It was on the afternoon of the following day that a new and serious complication arose.
The night had passed without incident of any kind; and shortly after sunrise the little party met to compare notes of their respective vigils.
All through the night Anstice had come and gone by Cheniston's bedside; but although there was no improvement in his patient's condition, neither did he seem to have progressed any further into the grim Valley of the Shadow; and although this extreme weakness and prostration were ominous enough, Anstice still cherished that very faint, very timid hope which had been born on the previous night.
He had never wished so fervently for the power to save a life as in this particular case. Gone was all remembrance of the former ill-feeling between them, of the unfair and cruel bargain which this man had forced upon him to the utter destruction of his life's happiness. He forgot that Bruce Cheniston had been unjust, callous, a very Shylock in his eager grasping of his pound of flesh; and he remembered only that this man had won Iris' love, and thereby established his claim to any service which the man who had also loved Iris might reasonably bestow.
The fact that Iris must needs be adversely affected by her husband's death was sufficient in itself to rouse his wish to save Cheniston's life if that life could be saved; and during the day, when the vigil of the little garrison might be relaxed, he was assiduous in his care of the man who lay so desperately ill in the quiet room overlooking the sun-baked desert.
Only once Cheniston roused himself sufficiently to hold a few minutes' laboured conversation with Anstice; and afterwards the latter was not perfectly certain of Bruce's complete understanding of the words he used.
"Iris—how is she?" His voice was so weak that Anstice could barely hear it; but he guessed what it was that the other man wished to ask; and answered at once:
"Mrs. Cheniston is quite well—only a little tired. She is lying down for an hour, but if you want her I'll go and call her."
"No. Don't disturb her," said Bruce feebly; and then, after a pause, he uttered the words which, later, seemed to Anstice a reflection on his perfect mental poise at the moment. "Poor little Iris—it wasn't fair to marry her—I wish to God I'd left her—to you."
For a minute Anstice sat silent, absolutely stunned by this extraordinary statement; and before he could speak the weak voice began again.
"You loved her—so did I—in a way—but I've never really loved anyone—but—Hilda Ryder." The unconscious pathos in his tone robbed the words of all offence. "But she's a dear little soul—Iris—and I only wish I'd not been beast enough—to marry her—to spite you——" The thin voice trailed away into a whisper and Anstice spoke resolutely.
"See here, Cheniston, you're ill and you don't know what you're saying. Don't talk any more, there's a good chap. You only tire yourself out to no purpose."
But with the perversity of fever Cheniston would not be gainsaid.
"I'm all—right." His hollow voice and laboured breath gave the lie to his assertion. "But—if I die—and the rest of you get out alive—you—you'll look after Iris, won't you? I wish you'd—marry her—you'd be good to her—and she would soon—be fond—of you——"
Somehow Anstice could bear no more. With a hasty movement he sprang up, and in his voice was a decision against which Cheniston in his weakness could not hope to prevail.
"See here, Cheniston, you've just got to lie still and keep quiet. You know"—his manner softened—"you're really not fit to talk. Do try to get a little sleep—you'll feel so much stronger if you do."
"I feel—very weak." He spoke with an evident effort, and Anstice repented him of his vehemence. With a gentleness Iris herself could not have surpassed he did all in his power to make Cheniston as easy as possible; and when, presently, the latter relapsed into the stupor which passed with him for sleep, Anstice left him, to go in search of Mrs. Wood, who had promised to take charge of him for an hour or two.
A few minutes later he encountered Garnett, walking moodily along the uneven passage-way; and a new seriousness in the Australian's expressive face gave Anstice pause.
"What's up, eh? You look mighty solemn all of a sudden!"
"I feel it, too." The younger man turned round and his eyes looked grim. "Do you know what those damned Bedouins have been up to now? I believe, and so does Hassan, that they've been poisoning the well out there"—he pointed through the slit in the wall to the courtyard beneath—"and if so we've not got a drop of water we can drink."
"I don't believe it." Honestly he did not. Although he had no cause to love the Oriental race he was loth to believe even an uncivilized foe capable of such barbarity.
"As sure as God made little apples, it's true." Garnett was in no wise offended by Anstice's uncompromising rejoinder. "Hassan and I both thought we saw a fellow sneaking in the courtyard last night—just before dawn—when it was too mighty dark to see much; but as he sheered off we didn't give the alarm. But it seems Hassan is pretty well acquainted with their charming tricks, and he was suspicious from the first."
"But was this beggar prowling round by the well?"
"We couldn't see much, but this morning Hassan investigated and found footmarks on the sand leading directly to and from the well; and he is convinced that is what the brute was doing."
"How much water have we left?"
"Well, that's the very devil of it," said Garnett ruefully "It seems we had a fair quantity—you know it all has to be brought from that same old well—but that silly little Rosa thought this morning that she'd like a bath, so without asking permission she tipped it all into a kind of tin tub there was on the premises and performed her ablutions therein."
"Well, I confess I don't blame her," said Anstice rather dryly. "I feel as if I'd give a fiver for a bath myself—this damned sand makes one so infernally gritty."
"Just so—and the tin basin we wash in—in turns—isn't exactly luxurious!" Garnett's eyes twinkled. "All the same, things look pretty serious on the water question. We must have water—unfortunately the desert thirst is no fancy picture—I'm like a lime-kiln myself at this moment—but if the well is poisoned, and Hassan seems convinced it is, we can't drink the water, can we?"
"Certainly not." Anstice hoped his voice did not betray his dismay at this disclosure. "Where's the nearest well—outside of here?"
"Over in the village—or rather, there's one outside the village which would be less public." Garnett laughed a little. "But I don't quite see how we're going to fetch water from it. You know the beggars are keeping a pretty smart lookout—and if they caught sight of one of us sallying forth we'd be potted as sure as a gun. And every available man is wanted here."
"I suppose"—Anstice had been thinking—"I suppose it would be quite impossible to get out by the rocky side? I mean could one possibly climb down? The Bedouins don't seem to guard that side, and one would be in the desert, well away from their band."
"Yes—but I doubt if it would be feasible. Unless—what about a rope? I saw a great coil of rope in one of the dungeons downstairs this morning." A new alertness leaped into his bright eyes. "I say, let's go and reconnoitre, shall we? It would be great to outwit the beasts after all!"
"Right! Where shall we go and scout?"
"Place opposite—the only one with a decent-sized hole in the wall—have to find a place one could squeeze through, I suppose—and I'm such an infernally broad chap, too!"
Anstice laughed.
"Well, I'm pretty long," he said, still smiling. "Lead on, will you—oh, this is the place, is it?"
They had entered a small circular chamber which had evidently been used for the purpose of scanning the desert far below in search of possible foes; for the aperture in the wall which corresponded to a modern window was much larger than any of the other slits in the building; and Anstice and the Australian were able, by a little man[oe]uvring, to lean out side by side and view the prospect beneath.
"Pretty fair drop, eh?" From his tone Garnett was in no wise daunted by the sight.
"Yes—want a steady head. But it could be done," said Anstice judicially. "A long rope—a precious long one, too—fastened to something up here, and one could clamber down all right. And once down it should be easy to skirt round to the well you mentioned. That's settled, then, and since you're disabled"—he glanced at the other's bandaged arm—"this is going to be my job."
"Oh, I say, that's not fair!" The other's tone of indignation amused Anstice even at that critical moment. "It was my suggestion, wasn't it? Oh, I believe you did say something about it too ... but I think I ought to be the one to go."
"But your arm——"
"Oh, damn my arm!" Garnett spoke vehemently. "It won't hurt it a scrap—and honestly, I'd simplylovethe job!"
"I know you would—but really you'll have to let me do it." Anstice spoke firmly, though he was sorry for the other man's disappointment. "You see that arm of yours is badly hurt, though you won't own up to it; and it might easily go back on you when you started using it. And if you got stuck down there, we'd have no water, and be a man short here as well."
For another minute the Australian held out, arguing the point with a kind of fiery eloquence which showed how keenly he desired to undertake the adventure; but in the end he gave way, though he was too unsophisticated entirely to hide his chagrin.
"Then that's settled." Anstice dared not betray his sympathy any further. "Now it remains to settle the details; and by the way, wouldn't it be wise to keep it as quiet as possible? We don't want to alarm the women."
"Quite so." Garnett squared his shoulders and plunged pluckily into the discussion. "I should suggest you go fairly early, as soon as the moon's up—so that with luck you'd be back before the enemy start prowling round. The well is a mile away, in a westerly direction." He pointed as he spoke. "And there is not much cover when once you get fairly out ... though I don't think there is a very great risk of the brutes spotting you."
"How long should it take me to get there and back?"
"Well, walking over sand is not like walking on macadam," said Garnett practically, "and I don't suppose you could do the job under an hour or two. Besides, you may have to dodge the brutes now and then," he added regretfully; and again Anstice could not refrain from smiling.
"Well, that's settled, then. The moon rises about seven, doesn't it? And if I get off soon after that——"
"That would do tophole. And we can easily spin a yarn to the rest," said Garnett more cheerfully. "In the meantime let's go and get something to eat. I'm famished."
The suggestion meeting with Anstice's approval they adjourned in search of food; and found Iris coming to look for them with tidings of a meal. When they had taken their seats at the improvised table, Iris quietly withdrew; and Anstice guessed she had returned to her place by the side of her husband—a place she had relinquished for an hour only during the whole of the strenuous day.
When, a little later, he went to see Cheniston again, he was dismayed to find an ominous change in his patient.
Bruce had indeed the air of a man at the point of death; and as he looked at the wasted features, the sunken eyes, the grey shadows which lay over the whole face, transforming it into a mere mask, Anstice told himself bitterly that all his care had been in vain; that before morning broke there would be one soul the less in their pitiful little company.
He bent over the bed and spoke gently; but Cheniston was too ill to pay any heed; and with a sigh Anstice stood upright and turned to Iris rather helplessly.
"Mrs. Cheniston"—he forced himself to speak truthfully—"I am afraid your husband is no better. In fact"—he hesitated, hardly knowing how to put his fears into words—"I think—perhaps—you must be prepared for the worst."
"You mean he will die?" She spoke steadily, though her eyes looked suddenly afraid. "Dr. Anstice, is there no hope? Canyoudo nothing more for him?"
"There is so little to be done," he said. "Believe me, I have tried every means in my power, but you know my resources here are so limited, and in those surroundings—if I had been here a week earlier, I might have done something; but as things are——"
"Oh, I know—I know you have done all you could!" She feared her words had sounded ungracious. "Only—Bruce is so young—he has never been ill before——"
"Ah, yes, but everything has been against him—the climate for one thing—and of course the forced removal was about the last thing he should have had to endure." Anstice longed to comfort her as she stood before him, looking oddly young and wistful in her distress, but honesty forbade him to utter words of hope, knowing as he did what might well take place during the coming night.
"You think he will die—to-night?" Her eyes, tearless as they were, demanded the truth; and after a secondary hesitation Anstice replied candidly:
"I am very much afraid he may." He turned aside when he had spoken, that he might not see her face; and for a long moment there was a silence between them which Anstice, for one, could not have broken.
Then Iris sighed very faintly.
"If that is so, you—you won't leave us, will you? I think—I could bear it better if you were here."
Anstice's vehement promise to stay with her was suddenly cut short as he remembered the venture which was planned for the early hours of the coming night; and Iris' quick wits showed her that some project was afoot which would prevent him comforting her by his constant presence. Yet so sore was her need of him, so ardently did she desire the solace which he alone could bring her, that she was moved to a wistful entreaty that was strangely unlike herself.
"Dr. Anstice, you—you will stay? If—if anything happens to Bruce, I shall be so—so lonely——"
Never had Anstice so rebelled against the fate which had given her to another man as in this moment when she stood before him, her face pale with dread, her wide eyes filled with something not unlike absolute terror as she faced the coming shadow which was to engulf her life. He would have given the world to have the right to take her in his arms, to kiss the colour back to those white cheeks, the security to the quivering mouth. This was the first favour she had ever asked at his hands, the first time she had thrown herself, as it were, on his mercy; and he must refuse her even the meagre boon she asked of him.
But Anstice was only mortal; and he could not refuse without giving her the true reason of his refusal, although he and Garnett had agreed that the undertaking of the night should be kept a secret lest the rest of the little party be rendered nervous and uncomfortable by his absence. The feelings of the other women were nothing to him, compared with those of the girl he still loved with all the strength of his soul and heart; and he could not have borne to let her think him callous, regardless of her fears, content to leave her to pass through what must be one of the darkest hours of her life alone.
Very gently he told her of the discovery Garnett and Hassan had made; with the subsequent unhappy certainty of a water famine; and Iris had been in Egypt long enough to know that in this desert waste of sun and sand the lack of water and its attendant evil, thirst, were the most fruitful sources of tragedy in the Egyptian land.
"You mean there is no water left?" She spoke very quietly, and he answered her in the same tone.
"No—at least barely a bottleful. The rest was used for making coffee for us all just now. And this remaining drop must be reserved for your husband, in case he calls for it. Besides, there is to-morrow——" He stopped short, with a tragic foreboding that there would be no morrow on earth for the man who lay dying beneath their eyes.
"Yes. As you say, there is to-morrow. And"—her voice was low—"I suppose there is no hope of rescue before to-morrow night at earliest?"
"I am afraid not before the following dawn." Somehow he could not lie to Iris. "And since we must have water it is plain one of us must go and get it."
"Go? Outside the Fort?" Her face blanched still further. "But it—would be madness to venture out—you would be seen—and shot—at once...."
"Ah, but you haven't heard the plan Garnett and I have evolved!" He spoke more lightly, though his voice was still low. "Listen, and tell me if you approve of our strategy!"
He rapidly outlined their plan of campaign, making as light of the perils of the undertaking as possible; and Iris listened breathlessly, her eyes on his face the while.
When he had finished she spoke very quietly.
"Dr. Anstice, I think it is a terribly reckless thing to attempt, and if I thought only of myself—or of you—I should beg you not to go. But as you say, there are the others—the child for one—and if help should be delayed the lack of water would be—serious."
"So you approve the plan?" He felt unreasonably glad that she did not altogether condemn the idea, since, as go he must, he would certainly go more happily with her approval.
"I shall be terribly anxious all the while," she said simply, "but you are a brave man. Dr. Anstice, and I do not believe God will let you suffer for your courage."
"Then I am to go? You will not mind being left alone?"
"No. I think—perhaps—I shall be a little—afraid—if Bruce dies while you are gone"—a shiver passed through her as she spoke the fatal words—"but I will try to be brave."
"Mrs. Wood will come and sit here with you," said Anstice quickly; but Iris shook her head.
"No, she is asleep just now, and I won't awaken her. You know she has been so anxious about poor little Molly to-day." The child had indeed been feverish and ailing of late. "But after all, we may be alarming ourselves unnecessarily, mayn't we? You—you're notcertainthat Bruce will die?"
And because he could not bear to see the terror in her face, hear the quiver of dread in her voice, Anstice lied at last.
"No—I may be wrong after all," he said. "In any case I am not going yet. I will stay here till the last possible moment. Look—his eyes are open—come and sit here, where he can see you without moving his head."
And as she obeyed without a word Anstice took up his own position opposite to her where he could watch every change in the grey face of the man who had once been his enemy, but was now only a fellow-creature in the grip of the mightiest enemy of all.
It was nearly ten o'clock before Anstice started on his perilous adventure.
Shortly before the time fixed for his departure little Molly Wood had been taken alarmingly ill, with severe pains in her head and a high temperature, and Anstice had spent an anxious hour beside her improvised bed before he had the satisfaction of seeing her sink into a quiet sleep beneath the remedies he employed, and when, leaving the distracted mother to watch her slumbers, he had crept into Cheniston's room, he had found Bruce still desperately ill, and Iris paler and yet more wan beneath the stress of the position in which she found herself.
It was only the imperative need of water which nerved Anstice to leave her alone, but he knew perfectly well that it would be impossible to procure any water in daylight, and though Mr. Wood would certainly have volunteered to make the attempt in his place, had he known the circumstances, Anstice had discovered, by a casual word let drop by his wife, that the clergyman suffered from a long-standing weakness of the heart which would have prevented him carrying through the project successfully.
Plainly he must be the one to go, for Hassan, whom they had been forced, through stress of circumstance, to take into their confidence, had absolutely refused to brave the perils of the journey and the dangling rope, and since he must be back at his post as soon after midnight as possible, Anstice steeled his heart and bade Iris good-bye with a stoical calm which did not deceive her in the least.
"Keep up your courage, Mrs. Cheniston." He laid his hand gently on her arm. "I'll be back in an hour or so—and in the meantime, if there should be any change, you will do exactly as I have told you." He had already given her full directions. "Remember, no one but Mr. Garnett and Hassan knows of my absence, so don't be surprised if I'm supposed to be asleep somewhere."
"No. But"—she put her own right hand over his as he gently clasped her arm—"you're sure there is no one but you to go? Is Mr. Wood too old?"
"No—but his heart is affected, and the climb would be dangerous. And Hassan, though he's behaved like a brick up to now, funks the climb." His tone was good-naturedly contemptuous. "As for Garnett, he's longing to go—can't quite forgive me for shoving him out—but his arm won't stand it; so plainly I am the one to go."
"Then go—and God be with you," she said very gently, and in her eyes Anstice saw once again the look of mingled strength and tenderness whose possibility he had divined long ago on the occasion of their first meeting on that sunlit morning on the steps of Cherry Orchard.
And with the words ringing in his ears he set forth upon his quest.
It was a perfect moonlight night, and as he swung himself out over the rocky precipice, which was surely more formidable at close quarters than it had appeared from above, Anstice was conscious of a sudden wild exhilaration which sent the blood coursing like quicksilver through his veins.
He knew very well that he was embarking upon a perilous adventure which might easily end in disaster, for he had no delusions on the subject of his probable fate did he fall into the hands of the vengeful Bedouins. But somehow, as he swung between earth and heaven, the rope slipping with almost uncomfortable rapidity through his fingers, he felt no fear, only a joyous thrill which strongly resembled the boyish glee with which, in his school-days, he had taken part in many midnight adventures strictly hidden from the notice of the authorities.
His former proficiency in gymnastics and his natural love of climbing stood him in good stead. He had never been addicted to nerves, had never known what it was to experience any vertigo or attacks of giddiness when exploring some dizzy height or negotiating some mountain ledge, and he swung down the rope which was his only support as coolly as though he were practising in a gymnasium, with no risk, did he fall, of being dashed to death against the unfriendly rocks below.
In an incredibly short space of time he reached the ground, and after giving three gentle tugs upon the rope—the preconceived signal that all was well with him—he looked cautiously round him to take his bearings before proceeding on his journey.
He stood now in a kind of rocky valley, ringed round with caves—whether tombs or not he could not pretend to judge—but beyond the valley lay the desert over which he must pass, and he lost no time in clambering over the rooks and setting foot on the firm brown sand without.
By the aid of his small compass he located the direction in which the well lay, and then, restoring it to his pocket and making certain that the goat-skin water-bottle was firmly slung over his shoulder, he set off at a brisk pace which should, if possible, shorten the time of his absence from the Fort by a few precious moments at least.
He had never before been alone in the desert at night, and the strangeness of it gripped him by the throat as he strode steadily onwards. He could not believe, at first, that he was really alone. It seemed incredible that in all that huge expanse of sand he should be the only moving, living being, yet, though he knew that therewereliving creatures in the desert—jackals and other prowling things, and a whole host of bats and tiny insects—they gave no sign of their presence, and it seemed to him that he was the only live thing in a dead world....
Yet the air, as it blew gently round him, was soft and sweet. A group of palm trees rustled deliciously as he passed by; and above his head the big silver stars seemed to look down on him with a friendly, benignant gaze as though they knew and approved the errand which brought him out there, alone in the moonlit desert.
When once he had conquered the instinctive feeling of something like nervousness which made him look now and again half fearfully over his shoulder as he walked, he began to enjoy this uncommon pilgrimage.
His spirits rose, he felt a wild inclination to sing and shout with glee—an inclination hastily checked by the remembrance that after all the Bedouin village was not far away, though hidden for the moment by the merciful palm trees—and he told himself exultantly that the devilish revenge of the Bedouins who had poisoned the well in the courtyard of the Fort was only an empty menace after all.
Only when he thought of Bruce Cheniston, dying in that barely-furnished room, far away from any of the luxuries and ease-bringing contrivances with which civilization smooths the path of her children to the grave, did his leaping exultation die down in his heart, and he walked more soberly as he told himself that it was probable he would not see Bruce Cheniston alive again.
It was in the moment in which he realized this fact that another thought struck Anstice for the first time, and the sheer blinding radiance of that thought made him catch his breath and stand still in the desert, absolutely oblivious to any risks which he might run from Bedouins or other prowling marauders were he to be observed.
He had suddenly realized that were Cheniston to die Iris would once more be free—free to marry another man did she so desire; and the very idea of that freedom set his heart knocking against his ribs in a positive fury of wild and tumultuous feeling.
Never—he was thankful to remember it now—never had the thought so much as crossed his mind as he ministered to Cheniston, doing all in his power to defeat the grim foe who held the young man so firmly in his clutches. He had spared no pains, had given himself up body and soul to the task of saving Bruce Cheniston's life, were it possible for that life to be saved, and he was glad to know, looking back, that he had never for one second contemplated the possibility of any benefit accruing to himself through the other man's death. Even should he find, on his return, that Cheniston had indeed slipped into another world during his absence, he could always assure himself that he had not sullied the last strenuous hours in which he had fought for his patient's life with all his might by so much as one underhand or dishonourable thought.
And then, by a natural corollary, his thoughts reverted to Hilda Ryder; and for the first time since her death he began to feel that now, after all these years, he might surely be considered to have atoned for his too hasty carrying-out of the promise he had made her in that rose-coloured dawn of a bygone Indian morning.
Never had man regretted an impulsive deed more than he had regretted the thing which had been done that day. The years which had elapsed since then had been indeed years of penance—a penance more cruel and far more hard to bear than any penalty inflicted by man could possibly have been.
He had been a prisoner indeed, bound fast in the captivity of his own remorse; but now it seemed to him as though the long black night of his imprisonment were breaking, as though a light, as yet very far off and faint, showed upon some distant horizon with a promise of another and more radiant day which should surely dawn ere long.
Whence came this blessed lightening of his gloom? He could not say. Was it perhaps due to the fact that even now he was risking his life in the service of another woman—it is to be feared he forgot all but Iris in this strangely exalted moment—that to him her life had been confided by the father who adored her, and that to him and to him alone could she look for comfort and for help in the bitter hour which he foresaw was even now at hand for the girl who loved Bruce Cheniston—and must see him die....
And as his thoughts played, lightning-wise, round the figure of the beloved woman, his footsteps led him on, more and more blithely as his spirit rose, ph[oe]nix-like, above the ashes of his burnt-out tragedy, and in an incredibly short space of time he approached the well whence he might draw the precious water for lack of which the little garrison he had left must perish and die.
It was a peaceful spot, this well. Just such a place as that to which Rachel and the daughters of Jacob must, long ago, have come to fill their pitchers—a quiet, palm-guarded spot where doubtless, in days gone by, the village women had congregated in search of water and of news—the chattered gossip of the East, punctuated by the tinkling of native bangles as the beautifully-moulded arms raised the pitchers to the finely-carried heads.
The well was deserted now, but the water was as clear and pure as ever, and with a sigh of relief Anstice set about filling his goat-skin water-bottle, and then, anxious to lose no time, he retraced his steps over the moonlit desert without delay.
He marched blithely on and on, ever companioned by that new and thrice welcome sense of freedom which had come to him, as though at each step he took the fetters with which a great regret had for so long shackled his soul grew looser and less binding, until it seemed that they might presently fall off altogether, and allow him once more to face the world as a free man, and not the captive of a cruel and unjust fate.
He had reached the outskirts of the village before the necessity for caution reasserted itself; but just as he was passing, as softly as possible, the little group of palm trees which he had noted earlier, he caught a glimpse of a man prowling, as it seemed, round the trunks of those same trees; and in another second he knew that by an unlucky chance the man was between him and the only place in which he might have taken cover.
There was no time to be lost. At any moment the Bedouin might look up and see him—an unfortunately conspicuous figure in the moonlight; and although the Fort was not more than a quarter of a mile away, should it come to a race the odds might well be in favour of the desert-bred man.
True, he was armed—for in spite of his protests Garnett had insisted on him carrying one of the few revolvers owned by the little defending force; but he did not wish to fire, save in the last extremity, since a shot would certainly rouse the village and cut off his one chance of regaining the shelter of the Fort.
There was just a possibility that the man might not see him, so intent was he at the moment in his scrutiny of the village; and in a second Anstice had taken his resolve—a desperate resolve enough, but the only one he could formulate at the moment.
He began, instantly, to run, and so noiseless was his progress that no sound reached the ears of the prowling Bedouin; and had the native's other senses been less keen, it is possible Anstice would have escaped notice altogether.
Unfortunately the man turned himself about, and saw the flying figure, which stood out only too plainly in that empty expanse of moonlit sand; and after a second's hesitation, as though he could barely believe the evidence of his eyes, the native left his hiding-place and began to run with quick, loping gait after the fugitive, calling out something in a high, piercing voice as he ran.
In his college days Anstice had been somewhat of an athlete; and although he had long since relinquished any sporting ambitions which he might once have cherished, he had reason to bless his own turn of speed, which, being a natural and not an acquired gift, did not fail him now.
But never in his life had he run as he was running to-night. Apart from any consideration of his own personal safety he was running for the safety of others—of one in particular; for he knew only too well how pitifully small was the force which held the beleaguered Fort; and though in itself his life might be of little value, as a bulwark between Iris Cheniston and her enemies it had a value all its own; and must not be relinquished without a fierce and determined struggle.
On and on he ran, the blood drumming in his ears, the goat-skin pounding maddeningly about his shoulders. But even could he have brought himself to fling away the precious water for which he had cheerfully risked his life, he could not spare time to unfasten the skin slung across his back; and he raced swiftly onward, cursing the loose sand which now and again threatened to trip him up, not daring to look back until he had lessened the distance to the Fort by a considerable amount.
Then, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder, he saw that the Bedouin was gaining upon him, his long, tireless stride, which resembled that of a greyhound, swallowing the ground with little apparent effort; and Anstice's quick mind realized that, fine runner as he knew himself to be, he was outclassed by this native athlete.
"All right, Dorando," he muttered grimly, half-aloud, as he checked himself for a second in his race. "I can't outrun you, but I'm damned if I don't put a bullet through you all the same."
And pulling out his revolver he whisked about, so quickly that the other had no time to realize his intention; and taking definite aim at the man's thigh he fired once, twice—with satisfactory results, inasmuch as the other uttered a sharp cry, spun round once or twice and fell in a heap on the sand, incapable of further movement.
For a second Anstice paused, innate humanity forbidding him to leave the man alone in his agony; but the thought of Iris drove away such weakness, and realizing that the noise of the shots must incite his foes to immediate investigation, he hastily restored his revolver to its place and ran, faster than ever, in the direction of the Fort.
Suddenly the air behind him was rent with shrill clamour, and he knew the village was aroused at last; but he cared little now, for he was close to his desired haven; and a last spurt over the rocks at the entrance to the valley landed him, spent and breathless, at the foot of the Fort, beneath the window from which dangled the precious rope which should carry him to safety.
Regardless now of precaution, he lifted such voice as remained to him in a would-be lusty hail; and as an answering shout came from above he wasted no further time, but seized the rope and began—painfully now, for he was exhausted—to haul himself slowly up, cheered on by Garnett's hearty congratulations from above.
"By Jove, that was a close call!" Once safely inside the building, the dangling rope pulled through the window after him, Anstice collapsed on the rough stone floor and mopped his brow feebly.
"I should say so!" The resourceful Australian had already produced a tiny flask of brandy. "Here, take a pull at this, and you'll feel better in a second. And when you've recovered, if you'll explain the meaning of the shooting-match, I'll be thankful to you."
Between his gasps Anstice described the chase and its subsequent ending; and Garnett's eyes shone with an unholy lust for battle as he listened.
"Good on you!" He clapped the other man on the shoulder with a heartiness which was almost painful. "Well, we'll have the hornet's nest about our ears in no time now; but at least we've got you back safe and sound, and with a bit of luck we'll hold out grandly till the reinforcements come!"
"How is Cheniston?" Anstice rose as he spoke and slipped the goat-skin from off his shoulders. "Anything happened since I've been away?"
"Not that I know of—but I believe he was pretty bad a while ago." Garnett's face clouded. "Jolly rough luck on his wife, isn't it? She's so young, and so plucky, and I see you expect the poor chap to peg out."
"I think I'll go and see him," said Anstice slowly, the exhilaration dying from his manner; and as Garnett pulled aside the rough curtain which covered the doorway he stepped on to the uneven stone floor without.
And then he came to a pause; for Iris was coming towards him; and her face wore a curiously stricken look which made his heart miss a beat.
"Mrs. Cheniston—you want me? Is your husband worse?"
For a moment she did not reply. Then:
"He is dead, Dr. Anstice," she said quietly. "He died ten minutes ago—just after I heard those two shots——"
"Dead?" Although he had half expected the news, Anstice found it hard to believe. "Mrs. Cheniston, are yousure? May I come and see? You might—possibly—be mistaken."
"I am not mistaken," she said, and for a second a pitiful little smile touched her white lips. "Bruce is dead—but come and see for yourself. I ... I am glad you are safely back, Dr. Anstice."
"Thank you," he said quietly; and then without more ado they moved side by side towards the room in which Bruce Cheniston had yielded up his life.
Mrs. Wood rose from her seat as they entered, and glided softly away, beckoning to her husband, who stood by the window, to join her; and when they were alone Anstice and the girl so lately widowed moved forward until they stood beside the bed on which Bruce Cheniston lay in all the white majesty of Death.
A very brief examination satisfied Anstice that Iris had not been mistaken. Cheniston was dead; and as he stood looking down on the quiet face, which, by virtue of Death's magic alchemy, had regained in the last hour something of its former youth, Anstice knew a sincere and unfeigned pity for the young life so ruthlessly cut short by a cruel disease.
"Yes, Mrs. Cheniston." He covered the dead white face gently. "I am sorry to say you are right. Were you with him when he died?"
"Yes. We were alone," she said, and again that oddly stricken look made his heart yearn pitifully over her.
"He was conscious before the end?"
"I—I think so—at least, partly." Her tone was indefinable, desolation and a strange, half-hurt wonder sounding in its low note. "He did not speak much—only a few words—at the end I don't think he knew me...."
"I am sorry you were left alone," he said, and he ventured to lay his hand for a second gently on her arm. "I wish I could have been back earlier. I am afraid it has been a shock to you."
"Death is always a shock," she said quietly, and again a wintry little smile touched her lips. "But—don't think me unkind, Dr. Anstice—I am glad I was alone with him—at the end."
In spite of himself a great amazement shook him at her words. Although her meaning was a mystery to him, there was no doubt she had spoken in perfect sincerity; and in the midst of his inward turmoil Anstice found time to wonder exactly what she meant by this curious speech. Somehow he could not help connecting the odd look which her face still held with the strange words she had used; and he wondered what had been the manner of Cheniston's passing.
"Mrs. Cheniston"—Iris started as his voice fell on her ears—"you will come away—now? There is nothing for you to do here. And you should try to sleep——"
"Sleep?" She glanced up at him with an indescribably dreary look in her eyes. "I could not sleep, Dr. Anstice. If you will let me stay with you"—her voice shook a little—"I should be glad. I—I don't want to be alone—just yet."
"Of course you don't." He spoke promptly. "And you shall certainly stay with me, if you will. But—will it trouble you to make me a cup of coffee, Mrs. Cheniston? I'm awfully sorry to bother you, but I've had nothing to eat for some time——"
At another moment she might have seen through his subterfuge; but now, her wits dulled, her mind clouded by the scene through which she had lately passed, she accepted his petition as genuine.
"Of course I will get you some coffee—at once." She moved towards the door as she spoke. "I—I am so sorry I did not think of it before."
When she had gone he went quickly in search of Garnett, and explained what service he required of the stalwart Australian.
"Of course—we'll carry him, bed and all, into another room," said Garnett readily. "That window must be guarded, and we can't ask the poor girl to enter the room with her husband lying dead there. Let's hustle, while she's busy—the little room 'way across there will do."
Accordingly when Iris re-entered the room, rather shrinkingly, to acquaint Anstice with the fact that a meal awaited him, she found an empty space where the bed had stood; and although her eyes widened she said nothing on the subject—an omission for which Anstice was thankful, for the night's work had been a strain on him also; and he was in no humour for further discussion at the moment.
He found the rest of the little garrison even more subdued than usual. The death of one of their number had naturally cast a general gloom; and when he had made a pretence of despatching his supper Anstice easily persuaded Mrs. Wood to take a few hours' rest by the side of her little girl, who was now, fortunately, well on the way to recovery from her sudden illness.
The incapable Rosa was also dismissed to seek what slumber was possible; and then the four men took up their positions as before—Mr. Wood and Garnett keeping watch from the window of the room in which Cheniston had died, while Anstice and Hassan stationed themselves at the second window; Iris leaning against the wall, very pale, but apparently quite composed, on a pile of rugs which Anstice had arranged for her well out of range of a possible stray shot.
She had promised him to try to rest; but as the hours of the short night wore away and the critical moment of dawn approached, he knew that although she sat in silence with closed eyes she did not sleep; and again he wondered, vainly, insistently, what had passed between husband and wife before Death cut short their mutual life.
He felt he would have given much to know what reason Iris had to be thankful that she and her husband had been alone in the hour of his death; and although he had no intention of pursuing the subject he could not quite stifle his curiosity as to her meaning.
But Sir Richard Wayne's daughter was the soul of loyalty; and although a day was to come in which she and Anstice had few secrets from one another, he was destined never to know that Bruce Cheniston had died with Hilda Ryder's name upon his lips.
And so the short night passed; and with the dawn the long-expected attack came at last.
"Dr. Anstice"—Iris' voice was very low—"shall I disturb you if I come and sit beside you for a little while? I—I feel rather—lonely—sitting over there."
Anstice had turned round sharply as she began to speak and his heart yearned over her pitifully as he noted the pallor of her cheeks, the forlorn look in her grey eyes.
"Of course you won't disturb me." He dared not speak so emphatically as he wished. "I shall be only too glad if you will come and sit here"—he arranged the pile of rugs by him as he spoke—"only, if danger arises, you will keep out of harm's way, won't you?"
"Yes." She said no more for a moment; but her assent satisfied him, and he turned back to the window with a sudden feeling of joy at her proximity which would not be repressed.
Presently he heard her low voice once more.
"Dr. Anstice, when you told me your story—long ago—why didn't you tell me the name of the man to whom that poor girl was engaged? Didn't you want me to know she was to have married—Bruce?" Her voice sank on the last word.
For an instant Anstice kept silence, uncertain how to answer her. Then, seeing she was waiting for his reply, he made an effort and spoke.
"Mrs. Cheniston, to be honest, I don't know why I did not tell you. But"—he seized the opportunity for a question on his own account—"will you tell me how you know, now? Did—did your husband tell you?"
"No." Her eyes met his frankly and he knew she was speaking the truth. "I learned the fact for certain by accident three days ago, when Bruce was delirious. Of course I had wondered—sometimes"—said Iris honestly—"but I never liked to ask. And after all it made no difference."
"No." He sighed. "It made no difference. But I am glad you know—now."
Again a silence fell between them; and then a sudden impulse drove Anstice into speech.
"Mrs. Cheniston," he said, very quietly, "may I tell you something else—something I have long wanted you to know?"
Startled, she assented; and he continued slowly.
"You remember that night—the night before your wedding day"—he saw her wince, and went on more quickly—"the night, I mean, when Cherry Carstairs set herself on fire and you came for me to my house——"
"Yes." Her eyes were sad. "I remember. I don't think I shall ever be able to forget that night."
"Ah, don't say that!" His voice was eager. "Mrs. Cheniston, don't, please, believe I gave in without a struggle. I didn't. God knows I fought the horrible thing—for your sake, because you had been good enough, kind enough—to ask me to give up trying that way out. I did try. Oh, I know you can hardly believe me—you who saw me in the very hour of my failure—but it's true. Although I gave in at the last, beaten by the twin enemies of bodily pain and mental suffering——"
"You were—in pain—that day?"
"Yes. I had endured torture—oh, I don't want to excuse myself, but please understand I was really ill, really suffering, and morphia, as you know, does bring a blessed relief. And I was wretched, too—it seemed to me that life was over for me that day——"
He stopped short, biting his lips at his self-betrayal; but Iris' grey eyes did not turn away from his face.
"And so, thinking I could endure no more agony of body and mind, I had recourse to the one relief I knew; but before God, if I had known that you would be a witness to my failure——"
"Dr. Anstice"—the gentleness in her voice fell like balm upon his sore spirit—"please don't say any more. We are only human, you and I; and one failure does not minimize a long-continued success."
"You mean——"
"I mean that I know—I can't tell you how, but Idoknow it—you have never again tried that way out of your troubles. I think," said Iris, "you have found therealway out—at last."
Her words perplexed, even while they relieved him; and he sought the meaning of them.
"Therealway, Mrs. Cheniston? I wonder what you mean by that?"
"I mean," she said very softly, "you must have found the way out of your own troubles by the very act of pointing out the way to others. You have brought Chloe Carstairs back to life—oh, I know it was through you that the mystery was cleared up at last—and that alone must make you feel that whatever mistake you may once have made you have atoned for it a hundredfold. And"—for an instant Iris' voice shook—"what are you doing now but atoning for that mistake—if further atonement were necessary?"
"You mean——"
"I mean that you are here, waiting for the Bedouins to attack us at any moment, waiting to fight for us women, ready, if need be, to die on our behalf." The words fell very softly on the quiet air. "And though I pray that God will send us help so that no life may be sacrificed I know"—Iris' eyes shone, and her voice rang suddenly like a clarion call—"I know that I—that we are safer with you than with any other man in the world...."
Carried away by her trust in him Anstice turned to her impulsively.
"Mrs. Cheniston, I can't thank you enough for those words. God knows I would willingly, gladly die to shield you from any harm; and if help should not come in time, and I should lose my life, well, please believe two things—firstly, that since that dreadful night I have never—failed—in that way again; and secondly, that to die in your service"—so much he might surely say in this poignant hour—"would be a death which any man might envy me."
She did not reply in words; but her eyes answered for her and for a moment there was silence between them. Then, as though half afraid he might have angered her by his last impetuous speech, Anstice spoke abruptly in another tone.
"Odd, isn't it, how an action carried through in a moment may have such tremendous consequences? I mean if I had stayed my hand long ago in that Indian hut you and I would not be here now, faced with this rather—difficult—situation. It makes one realize that one should never act too hastily—without looking all round the subject, so to speak."
"Yes. And yet—sometimes—if one stopped to think of the consequences one would be afraid to act, and let the vital moment slip," she said rather dreamily. "Of course there is always the afterwards——"
"Do you know of what that reminds me?" He spoke quickly. "Once, long ago when I was a student, I picked up a book of old plays at a bookstall in the Charing Cross Road. And in one of the plays I came across this sentence: 'The deed itself may be the work of a moment; but there is always the long, longafterwardswith which to reckon.'"
His voice died away; but she said nothing, though her eyes betokened her interest; and presently he resumed.
"Well, that sentence has haunted me pretty frequently of late—it has run through the years like the saying of some avenging angel. I have known what the reckoning with theafterwardsmay be—sometimes, indeed, I have feared that reckoning will never be paid."
"Dr. Anstice," she said quietly, "you are wrong. The reckoningispaid; the atonementismade; and I am quite sure that the future—for you—will be rid for ever of the haunting shadow of the past. And"—her cheeks blanched suddenly as a clamour arose in the courtyard outside—"I think the future is beginning—with trouble and danger—now."
"I believe you are right." Turning impetuously to the window, which for a moment he had neglected, he found Hassan, his eyeballs rolling horribly in his dusky face, leaning out excitedly; and as he too craned into the lifting darkness Anstice saw that the moment of attack was at hand.
Without warning save that given by their exultant shouts the Bedouins were swarming over the wall, clambering over like great cats, dropping with sundry thuds on to the sandy ground beneath; and in another moment Anstice saw that they carried roughly fashioned scaling ladders, with which they evidently intended to force an entrance, should that be possible in the face of the defenders' fire.
"See here, Mrs. Cheniston." Anstice spoke almost curtly. "Will you go into the other room now? You are safer there, and out of harm's way for the time, at least."
"No, Dr. Anstice." She spoke determinedly. "I am going to stay here. You have spare revolvers, haven't you? Then I can load for you and for Hassan, at any rate, even if I can't be of other use."
"You know how?" He was surprised.
"Yes. My father taught me long ago. And"—for a second her voice faltered—"I—I feel safer here. Please let me stay."
"Very well." He could not bear to send her away. "But you must promise to keep as far as possible out of range. We can't afford any casualties, you know."
"I promise," she said very quietly; and he knew she would obey his injunctions implicitly.
The next moment Garnett rushed into the room, his blue eyes alight with a most warrior-like flame.
"See what's up, Anstice? Good—I guessed you'd not be caught napping. I'll get back now—there's going to be a gorgeous scrap in a minute. Mrs. Cheniston, are you all right there?"
"Quite, thanks." Her calm voice reassured him; and he dashed out of the room without further parley, while Anstice and Hassan waited, tensely, their revolvers in readiness, for the moment to open their defence.
It was not yet day; and in the grey gloom it was difficult to distinguish the nature of any object which was not close at hand; but Anstice made out that the approaching Bedouins intended to scramble up to the windows by use of their scaling ladders; and his face wore an unusually grim expression as the flying moments passed.
Ah! The first tribesman to reach the level of the window gave an exultant yell, as though he saw his foe already within his grasp; and on that shout of triumph his desert-born soul was sped to whatever haven awaited it. For Anstice's revolver had spoken; and the swarthy Bedouin fell headlong to the earth, shot, unerringly, through the heart.
Anstice heard Iris give a faint gasp at his side; but now his blood was up and he had no time to reassure even the one beloved woman. Something strange, unexpected, had happened to him. Suddenly he too was primitive man, even as these desert men were magnificently primitive. Gone was all the veneer of civilization, the humanity which bids a man respect a fellow-creature's life. He was no longer the educated, travelled man of the world, who earned his living in honourable and decorous ways. He was the cave-dweller, the man of another and more barbaric age, who defended his stronghold because it held his woman, the woman for whom he would fight to the very end, and count his life well spent if it were yielded up in her service. But he did not mean to die. He meant to live—and since that implied the death of these savages who clamoured without, then let red death stalk between them, and decide to whom he would award the blood-dripping sword of the victor.
Another fierce face at the window—a pair of hawk-like eyes flashing haughty challenge, a sinewy hand raising a revolver in deliberate aim—and Hassan's shot rang out, so swiftly that this man too fell back, disabled, his face disappearing from the window as one runs a film off a reel of pictures.
But there were others—many others—to take his place. Up and up they came till there was a whole phalanx of enemy faces, eyes flashing, white teeth gleaming in horrid snarls ... shot after shot rang out, but by marvellous luck none touched the defenders, who on their side emptied their revolvers as fast as Iris' fingers could make them ready.
Suddenly a gigantic man half sprang over the sill and without attempting to fire seized Anstice by the wrist in a grip of iron, whose marks disfigured him for weeks to come. His intention was obvious—by holding Anstice a prisoner he hoped to make opportunity for others to force an entrance; and as Anstice had involuntarily dropped the revolver as the steel-like fingers crushed his wrist, the fate of the little garrison hung, for a second, in the balance.
"Iris—shoot—quick!" Quite unconscious of the name he used Anstice raised his voice in a desperate shout; and the girl heard and obeyed in the same breath.
Lifting the revolver she had just loaded she fired once, twice, with fingers which did not even tremble; and the next moment with a loud gurgle the Bedouin released his hold and fell back through the window, dislodging the men who were clambering up the ladder behind him, so that they fell together in a confused mass into the courtyard below.
For a second there was a breathing-space; and Anstice turned to Iris with gleaming eyes.
"My God, you have a nerve!" His breath was coming in quick pants. "Mrs. Cheniston, I can't thank you—I never dreamed that even you would be so plucky."
"It wasn't pluck—it was just—obedience," she said, and though her face was very pale she smiled bravely up at him. "Dr. Anstice, are there—many more to come? You have disabled a good many, haven't you?"
"Between us, yes." He was cool again now, and picked up his revolver as he spoke. "They seem to be hanging back a bit—and to judge by the row Garnett's making I should say he's doing pretty well too."
Bang! A bullet whizzed suddenly by Iris' head; and Anstice pulled her hastily into a safer place.
"Here they come back again!" His tone was almost boyishly gleeful. "Well, we're ready for 'em—eh, Hassan?"
The Arab, who was firing as steadily as though at a pigeon-shooting match, nodded, his white teeth flashing out in a merry grin; and as the Bedouins, taking heart, recommenced their attack, the two men, native and Englishman, turned back to their task with renewed vigour.
Neither Iris nor Anstice ever had a very clear recollection of the next ten minutes. It was an inferno, a babel, a confusion of shots and yells and angry clamour; but beyond a slight, flesh wound sustained by Hassan neither of the defenders sustained any casualties; and had their ammunition been as plentiful as their courage was high there would have been no doubt as to the ultimate issue.
Suddenly Anstice turned to Iris with a question on his lips; and her face paled as she replied:
"Not much, now. I think—only enough for three more rounds." She spoke steadily.
"I see. And then——" He broke off, handing her the empty revolver he held.
"And then?" She breathed the question softly; but there was no fear in her face.
"And then—I am not quite clear what happens then." He looked at her more searchingly. "Mrs. Cheniston, what do you say—then? I'm ready, as you know, to die for you, but"—he paused, then resumed in a rather hoarse tone—"if I die what will become of you? I suppose"—he faltered, and his lips were dry, but some inward impulse drove him on—"I suppose you would not wish me to—save—a last cartridge...."
"For me?" Her smile, as she faced him, was splendid. "No, Dr. Anstice, I'm not afraid to die, if I must, at the hands of our enemies. But I will not accept death—fromyou."
He knew—irrevocably—what she meant. She was determined at least to spare him a recurrence of the tragedy which had ruined so many of what should have been the best years of his life; and although he knew he could have faced even that risk courageously in her service, none the less did he rejoice that he was not called upon to do this thing a second time.
"Then—if the worst should happen—if we are not relieved in time——"
"We can all die—together," she said very simply; and in her face he read something which, told him that for all her youth this girl would know how to die.
But further speech was suddenly cut short The Bedouins, who had been hanging back for a moment's parley, had evidently rallied their forces for another effort; for with a yell destined to strike terror into the hearts of their foes they literally swarmed up the ladder until the whole window-space was filled with a horrid nightmare of bearded, swarthy faces, of sinewy, grasping hands, of tossing spears and flourished fire-arms.
Suddenly, with an exclamation of pain, Hassan dropped his revolver and clapped his hand to his side; and Anstice felt, with a wild thrill of dismay in all his veins, that the fight was practically over for them now. The odds were too great—one well-directed bullet and he too would be disabled, powerless to protect the girl for whose sake he longed so ardently to win the day.
"My God, Iris, we're beaten!" Even as he spoke he was firing into the midst of the mass of packed faces at the window; and he heard her words, spoken in a passionate whisper as one hears strange, whispered sentences in a dream:
"No—no!" Iris had been listening to another sound—the sound of hope, of renewed life—and now, in the moment of his discouragement, she whispered the glorious truth. "Listen—they're here—the men have come in time—oh, don't you hear them shouting to us to hold on—for a minute——"
The next moment a wild cry from Hassan rent the air; and as the crowd of fierce faces seemed, suddenly, to recede as a wave washes backwards on the shore, Anstice knew, with a great uplifting of his spirit, that help had indeed come—miraculously—in time to save the day....
Answering shouts from the desert, the drumming of horses' hoofs, the clamour of voices upraised in cries of encouragement—these were the sounds which Anstice, almost unbelieving, heard at last; and as the desert men began to retreat, tumbling over themselves and each other in their haste to flee before this new enemy was upon them, Anstice turned to Iris with a laugh of purest happiness.
"They have come—you're safe now, thank God!"
"We're all safe, thanks to you," she answered him with shining eyes; and as he threw his empty revolver aside she held out both her hands to him and he clasped them joyfully.
"They have come—and so soon! I never dared to hope they would be here before to-night at earliest!"
"Nor I—but they are here!" He released her hands and turned to greet the rest of the little garrison, who, having heard the clamour, had realized they were saved, and came pouring in to hear the story of the night's encounter.
At the same moment a fierce hubbub arose in the courtyard as the Bedouins realized that they were verily in a trap. Some of them, gathering their robes about them in undignified haste, managed to scramble over the wall in the confusion and so make good their escape, for the time at least; but the majority were neatly cornered; and though they fought magnificently, as was their wont, they realized only too soon that they were outnumbered; and in a comparatively short space of time the fight was over.
Just as the rising sun flooded the desert with superb pink brilliance the whole party, rescuers and besieged, met in the courtyard.
Both Anstice and Garnett had been in the thick of the last affray; and the soldier who was apparently in command of the expedition took advantage of the breathing-space to congratulate the defenders on the splendid defiance they had offered to their foes.
"We heard the row quite a long way off," he said, "and hurried for all we were worth, thinking we'd be too late if we didn't hustle. But from the vigour of your defence it seems to me we might have taken it easy."
"Good job for us you didn't," returned Anstice rather grimly. "We'd got down to our last round—another five minutes and we'd have been wiped out."
"Whew!" The other man whistled. "Pretty close call, what? Lucky for you wedidhustle, I see."
"Yes—but can you explain how it is you're here so soon? We hadn't dared to look for you till to-night or to-morrow morning."
"Oh, that's easily explained. We fell in with your messenger—Sir Richard Wayne, isn't it?—on our way back to Cairo. We were returning from a little punitive expedition"—he smiled pleasantly—"and were only too glad to set out on another jaunt. We get fed-up lounging about barracks, and these affairs come as quite a God-send in the wilderness."
"By the way, where is Sir Richard?" Anstice had been scanning the company, but could catch no glimpse of his friend. "His daughter, Mrs. Cheniston, is here, you know, and she will be anxious——"
"Ah, yes—I have a message for her. Is she here—can you take me to her?"
"She is here," said Anstice quietly, as Iris, hearing her name, approached. "Mrs. Cheniston, this gentleman has a message for you—from your father——"
"I'm Lane—Captain Lane, Mrs. Cheniston." He saluted her hastily. "And your father asked me to tell you he was quite well, only a little tired with his double journey. He wanted very much to return with us, but he really was not fit to turn back immediately; and knowing how a lame duck"—he coughed and looked suddenly embarrassed—"I mean—how one man may delay a squadron, so to speak, he very sensibly agreed to stay at our camp for a few hours' rest. We shall pick him up as we go back," he added, and Iris smiled rather wearily as she answered:
"Thank you very much, Captain Lane. You aresuremy father is all right?"
"Certain—only a bit fagged, and no wonder, for he'd ridden hard. Ah—and he told me to say you were to ask Dr. Anston—Anstice, is it?—to help you in any matter in which you wanted a little help."
"I will certainly do that," said Iris quietly; and as the other men pressed round the little group, eagerly questioning the defenders of the besieged Fort, Iris slipped away from the excited crowd so unobtrusively that no eyes save those of Anstice witnessed her departure.
Three minutes later Anstice, leaving the rest planning the return journey over the desert, went quietly in search of Iris.
He found her, as he had half expected, standing by the window of the room in which Bruce Cheniston had died; and in her eyes was a forlorn look which showed him the measure of her desolation in this sunrise hour.
Quietly as he had entered she had heard him come, and turned to face him with a rather tremulous smile.
"Mrs. Cheniston, I came to look for you." He approached as he spoke; and in spite of herself she felt comforted by the mere fact of his presence. "You are not worrying because your father very wisely let those fellows come on ahead of him?"
"N-no," she said, with a queer little catch in her breath. "Only—I had so wanted—so hoped—to see my father—soon."
"I know," he said quietly, "and youwillsee him—very soon. We shall start this afternoon, when the horses are rested; and then it will not be many hours before you and your father meet again."
"Yes." She looked at him with something of appeal in her eyes. "Dr. Anstice, my father said you would help me ... you will, won't you? You know," said Iris simply, "you are the only person I can turn to—now."
More moved by her words than he cared to show, Anstice answered her, not impetuously, but with something in his manner which would have inspired confidence in any woman.
"Mrs. Cheniston, I will do all I can—and God knows I am grateful to Him for allowing me the chance of helping you—now. If you will trust yourself to me I will not relinquish my trust until I give you safely into your father's keeping. Youwilltrust me?"
"Yes, Dr. Anstice." She held out her hands to him as she spoke in token of sincerity. "I would trust you—to the end of the world!"
And as he took her hands in his and vowed himself afresh to her service Anstice knew, with a great lightening of his spirit, that during the night march over the desert, that which he had almost dared to hope might happen, had indeed come to pass; that the chains with which his own action had shackled his soul had fallen from him for ever, and that full atonement for Hilda Ryder's death had been made at last.