride and command inher voice that Max had never heard from her. It forbade doubt and rangclear with courage. "Monsieur St. George was afraid for me, and came tobring me back. On the way he killed a viper that would have bitten me, and was bitten himself. He has cut out the flesh round the wound andcauterized it; and he will live, please God, with care and rest. "

Taken aback by the challenging air of one who usually shrank from him, Stanton was silenced. Sanda's words and manner carried conviction; andeven before she spoke he had failed in goading himself to believe evil. Drunk, he had for the moment lost all instincts of a gentleman; but, though somehow the impulse to insult Sanda was beaten down, the wish topunish her survived. Max's wound and the fever sure to follow, if helived, gave Stanton a chance for revenge on both together, whichappealed to the cruelty in him. Besides, it offered the brutal openinghe wanted to show his authority over the sullenly mutinous men. 

"Sorry, but St. George will have to do the best he can without rest, "Stanton announced harshly. "We start at four-thirty. It is to be asurprise call. "

"But we were to stop till to-morrow and refit!" Sanda protested inhorror. 

"I've changed my mind. We don't need to refit. In five hours we shall beon the march. "

"No!" cried Sanda. "You want to kill my only friend, but you shall not. You know that rest is his one chance, and you'd take it away. I won'thave it so. He stays here, and I stay with him. "

"Stay and be damned, " Stanton bawled. 

The men sitting by the distant fire heard the angry roar, and somejumped to their feet, expecting an alarm. 

"Stay and be damned, and may the vultures pick the flesh off yourlover's bones, while the sheikh takes you to his harem. He's welcome toyou, " Stanton finished. 

Before the words were out Max leaped at the Chief's throat. All theadvantage of youth was his, against the other's bulk; but as he sprangAhmara bounded on him from behind, winding her arms around his body andthrowing on him all her weight. It made him stagger, and, snatching upthe heavy campstool on which he had been sitting, Stanton struck Maxwith it on the head. Weakened already by the anguish in the torn nervesof his hand (most painful centre for a wound in all the body), Max felllike a log, and lay unconscious while Ahmara wriggled herself free. 

"He asked for that, and now he's got it, " said Stanton, panting. "Servehim right, and nobody will blame me if he's dead. But he isn't, no fear!Fellows like him belong to the leopard tribe, and have as many lives asa cat. Good girl, Ahmara, many thanks. "

And without another glance toward Max, beside whom Sanda was on herknees, Stanton threw the campstool into the tent and yelled to the menby the fire. He called the names of two who were his special servants, but most of the band followed, knowing from the roar of rage and the onesharp cry in a woman's voice that something important had happened. 

Stanton was glad when he saw the dark crowd troop toward him, though inhis first flush of excitement he had not thought to summon every one. 

"Come on, all of you!" he shouted. "Now halt! You see the man lyingthere--at my feet, where he belongs. He was my trusted lieutenant, buthe took too much upon himself. I knocked him down for insubordination. He doesn't go farther with the caravan. And we start in five hours. Zaidand Mahmoud, put this carrion out of my sight. I've shown you all whathappens when black or white men disobey my orders. "

No one came forward. From her knees beside Max Sanda rose up slim andstraight and stood facing the Arabs and negroes. 

"Men, " she cried to them, "I've done my best for you. I've defended you, when I could, from injustice. When you have been sick with fevers orwith wounds I have nursed you. Now my father's friend, and my friend, who to-night has saved my life, lies wounded. If you leave him, youleave me, too, for I stay as his nurse. What do you decide?"

Stanton was on her in two strides. Seizing her arm he twisted it with asavage wrench and flung her tottering behind him. The pain forced a cryfrom the girl, and Ahmara laughed. That was more than the men couldstand, for to them Sanda was always the White Angel, Ahmara the Black;and over there by the fire they had discussed a deputation to Stanton, announcing that, since starting, they had heard too much evil of thehaunted Libyan desert to dare venture across its waterless wastes. Thespirit of mutiny was in them, having smouldered and flashed up, smouldered and flamed again at Stanton's cruelty. This was too much! Thespark was fired. A Senegalese whom Sanda had cured of a scorpion bite--ablack giant to whom Max had lent his camel when Stanton would have lefthim in the desert--leaped like a tiger on the Chief. Steel flashed underthe moon, and Stanton fell back without a groan, striking the hard sandand staining it red. 

For an instant there was silence. Then burst forth a wild shout of hateand joy.... 

CHAPTER XXIX

OUT OF THE DREAM, A PLAN

Stanton was dead, hacked in pieces by the men he had cursed and beaten. Ahmara had fled to Dardaï to live as she could by her beauty; and themurderers, taking with them, in a rage of haste and terror, camels, water, and provisions, had disappeared. The caravan of the greatexplorer had vanished like a mirage; and the Lost Oasis lay hiddenforever from despoiling eyes and hands in the uncharted Libyan desert. 

At dawn Sanda sat beside Max in his tent, where two of the few men whoremained had carried him. Through the hideous hours he had lain as onedead. But light, touching his eyelids, waked him with a shudderingstart. 

"You!" he whispered. "Safe! I've had horrible dreams. "

"Only dreams, " she soothed him. 

"How pale you are!" He stared at her, still half dazed. 

"Perhaps it's the light. "

"No, it's not the light. I remember now.... What happened afterhe--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 it and bandaged it again, and younever knew. "

"Queer! I thought if I were dead I should have known if you touched me!"He spoke more to himself than to Sanda, and she did not answer. Hiseyelids drooped, and presently he slept again. Hours later, when hewoke, she was still there. It seemed to the girl that the world hadfallen to pieces, leaving only her and this man in the ruins. All aroundthem lay the vast desert. To go back whence they had come wasimpossible. To go on seemed equally impossible. There was nowhere to go. But they were together. She knew that nothing could part them now, notlife, and even less death, yet she could see no future. Everything hadcome to a standstill, and their souls might as well be out of theirbodies. It would be so much simpler!

She gave Max tea that she had made; and when she had looked at his handand bandaged it again, she told him all that had happened. How theSenegalese, whose brother Stanton had shot for pilfering, a month ago, had stabbed Stanton in the breast, and fifty others in blood-madness hadrushed to finish his work. How Ahmara had run shrieking to the village, and the men, still in madness, had stolen the camels and gone off intothe desert; not the murderers only, but their friends who saw that itwas well to disappear, that it might never be known who were the menthat saw Richard Stanton die. 

Two months and more ago, when the caravan left Touggourt, there wereover a hundred men who marched with it. Between that time and reachingDardaï thirty had deserted, and a few had died. Now all had flownexcept a dozen of the oldest and most responsible who refused to becarried away by their comrades' vague fear of reprisals. Just thesetwelve were left with fifteen camels and a small store of arms andprovisions. There was money also, untouched in Stanton's tent, and somebales of European rugs, clocks, and musical boxes, which the explorerhad brought as gifts for native rulers. The question pressed: what wasto be done? Sanda could find no answer; but Max had two. They might turnback and go the way they had come. Or they might go on, not trying tocross the Libyan desert in the direction of Assouan, as Stanton hadhoped to do, but skirting southward by a longer route where the desertwas charted and oases existed. After a journey of seventy or eighty daysthey might hope to find their way through Kordofan to Omdurman, and thenacross the Nile to civilized Khartoum. It was this idea that the leadingmutineers, frightened by tales of the terrible Libyan desert, had meantto suggest to Stanton; and if he refused their intention had been todesert. The murder, Max felt sure, had not been premeditated; but he didnot believe that it was regretted. 

"I will not go back to Touggourt, " Sanda said, when he had described toher the two plans. 

"Why? Because you are thinking of me?" he asked. 

"Partly that. But it would be as bad for me as for you, now, if you wereto be arrested as a deserter. And besides, " Sanda went on hurriedly, determined to show him it was for her sake more than his that sheobjected, "I've suffered so much I couldn't go again along that ViaDolorosa. I want to get away from the very thought of it. New sceneswill be better. How many miles must we journey to Omdurman andKhartoum?"

"Nearly a thousand, " Max confessed. 

"More than we've come with our great caravan! It's not possible. "

"It must be possible!" said Max. "We'll make it possible. "

"Surely such a thing has never been done!"

"Maybe not, but we'll do it. I feel now that I have the strength of ahundred men in myself. "

"You haven't even the strength of one. We must stay here till you arestronger. " Yet she shivered and grew cold at the thought of staying on, even with Max, close to the grave the men had dug for Stanton in thesand. 

"I shall be better travelling, " Max urged. He would not tell Sanda, buthe felt it unsafe to stay long near Dardaï with so few men. The sheikhhad been hospitable to Stanton, but things were different now. Ahmarawould tell about the money and the boxes and bales full of presents. Thetemptation virtuously to punish those who were left, for the fate of theexplorer, would be too great, and the excuse too good. 

"We shall have to get off after the heat of the day, " Max insisted. "I've lain here long enough, for, you see, I must be leader now for you. I must talk to the men and tell them what we've decided. "

"How _little_ we are in this great desert, to talk of 'deciding, '" thegirl exclaimed. "It is the desert that will decide. But--you will bewith me always ... As in my dream!"

"And mine, " Max added. 

Then followed day upon day of the desert dream. Some days were evil andsome were good, but none could ever be forgotten. The man and the girlwhose dreams had come true never spoke of the future, though waking orsleeping the thought was seldom out of their minds. 

"I _can't_ give her up now, whatever happens, " Max said to himselfsometimes. Yet he did not see how he should be able, in justice to thegirl, to keep her. In British territory he would be safe from arrest asa deserter from the Legion. But the very thought of himself as adeserter was torture from which he could never escape. He regrettednothing. What he had done he would do again if he had it to do, even inignorance of the reward--her love. But he remembered how he had tried topuzzle out some other way for Valdez, and how impossible it would haveseemed then, that he should ever follow Manöel's example. He lovedColonel DeLisle and he had loved the Legion with all its tragedies, andbeen proud of his place in it. He looked upon himself as a mandisgraced, and did not see how he should ever be able to make a positionin the world worthy to be shared by Sanda. Besides, it would bedisastrous for Colonel DeLisle, as an official, if his daughter shouldmarry a deserter. That was one of the things that "would not do. " YetSanda loved the deserter, and fate had bound them together. The spiritof the desert was making them one. Max did not know that out of Sanda'sdreams had been born a plan. 

CHAPTER XXX

THE PLAY OF CROSS PURPOSES

When Max St. George, with seven emaciated Arabs and five dilapidatedcamels, crawled into Omdurman, bringing Richard Stanton's young widow, their arrival made a sensation for all Egypt. Later, in Khartoum, whenthe history of the murder and the subsequent march of nine hundred milescame out, it became a sensation for Europe and America. 

Rumours had run ahead of the little party, from Kordofan, birthland ofthe terrible Mahdi; but the whole story was patched together fromdisjointed bits only, when the caravan arrived in civilization. Verylittle was got out of the fever-stricken, haggard young man who(according to Mrs. Stanton) was the hero of the great adventure, impossible to have been carried through for a single day without him. Itwas Sanda who told the tale, told it voluntarily, even eagerly, to everyone who questioned her. She could not give Max St. George--thatmysterious young man who apparently had no country and no past--enoughpraise to satisfy her gratitude. There had been terrible sandstorms inwhich they would have given themselves up for lost if it had not beenfor his energy and courage. Once they had strayed a long way off theirtrack and nearly starved and died of thirst before they could find anoasis they had aimed for and renew exhausted supplies. But Max St. George's spirit had never flagged even after the mosquito-ridden swampwhere he had caught a touch of malarial fever. Through his presence ofmind and military skill the party had been saved from extinction in asurprise attack by a band of desert marauders twice their number. Everynight he had protected the little camp by forming round it a hollowsquare of camels and baggage, and keeping a sentinel posted, generallyhimself. It was through these precautions they had been able towithstand the surprise and drive the robbers off with the loss only of afew men and some of the camels. They had fought and conquered the enemyunder a flag of the Legion, a miniature copy given by Colonel DeLisle tohis daughter. There had not been one desertion from their ranks, exceptby death, and all was owing--Sanda said--to the spirit Max St. Georgehad infused into his followers. He insisted that the latter were theonly heroes, if any, and the Arabs from far-off Touggourt enjoyed suchfame as they had associated with the delights of a paradise reserved forwarriors. But of himself Max St. George would not talk; and people saidto each other, "Who is this young fellow who was the only white man withStanton? He seems at home in every language. Where did he come from?"

Nobody could tell. Not a soul knew what his past had been. But as forhis future, it seemed not unlikely that it might be limited on thisearth; for having finished his mission, and taken Mrs. Stanton as far asCairo on her way back to Algeria, he succumbed to the fever he hadresisted ferociously while his services were needed. When there wasnothing to do he relaxed a little and the flame in his blood burnedunchecked. 

Mrs. Stanton's exhibition of gratitude, however, was admirable in theeyes of the world focussed upon her. If Richard Stanton had not been amagnificent man, celebrated for his successes with women, and having theadded attraction of fame as an explorer, people might have suggestedthat the widow's remaining in Cairo to nurse St. George was not entirelydisinterested. But as it was, nobody said disagreeable things about thebeautiful, pale young creature, and the haggard skeleton of a man whohad pioneered her safely through the Sahara and Libyan deserts. 

It was as much because of her beauty, which gave a glamour of almostclassic romance to the wild business, as because of Stanton's reputationand the amazing madness of his last venture, that newspapers all overthe civilized world gave columns to the story. Somehow, snapshots of MaxSt. George, as well as several of Sanda, had been snatched byenterprising journalists before St. George fell ill in Cairo. These weretelegraphed for and bought by newspapers of England, Spain, Italy, France, America, Algeria, and even Germany, which had not loved Stanton. The next thing that happened was the report in Algerian papers that MaxSt. George, "_le jeune homme de mystère_, " was a missing soldier of theLegion, who had deserted from an important mission to join Stanton'scaravan. Sensation everywhere! Paragraphs reminding the public of acurious fact: that young Mrs. Stanton was the daughter of the colonel ofthe Legion. Strange if she had not known from the first that the recruitto her husband's expedition was a deserter from her father's regiment. And what a situation for the colonel himself! His daughter protectedduring a long desert journey of incalculable peril by a man whom itwould be her father's duty to have arrested and court-martialled if hewere on French soil. 

Journalists argued the delicate question, whether, in the circumstances, it would be possible for Colonel DeLisle to do anything officiallytoward obtaining a pardon for St. George--whose name probably was notSt. George, since no man wore anything so obvious as his own name in theForeign Legion. Retired officers wrote letters to the papers and pointedout that for DeLisle to work in St. George's favour, simply becauseaccident had enabled the deserter to aid a member of his colonel'sfamily, would be inadmissible. If St. George were the right sort of manand soldier he would not expect or wish it. As a matter of fact, he didneither; but then, at the time, he was in a physical state whichprecluded conscious wishes and expectations. He did not know or carewhat happened; though sometimes, in intervals of seeing marvellousmirages of the Lost Oasis, and fighting robbers, or prescribing for sickcamels, he appeared vaguely to recognize the face of his nurse; not theprofessional, but the amateur. "Sanda, Sanda!" he would mutter, or cryout aloud; but as fortunately no one knew that Mrs. Stanton, _née_Corisande DeLisle, was called "Sanda" by those who loved her, the doctorand the professional nurse supposed he was babbling about the sand ofthe desert. He had certainly had a distressing amount of it!

Max would have been immensely interested if he could have known at thistime of three persons in different parts of the world who were workingfor him in different ways. There was Manöel Valdez in Rome, where he hadarrived with Ourïeda by way of Tunis and Sicily, instead of getting toSpain according to his earlier plan. Manöel, singing with magnificentsuccess in grand opera, proclaimed himself Juan Garcia, afellow-deserter with St. George, in order to gild St. George's escapadewith glory. Not only did he talk to every one, and permit hisfascinating Spanish-Arab bride to talk, but he let himself beinterviewed by newspapers. Perhaps all this was a good advertisement ina way; but he was making a _succes fou_, and did not need advertisement. Genuinely and sincerely he was baring his heart and bringing his wifeinto the garish limelight because of his passionate gratitude to Max St. George. 

The interview was copied everywhere, and Sanda read it in Cairo, learning for the first time not only many generous acts of St. George ofwhich she had never heard, but gathering details of Ourïeda's escapewith Valdez, at which till then she had merely been able to guess. Theentire plot of Manöel's love drama, from the first grim scene ofstunning the prospective bridegroom on the way to his unwilling bride, to the escape from the _douar_ in the quiet hours when Tahar wassupposed to be left alone with the "Agha's Rose, " on to the hiding atDjazerta, and stealing away in disguise with a caravan while the hunttook another direction, all had played itself out according to his plan. Valdez attributed the whole success to St. George's help, advice, andgifts of money, down to the last franc in his possession. And now Manöelbegan to pay the debt he owed, by calling on the world's sympathy forthe deserter, who might not set foot on French soil without beingarrested. Thus the singer's golden voice was raised for Max in Italy. InAlgeria old "Four Eyes" was working for him like the demon that helooked; having returned with his colonel and comrades to Sidi-bel-Abbésafter the long march and a satisfactory fight with the "Deliverer, " hesoon received news of the lost one. With roars of derision he refused tobelieve in the little "corporal's" voluntary desertion, and from thefirst moment began to agitate. What! punish a hero for his heroism?That, in Four Eyes' vilely profane opinion, expressed with elaborateexpletives in the Legion's own choicest vernacular, was what it wouldamount to if St. George were branded "deserter. " Precisely why Max hadjoined Stanton's caravan instead of returning to Sidi-bel-Abbés, perhapsa few days late, Four Eyes was not certain; but there was no one betterinstructed than he in pretending to know things he merely conjectured. He had seen Ahmara, the dancer, and had told Max the scandal connectingher with the explorer. "What more natural than that a soldier of theLegion should, for his colonel's sake, sacrifice his whole career toprotect the daughter from such a husband as Stanton? No doubt the boyknew that Stanton meant to take Ahmara with him, and had left everythingto stand between the girl and such a pair. "

In his own picturesque and lurid language Four Eyes presented theseconjectures of his as if they were facts; and to do him justice hebelieved in them. Also, he took pains to rake up every old tale ofcruelty, vanity, or lust that had been told in the past about RichardStanton, and embroider them. Beside the satyr figure which he flauntedlike a dummy Guy Fawkes, Max St. George shone a pure young martyr. Neverhad old Four Eyes enjoyed such popularity among the townfolk ofSidi-bel-Abbés as in these days, and he had the satisfaction of seeingveiled allusions to his anecdotes in newspapers when he could afford tobuy or was able to steal them. On the strength of his triumph he got upamong his fellow Legionnaires a petition for the pardon andreinstatement of Corporal St. George. Not a man refused to sign, foreven those who might have hesitated would not have done so long underthe basilisk stare of the ex-champion of boxing. 

"Sign, or I'll smash you to a jelly, " was his remark to one recruit whohad not heard enough of St. George or Four Eyes to dash his name onpaper the instant he saw a pen. 

While the petition was growing Colonel DeLisle (who gave no sign that hehad heard of it) obtained ten days' leave, the first he had asked for inmany years, and took ship for Algiers to Alexandria to see his daughter. But that did not discourage Four Eyes; on the contrary, "The Old Mandoesn't want to be in it, see?" said Pelle. "It ain't for him, in thecircus, to do the trick; it's for us, _ses enfants!_ And damn all fourof my eyes, we'll _do_ it, if we have to mutiny as our comrades once didbefore us, when they made big history in the Legion. "

The third person who, unasked, took an active interest in Max St. George's affairs was, of all people on earth, the last whom he or anyone else would have expected to meddle with them. This was BillieBrookton, married to her Chicago millionaire, and trying, tooth andnail, with the aid of his money, to break into the inner fastnesses ofNew York and Newport's Four Hundred. It was all because of a certainresistance to her efforts that suddenly, out of revenge and not throughlove, she took up Max's cause. The powder train was--unwittingly--laidmonths before by Josephine Doran-Reeves, as she preferred to callherself after her marriage with the son of the Dorans' lawyer. Neithershe nor Grant--who had taken the name of Doran-Reeves also--liked tothink or talk of the man who had disappeared. On consideration, theReeveses, father and son, had decided not to make public the story ofJosephine's birth which Max had given to them. They feared that hisgreat sacrifice would create too much sympathy for Max and rouseindignation against Josephine and her husband for accepting it, allowingthe martyr to disappear, penniless, into space. At first they saidnothing at all about him, merely giving out that Josephine Doran was adistant relative who had been brought to the Doran house on Rose'sdeath; but all sorts of inconvenient questions began to be asked aboutMax Doran, into whose house and fortune the strange-looking, half-beautiful, half-terrible, red-haired girl had suddenly, inexplicably stepped. 

Max's friends in society and the army did not let him pass into oblivionwithout a word; therefore some sort of story had to eventually be toldto silence tongues, and, still worse, newspapers. Grant was singularlygood at making up stories, and always had been since, as a boy, he hadunobtrusively contrived to throw blame off his own shoulders on to thoseof Max if they were in a scrape together. 

Half a lie, nicely mixed with a few truths, makes a concoction that thepublic swallows readily. Max was too young, and had been too much awayfrom New York, to be greatly missed there, despite Rose Doran'spopularity; and when such an interesting and handsome couple as Grantand Josephine Doran-Reeves began entertaining gorgeously in therenovated Doran house, the ex-lieutenant of cavalry was forgottencomparatively soon. It seemed, according to reluctant admissions made atlast by Grant and Josephine to their acquaintances, that Max had hadsecret reasons for resigning his commission in the army and vanishinginto space. It was his own wish to give up the old house to Josephine, his "distant cousin from France, " and in saying this they carefully gavethe impression that he had been well paid. Nobody dreamed that the moneyMr. And Mrs. Grant Doran-Reeves spent in such charming ways had oncebelonged to Max. He was supposed to have "come a cropper" somehow, as somany young men did, and to have disappeared with everything he had, outof the country, for his country's good. When people realized that therewas a secret, perhaps a disgraceful one, many were sorry for poor Grantand Josephine, mixed up in it through no fault of their own; and thename of Max Doran was dropped from conversation whenever his innocentrelatives were within hearing distance. Then, by and by, it waspractically dropped altogether, because it had passed out ofrecollection. 

This was the state of affairs when the beautiful Billie (Mrs. JeffHouston) arrived, covered with diamonds and pearls (the best of thelatter were Max's), to storm social New York. She had already won itsheart as an actress, but as a respectable married woman who had leftthe stage and connected herself by marriage with a sausage-maker she wasa different "proposition. "

"You ought to know some woman in the smart set, " advised a friend in thehalf-smart set who had received favours from Billie, and had not beenable to give the right sort of return. "Oh, of course, you do know a lotof the men, but they're worse than no use to you now. It must be awoman, 'way high up at the top. '"

Billie racked her brains, and thought of Josephine Doran-Reeves. Josephine was "way up at the top, " because she was a Doran and veryrich, and so queer that she amused the most bored people, whether shemeant to or not. Unfortunately, Billie did not know her, but the nextbest thing, surely, was to have known Max Doran. 

Billie had made capital out of Max in the shape of a famous blue diamondand a string of uniquely fine pearls, and her idea had been that she hadgot all there was to be got from him. In fact, she had not mentionedthis little love-idyll even to her husband. Suddenly, however, sheremembered that they two had been dear, dear friends--perfectly platonicfriends, of course--and she felt justified in writing a sweet letter toJosephine asking tactfully for news of Max. She put her pointcharmingly, and begged that she might be allowed to call on dear Mrs. Doran-Reeves, to chat cozily about "that darling boy, " or would Mrs. Doran-Reeves rather come and have tea with her one day, any day, at thePlaza Hotel? She was staying there until the house her husband hadbought for her (quite near the Doran house) should be out of thedecorator's hands. 

But the last thing that appealed to Josephine was the thought of a cozychat about "that darling boy" Max. Besides, the moment was a bad onewith her. Captain de la Tour had got long leave and come to America, shedid not know why at first, and had been inclined to feel ratherflattered, if slightly frightened. But soon she found out. He had cometo blackmail her. There were some silly letters she had written whenthey were in the thick of their flirtation at Sidi-bel-Abbés, and theheight of her ambition had been to marry a French officer, no matter howpoor. Captain de la Tour had kept those letters. 

He did not threaten to show them to Grant Doran-Reeves. He judged theother man by himself and realized that, having married a girl for hermoney, Grant would not throw her over, or even hurt her feelings, whileshe still had it. 

What Captain de la Tour proposed was to sell the letters and tell theromantic story of Mrs. Doran-Reeves's life in a little Algerian hotel ifshe did not buy up the whole secret and his estates in France at thesame time. For the two together he asked only the ridiculously smallprice of three hundred thousand francs--sixty thousand dollars. 

Josephine had raged, for Grant, even more than she, hated to spend moneywhere a show could not be made with it. But Captain de la Tour wasrather insistent and 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 could what was in the letters, and whata Bohemian sort of life she had led in Bel-Abbés, Grant decided that itwould be romantic as well as sensible to buy the Château de la Tour. Josephine had actually been born there; and they could either keep theplace or sell it when it had been improved a bit and made famous by afew choice house-parties. 

So the Doran-Reeveses bought the château and got back the letters, andhoped that Captain de la Tour would take himself and his ill-gottengains out of the United States. But he lingered, looking out for anAmerican heiress, while Josephine existed in a state of constantirritation, fearing some new demand or an indiscretion. And it was justat this time that she received Mrs. Jeff Houston's letter. Naturally itgave her great pleasure to snub some one, especially a woman prettierthan herself. She took no notice of Billie's appeal, and when Mrs. Houston, hoping somehow that it had not reached its destination, spoketo her sweetly one night at the opera, Josephine was rude before some ofthe "best people" in New York. 

After that, Billie said to every one that Mrs. Doran-Reeves was insaneas well as deformed; but that "cut no ice, " as Jeff Houston remarked, and when the snapshot of Max St. George, deserter from the ForeignLegion, appeared with the newspaper story of Sanda Stanton, Billie didwhat Jeff described as "falling over herself" to get to the office of_Town Tales_. 

She told nothing damaging to the late Miss Brookton in mentioning MaxDoran, and of him she spoke with friendly enthusiasm. He had been _so_good, so kind to her, and so different from many young men who were goodto actresses. It broke her heart to think of his fate, for there was nodoubt that Max St. George, the Legionnaire, and Max Doran were one. Billie told how, to her certain knowledge, Max had sacrificed himselffor Josephine Doran, who (for some reason he was too noble to reveal, but it had to do with a secret of ancestry) seemed to him the rightfulheiress. 

Penniless, Max had been forced to resign from an expensive regiment, where he lived expensively. He had done this for Josephine's sake, though he had loved his career better than anything else in the world. And then, last of all, he had effaced himself rather than accept pity orfavours. He had enlisted in the Foreign Legion, and now he had furthershown the nobility of his nature by the very way in which he had falleninto disgrace. But what did the Doran-Reeveses do, though they owedeverything to him? They told lies and ignored his existence. Mrs. JeffHouston said that she felt it her duty as Max Doran's only faithfulfriend to bring this injustice to public notice. 

_Town Tales_ was delighted to help her do this, because she was BillieBrookton, a celebrity, and because it was "good copy. " Otherpapers--many other papers--took up the hue and cry which _Town Tales_started; and the Doran-Reeveses' life became not as agreeable as it hadbeen. 

They defended themselves to friends and enemies and newspaper men, andthought of suing _Town Tales_ for libel, but were dissuaded from doingso by old Mr. Reeves. Then it occurred to Josephine to let every oneknow that, though she was being cruelly maligned, she wished, as a proofof her admiration for Max's desert exploits, to present him with all herFrench property, the magnificent old vineyard-surrounded Château de laTour, where he could cultivate grapes and make his fortune. 

The papers pointed out that this was something like sending coals toNewcastle, as St. George, alias Doran, was debarred from entering Franceunless he wanted to go to prison. But Josephine and Grant quicklyretorted that the recipient of their bounty need not live in France inorder to benefit. He could sell or let the Château de la Tour throughsome agent. 

Not an echo of all this play of cross purposes reached Max at thenursing home in Cairo, where he had been carried by Sanda's orders afterbreaking down. But Sanda, who took in a dozen papers to see what theyhad to say about the "deserter, " read what was going on at New York aswell as in Rome and at Sidi-bel-Abbés. She saw that Max had beenpresented with estates in France by the woman who had taken everythingand given nothing; and because of queer things Max had let drop in hisdelirium she understood more of the past than he would have revealed ofhis own free will. For one thing, she learnt that a certain Jack andRose Doran had had a child born to them at the Château de la Tour. Thisenabled her to put other things together in her mind, and loving Max asshe did, she saw no harm in thus using her wits, while she respected himwith all her heart for not telling the secret. Besides, she had metCaptain de la Tour in Sidi-bel-Abbés, and she had guessed that it waspartly because of him and one or two others like him that her father hadsent her to the Agha's rather than leave her at Bel-Abbés alone. 

"It would be the most wonderful sort of poetic justice, " she reflected, sitting at Max's bedside one day while he slept, "if the old place ofhis ancestors should come back to him at last. "

This thought reminded her of her plan. Not that she ever forgot it; butshe had to put it into the background of her mind until she was surethat Max was going to get well. Until then, she could not and would notleave him. But at last she was sure; and she was waiting only to findout if her father could help; or if not, till his leave was over and shewas left to act for herself without compromising the Legion's colonel. 

If Sanda had loved her father in their days together at Bel-Abbés, sheloved him a thousand times more in those few days of his visit at Cairo. He forgave her without being asked for leaving him "in the lurch, " asshe repentantly called it, and letting herself be carried away byStanton. "You thought you loved him, my darling, " DeLisle said. "And Icould forgive anything to love. "

It was in his arms, with her face buried on his breast, that she toldwhat her marriage had been, and then came the confession (for it seemedto her a confession, though she was not ashamed of it, but proud) aboutMax. 

"He didn't speak one word of love to me, " the girl said. "He tried noteven to let his eyes speak. But they did, sometimes, in spite of him. And no man could possibly endure or do for a woman the things he enduredand did for me, every one of those terrible days, if he didn't love her. So when I was afraid he might die from the viper's bite, I wanted him tohave one happy moment in this world to remember in the next. I told himthat I cared, and he kissed my hand and looked at me. That's all, except just a word or two that I keep too sacredly to tell even you. Andafterward when Richard was dead, and Max and I were alone in the desert, save for a few Arabs, he never again referred to that night, or spoke ofour love. I was sure it was only because we were alone and I depended onhim. But after those weeks and months of facing death together, it seemsthat we belong to each other, he and I. Nothing must part us--nothing. "

She was half afraid her father might remind her of the situation whichhad arisen between Max as a deserter and himself as colonel of theregiment from which Max had deserted. 

But Colonel DeLisle did not say this or anything like it. He knew thatlove was the greatest thing in the world for his daughter, as it hadbeen for him, and he could not cheat her out of it. He was sad becauseit seemed to him that in honour he could do nothing for this deserterwho had done everything for him--nothing, that is, save give him hisdaughter, and abandon what remained of his own career by resigning hiscommission. As colonel of the Legion, his child could not be allowed tomarry a deserter, a fugitive who dare not enter France. As for him, DeLisle, though the Legion was much to him, Sanda was more. But she saidshe and Max would not take happiness at that price. They must think ofsome other way. And the other way was the plan. 

When the colonel returned to Algeria and his regiment Max had not yetgained enough strength to be seen and thanked for what he had done, evenif DeLisle had found it compatible with his official duty to say to adeserter what was in his heart to say to Sanda's hero. And perhaps, Sanda thought, it was as well that they did not meet just then. Irrevocable things might have been spoken between them. 

The day after her father's ship sailed for Algiers she took another thatwent from Port Said to Marseilles. From Marseilles she travelled toParis, which was familiar ground to her. What she did there gave a newfillip to the Stanton-DeLisle-St. George sensation, though at the sametime it put an extinguisher on all discussions: a blow to those retiredofficers who liked writing to the papers. 

Lest what the papers said should be prematurely seen by theconvalescent's eyes, however, Sanda hurried back to Egypt. 

CHAPTER XXXI

THE GIFT

Max was sitting up in a reclining chair, for the first time, on the dayof Sanda's return to Cairo. 

He knew that she had gone to France on business of some sort, but he hadno idea what it was. It did not occur to him that it might have to dowith his affairs. Probably (he thought) it was connected with Stanton, who had left money, and who had "geographical investments, " as he calledthem, all over the world, in France, perhaps, among other places. Butsomehow Max could not imagine Sanda accepting money for herself thatcame from Stanton, even if it were legally hers. 

Although Max was still weak, he had begun to think urgently, insistently, about the future. All the objections that Colonel DeLislecould see to the marriage of Sanda Stanton with the deserter St. George, the deserter St. George saw, and many more. It was caddish to think ofmarrying her, and monstrous to think of giving her up. His anxiousthoughts toiled round and round in a vicious circle whence there seemedno way out. 

In the morning the doctor came in and laid down on the table, with hishat, gloves, and stick, a newspaper. As he examined his patient, thenurse picked up the journal and began to glance quickly from column tocolumn in order to have absorbed the news by the time the doctor wantedher services--or his paper. Suddenly, not being possessed of greatself-control except in professional emergencies, she gave vent to ashrill little squeak of excitement. 

Max and the doctor both turned their heads; and when the latter saw hisnewspaper open in the young woman's hand, he guessed instantly what hadexcited her. He anathematized himself for putting the paper where shecould get at it; for without doubt Mrs. Stanton would want to tell thegreat news herself. She must not be defrauded of the pleasure, for shewould certainly make a point of getting back for a "look at the patient"to-day or to-morrow. If to-day, she might appear at any minute, for a P. & O. Boat-train had arrived at Cairo late the night before, DoctorTaylor had heard, and it was now nine-thirty in the morning--not tooearly to expect her. 

Nurse Yorke must not blurt out the tidings in her common way! But how tostop her without arousing St. George's curiosity?

"Oh, I suppose you've got hold of the advertisement of that sale I toldyou of, " he said, glaring over the top of Max's head. 

"Why! I've found----" the nurse began briskly, but withered under DoctorTaylor's forbidding gaze. 

"I knew nothing else could have excited you so much, " he went onmasterfully, still hypnotizing her with his eyes, until even a dullerwoman would have grasped his meaning. But maybe he wanted to read outthe news himself? Nurse Yorke handed him the paper. 

"Perhaps Mr. St. George will be interested in the advertisement of thissale, " she suggested, with a coy emphasis which made Doctor Taylor wantto smother the well-meaning creature with a pillow. 

"We'll let Mrs. Stanton read it to him when she comes, " he saidwaspishly; and at 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, and then went straight to Max. "Howsplendid! You're sitting up, " she said. "This is worth travelling fastfor, if there were nothing else. But there is. There's something nextbest to your getting well. " Then she caught sight of the open paper inthe nurse's hand. "Have you--has any one been telling you--or readingyou to-day's news?" she asked, breathless. 

"Nurse Yorke was just beginning to read something about a sale, Ithink, " Max answered, hardly knowing what he said because his eyes wereupon her--this girl of girls, this pearl of pearls, whom honour wasforcing him to give up, and at the same time bidding him to keep. Hethought that he had never seen her so lovely as to-day, in the simpletravelling dress and hat all of black, yet not mourning. There was alook of heaven in her eyes, and they seemed to say that this heaven wasfor him. Could he refuse it? He gave her back look for look; and neitherhe nor she knew what they said when Doctor Taylor invited Nurse Yorke togo with him into the next room and examine the chart. 

"Are you glad I'm back?" Sanda asked, drawing a chair close up to the_chaise longue_. 

"Glad? You're worth all the doctor's medicines and tonics. I'm wellnow!"

"Aren't you dying to hear my news?"

"It's such wonderful news that you've come, I can't think of anythingelse, " Max assured her, gazing at her hair, her eyes, her mouth--hersweet, sweet mouth. 

"All the same I'm going to tell you, " Sanda insisted, panting a littleover her heartbeats. "My news is not about a 'sale, ' it's about a_gift_. Yet I think it's the very same news Nurse Yorke almost read you. Oh, I should have been thwarted, cheated, if she had! This is for _me_to tell you, my Soldier, me, and no one else, for the gift is to me, foryou. The President of the French Republic has given it to me for Max St. George of the Tenth Company, First Regiment of the Legion; Max St. George, owner of the Château de la Tour, home of his far-offancestors--where he and his Sanda will go some day together when he'stired of soldiering--and Sanda's father, Max's grateful colonel, willvisit them. And that wonderful old Four Eyes, who has almost worked theLegion into a mutiny for the Soldier's sake, will live with them, if hecan ever bear to leave the Legion. Now, can't you guess what thePresident's gift is?"

"Not--not pardon?" Max's lips formed the words which he could not speakaloud. But it was as if Sanda heard. 

"Pardon, and a lieutenant's commission in the Legion. "

"Sanda!"

All the worship of a man's heart and soul were in that name as it brokefrom him with a sob. 

"My Soldier!" she answered, in his arms. And then they spoke no more;for again they were living through in that minute all the long months ofagony and bliss in the desert, when their dream had been coming true. 

 * * * * *

Four months later Max left his bride to go with a French, English, andRussian contingent of the Legion to fight with the Allies in France, inthe War of the World. 

Sanda waits, and prays--and hopes. 

THE END

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y.