The sound of water, splashing, welling, overflowing, was everywhere. It was difficult to keep the track, but Diamond trod warily. He knew theveldtby heart. Passing thekopje, the rush of the water was like the spouting of a thousand springs. It gurgled and raced over its scarred sides. The prickly pear bushes hung flattened over the rocks. By the fitful gleam of the lightning Burke saw these things. The storm was passing, though the rain still beat down mercilessly. It would probably rain for many hours; but a faint vague light far down on the unseen horizon told of a rising moon. It would not be completely dark again.
They splashed their way past thekopje, and immediately a loud roaring filled his ears. As he had guessed the dry watercourse had become a foaming torrent. Again a sharp anxiety assailed him. He spoke to Diamond, and they turned off the track.
The animal was nervous. He started and quivered at the unaccustomed sound. But in a moment or two he responded to Burke's insistence, and went down the sloping ground that led to the seething water.
Burke guided him with an unerring hand, holding him up firmly, for the way was difficult and uneven. A vivid flash of lightning gave him his direction, and by it he saw a marvellous picture. The spruit had become a wide, dashing river. The swirl and rush of the current sounded like a sea at high tide. The flood spread like an estuary over theveldton the farther side, and he saw that the bank nearest to him was brimming.
The picture was gone in a moment, but it was registered indelibly upon his brain. And the hut—Guy's hut—was scarcely more than twenty yards from that swirling river which was rising with every second.
"He can't be there," he said aloud. But yet he knew that he could not turn back till he had satisfied himself on this point. So, with a word of encouragement to Diamond, he splashed onwards.
Again the lightning flared torchlike through the gloom, but the thunder of the torrent drowned the thunder overhead. He was nearing the hut now, and found that in places the rain had so beaten down the sandy surface of the ground that it sank and yielded like a quagmire. He knew that it was only a matter of minutes—possibly seconds—before the crumbling bank above the stream gave way.
He was close to the hut now, though still he assured himself that the place was empty. The roar of the water was deafening, seeming to numb the senses. He never knew afterwards whether a light suddenly kindled as he drew near behind the canvas that screened the hut-window, or if it had been there all along and the leaping elusive lightning had blinded him to it. But the light was there before him as he reached the place, and in a moment the knowledge flashed upon him beyond all questioning that he had not come upon a vain quest.
He knew also with that menacing roar below him and the streaming rain around that there was not a moment to be lost. He swung himself from Diamond's back and secured the bridle to a projecting piece of wood at the back of the hut. Then, floundering and slipping at every step, he made his way round to the door.
He groped for some seconds before he found it. It was closed and he knew that there was no handle on the outside. He battered upon it with his fist, shouting Guy's name.
There came no answer to his summons, but the sound of the water seemed to swell in volume, filling the night. It drove him to a fierce impatience. If he had not seen the light he would scarcely have taken the risk. None but a fool would have remained in such a death-trap. But the presence of the light forced him on. He could not leave without satisfying himself. He set his shoulder against the closed door and flung the full weight of his body into one stupendous effort to force an entrance.
The wood cracked and splintered with the shock. He felt himself pitching forward and grabbed at the post to save himself. The door swung back upon its hinges, and he burst into the hut headlong.
The flame of a candle glimmered in his eyes, momentarily dazzling him. Then he heard a cry. A figure sprang towards him—a woman's figure with outstretched arms waving him back! Was he dreaming? Was he mad? It was Sylvia's face, white and agonized, that confronted him—Sylvia's voice, but so strained that he hardly recognized it, broken and beseeching, imploring him for mercy.
"Oh, Burke—for God's sake—don't kill him! Don't kill him! I will kill myself—I swear—if you do."
He caught the outflung hands, gripping them hard, assuring himself that this thing was no illusion. He looked into her eyes of wild appeal.
She attempted no, further entreaty, but she flung herself against him, impeding him, holding him back. Over her shoulder he looked for Guy; and found him.
He was sitting crouched on a low trestle-bed at the further end of the hut with his head in his hands. Burke turned to the girl who stood palpitating, pressed against him, still seeking with all her strength to oppose his advance.
Her wide eyes met his. They were filled with a desperate fear."He is ill," she said.
The roar of the rising water filled the place. The ground under their feet seemed to be shaking.
Burke looked down at the woman he held, and a deadly sensation arose and possessed him. For the moment he felt sick with an overpowering longing. The temptation to take her just as she was and go was almost more than human endurance could bear. He had undergone so much for her sake. He had suffered so fiery a torture. The evil impulse gripped and tore him like a living thing.
And then—was it the purity of those eyes upraised to his?—he was conscious of a change within him. It was as if a quieting touch had been laid upon him. He knew—quite suddenly he knew—what he would do. The temptation and the anguish went out together like an extinguished fire. He was his own master.
He bent to her and spoke, his words clear above the tumult: "Help me to save him! There is just a chance!"
He saw the swift change in her eyes. She bent with a sharp movement, and before he could stop her he felt her lips upon his hand. They thrilled him with a strange exaltation. The memory of that kiss would go with him to the very Gate of Death.
Then he had reached Guy, was bending over him, raising him with urgent hands. He saw the boy's face for a moment, ashen in the flickering candlelight, and he knew that the task before him was one which it would take his utmost strength to accomplish. But he exerted it and dragged him to his feet, half-supporting, half-carrying, him towards the open door, Sylvia helping on the other side. The thought went through him that this was the last act that they would perform in partnership. And somehow he knew that she would remember it later in the same way.
They reached the threshold. Guy was stumbling blindly. He seemed to be dazed, scarcely conscious of his surroundings. The turmoil of the water was terrific through the ceaseless rush of the rain. With heads bent to the storm they forced their way out into the tumult.
They found Diamond tramping and snorting with fright at the back of the hut, but to Burke's brief command and Sylvia's touch he stood still.
"Get up!" Burke said to the girl.
But she started and drew back. "Oh no—no!" she cried back to him."I will go on foot."
He said no more, merely turned and hoisted Guy upwards. He landed in the saddle, instinctively gripping with his knees while Burke on one side, Sylvia on the other, set his feet in the stirrups.
Then still in that utter silence Burke went back to Sylvia. He had lifted her before she was aware, and for one breathless moment he held her. Then she also was up on the horse's back. He thrust her hands away from him, pushing them into Guy's belt with a mastery that would brook no resistance.
"Wake up!" he yelled to Guy, and smote him on the thigh as he dragged the bridle free.
Then, slipping and sliding on the yielding ground, he pulled the horse round, gave the rein, into Guy's clutching hand, and struck the animal smartly on the flank. Diamond squealed and sprang forward bearing his double burden, and in a moment he was off, making for the higher ground and the track that led to the farm, terrified yet blindly following the instinct that does not err.
The sound of the scrambling, struggling hoofs was lost in the strife of waters, the swaying figures disappeared in the gloom, and the man who was left behind turned grimly and went back into the empty hut.
The candle still cast a flickering light over table and bed. He stood with his back to the raging night and stared at the unsteady flame. It was screened from extinction in the draught by a standing photograph-frame. The picture this contained was turned away from him. After a moment it caught his attention. He moved round the table. Though Death were swooping towards him, swift and certain, on the wings of the rising current, he was drawn as a needle to the magnet. Like a dying man, he reached for the last draught that should slake his thirst and give him peace in dying.
He leaned upon the table, that creaked and shook beneath his weight. He stretched forth his arms on each side of the candle, and drew the portrait close to the flame. Sylvia's face laughed at him through the shifting, uncertain light. She was standing on a wind-blown open space. Her lips were parted. He thought he heard her voice, calling him. And the love in her eyes—the love that shone through the laughter! It held him like a spell—even though it was not for him.
He gazed earnestly upon this thing that had been another man's treasure long before he had even seen her, and as he gazed, he forgot all beside. By that supreme sacrifice of self, he had wiped out all but his exceeding love for her. The spirit had triumphed over the flesh. Love the Immortal to which Death is but a small thing had lifted him up above the world. . . .
What was it that suddenly pierced him as he leaned there? No sound above that mighty tumult could possibly have reached him. No movement beyond that single flickering flame could have caught his vision. No touch was laid upon him. Yet suddenly he jerked upright with every nerve a-quiver—and beheld her!
She stood in the doorway, gasping for breath, clinging to the woodwork for support, with Death behind her, but no fear of Death in her eyes. They held instead a glory which he had never seen before.
He stood and gazed upon her, unbelieving, afraid to move. His lips formed her name. And, as one who springs from tempest into safe shelter, Sylvia sprang to him. Her arms were all about him before he knew that she was not a dream.
He clasped her then with such a rush of wonder and joy as nearly deprived him of the power to think. And in that moment their lips met in a kiss that was close and sacred, uniting each to each beyond all severance—a soul communion.
Burke was trembling as she had never known him tremble before."Why—have you come back?" he said, as speech returned.
She answered him swiftly and passionately, clinging faster with the words: "Because—God knows—I would rather die with you—than—than live without you! I love you so! Oh, don't you understand?"
Yes, he understood, though all else were beyond his comprehension. Never again would he question that amazing truth that had burst upon him here at the very Gate of Death, changing the whole world.
He looked down upon her as he held her, the light from the candle shining through her hair, her vivid face uplifted to his, her eyes wide and glowing, seeing him alone. No, he needed no words to tell him that.
And then suddenly the roar without increased a hundredfold. A shrieking wind tore past, and in a moment the flickering light went out. They stood in darkness.
Her arms clasped his neck more closely. He felt the coming agony in her hold. She spoke again, her lips against his own. "Through the grave—and Gate of Death—" she said.
That aroused him. A strength that was titanic entered into him. Why should they wait here for Death? At least they would make a fight for it, however small their chance. He suddenly realized that mortal life had become desirable again—a thing worth fighting for—a precious gift.
He bent, as he had bent on that first night at the farm—how long ago!—and gathered her up into his arms.
A rush of water swirled about his knees as he made for the dim opening. The bank had gone. Yet the rise in the ground would give them a few seconds. He counted upon the chance. Out into the open he stumbled.
The water was up to his waist here. He floundered on the yielding ground.
"Don't carry me!" she said. "I can wade too. Let me hold your hand!"
But he would not let her go out of his arms. His strength in that moment was as the strength of ten. He knew that unless the flood actually overwhelmed him, it would not fail.
So, slipping, struggling, fighting, he forced his way, and, like Diamond, he was guided by an instinct that could not err. Thirty seconds after they left it, the hut on the sand was swept away by the hungry waters, but those thirty seconds had been their salvation. They had reached the point where the ground began to rise towards thekopje, and though the water still washed around them the force of it was decreasing at every step,
As they reached the foot of thekopjeitself, a stream of moonlight suddenly rushed down through the racing clouds, revealing the whole great waste of water like a picture flung upon a screen.
Burke's breath came thick and laboured; yet he spoke. "We are saved!" he said.
"Put me down now!" she urged. "Please put me down!"
But still he would not, till he had climbed above the seething flood, and could set her feet upon firm ground. And even then he clasped her still, as if he feared to let her go.
They stood in silence, holding fast to one another while the moonlight flickered in and out, and Burke's heart gradually steadied again after the terrific struggle. The rain had almost ceased. Only the sound of the flood below and the gurgle of a hundred rivulets around filled the night.
Sylvia's arm pressed upon Burke's neck. "Shall we go—right to the top?" she said.
"The top of what?" He turned and looked into her eyes as she stood above him.
She bent to him swiftly, throbbing, human, alive. She held his face between her hands, looking straight back for a space. Then with a little quivering laugh, she bent lower and kissed him.
"I think you're right, partner," she said. "We don't need to go—any farther than this. We've—got there."
He caught her to him with a mastery that was dearer to her in that moment than any tenderness, swaying her to his will. "Yes—we've got there!" he said, and kissed her again with lips that trembled even while they compelled. "But oh, my soul—what a journey!"
She clung to him more closely, giving of her all in full and sweet surrender. "And oh, my soul," she laughed back softly—"what an arrival!"
And at that they laughed together, triumphant as those who have the world at their feet.
The flood went down in the morning, and behind it there sprang into being a new world of softest, tenderest green in place of the brown, parched desert that had been. Mary Ann stood at the door of her hut and looked at it with her goggle-eyes in which the fright of the storm was still very apparent.
Neither she nor her satellites would go near the house of thebaasthat morning, for a dread shadow lay upon it into which they dared not venture. Thebaashimself was there. He had driven her into the cooking-hut a little earlier and compelled her to prepare a hot meal under his stern supervision. But even thebaascould not have forced her to enter the bungalow. For by some occult means Mary Ann knew that Death was waiting there, and the wrath of the gods was so recent that she had not courage left for this new disaster.
Diamond had brought his burden safely out of the storm, and was now comfortably sheltered in his own stable. But the man who had ridden him had been found hours later by the bigbaasface downwards on thestoep, and now he lay in the room in which he had lain for so long, with breathing that waxed and waned and sometimes stopped, and eyes that wandered vaguely round as though seeking something which they might never find.
What were they looking for? Sylvia longed to know. In the hush of that room with the light of the early morning breaking through, it seemed to her that those eyes were mutely waiting for a message from Beyond. They did not know her even when they rested upon her face.
She herself was worn out both physically and mentally, but she would not leave him. And so Burke had brought in the long chair for her and made her lie down while she watched. He brought her food also, and they ate together in the quiet room where the ever-changing breathing of the man upon the bed was the only sound.
He would have left them alone then, but she whispered to him to come back.
He came and bent over her. "I'll smoke on thestoep," he said. "You have only to raise your voice if you want-me, and I shall hear."
She slipped her arms about his neck, and drew him down to her. "I want you—all the time," she whispered.
He kissed her on lips and hair, but he would not stay. She heard him pass out on to thestoep, and there fell a deep silence.
It seemed to lap her round like a vast and soundless sea. Presently she was drifting upon it, sometimes dipping under, sometimes bringing herself to the surface with a deliberate effort of the will, lest Guy should come back and need her. She was unutterably tired, and the rest was balm to her weary soul, but still, she fought against complete repose, until, like the falling of a mist, oblivion came at last very softly upon her, and she sank into the deeps of slumber. . . .
It must have been some time later that something spoke within her, recalling her. She raised herself quickly and looked at Guy to find his eyes no longer roving but fixed upon her. She thought his breathing must be easier, for he spoke without effort.
"Fetch Burke!" he said.
She started up to obey. There was that about Guy at the moment which she had never seen before, a curious look of knowledge, a strength new-born that, was purely spiritual. But ere she reached the window, Burke was there. He came straight in and went to Guy. And she knew that the end was very near.
Instinctively she drew back as the two men met. She had a strong feeling that her presence was not needed, was almost an intrusion. Yet she could not bring herself to go, till suddenly Burke turned to her and drew her forward.
"He wants you to say good-bye to him," he said, "and then—to go."
It was very tenderly spoken. His hand pressed her shoulder, and the pressure was reassuring, infinitely sustaining.
She bent over Guy. He looked straight up at her, and though the mystery of Death was in his eyes they held no fear. They even faintly smiled upon her.
"Good-bye, darling!" he said softly. "Think of me sometimes—when you've nothing better to do!"
She found and clasped his hand. "Often!" she whispered. "Very often!"
His fingers pressed hers weakly. "I wish—I'd made good," he said.
She bent lower over him. "Ah, never mind now!" she said. "That is all over—forgiven long ago."
His eyes still sought hers with that strange intentness. "I never loved—-anyone but you, Sylvia," he said. "You'll remember that. It's the only thing in all my life worth remembering. Now go, darling! Go and rest! I've got—to talk to Burke—alone."
She kissed him on the forehead, and then, a moment later, on the lips. She knew as she went from him that she would never hear his voice again on earth.
* * * * *
She went to her own room and stood at the window gazing out upon that new green world that but yesterday had been a desert. The thought of her dream came upon her, but the bitterness and the fears were all gone from her heart. The thing she had dreaded so unspeakably had come and passed. The struggle between the two men on that path which could hold but one was at an end. The greater love had triumphed over the lesser, but even so the lesser had not perished. Dimly she realized that Guy's broken life had not been utterly cast away. It seemed to her that already—there at the Gate of Death—he had risen again. And she knew that her agonized prayer had found an answer at last. Guy was safe.
It was a long time before Burke came to her. When he did, it was to find her in a chair by the window with her head pillowed on the table, sunk in sleep. But she awoke at his coming, looking at him swiftly with a question in her eyes which his as swiftly answered. He came and knelt beside her, and gathered her into his arms.
She clung to him closely for a while in silence, finding peace and great comfort in his hold. Then at length, haltingly she spoke.
"Burke,—you—forgave him?"
"Yes," he said.
She lifted her face and kissed his neck. "Burke, you understand—I—couldn't forsake him—then?"
"I understand," he said, drawing her nearer. "You couldn't forsake anyone in trouble."
"Oh, not just that," she said. "I loved him so. I couldn't help it. I—had to love him."
He was silent for a few seconds, and the wonder stirred within her if perhaps even now he could misunderstand her. And then he spoke, his voice very low, curiously uneven. "I know. I loved him, too. That was—the hell of it—for me."
"Oh, Burke—darling!" she said.
He drew a hard breath, controlling himself with an effort. "I'd have cut off my right hand to save him, but it was no good. It came to me afterwards—that you were the one who might have done it. But it was too late then. Besides—besides—" he spoke as if something within him battled fiercely for utterance—"I couldn't have endured it—standing by. Not you—not you!"
She put up a hand, and stroked his face. "I belonged to you from the first moment I saw you," she said.
"Sylvia!" He moved abruptly, taking her by the shoulders so that he might look into her eyes. "That is—the truth?" he said.
She met his look steadfastly. "Of course it is the truth!" she said. "Could I tell you anything else?"
He held her still. "But—Sylvia——"
Her hands were clasped against his breast. "It is the truth," she said again. "I didn't realize it myself at first. It came to me—quite suddenly—that day of the sand-storm—the day Guy saved your life."
"Ah!" he said.
She went on with less assurance. "It frightened me—when I knew.I was so afraid you would find out."
"But why?" he said. "Why?"
She shook her head, and suddenly her eyes fell before his. She looked almost childishly ashamed.
"Won't you tell me why?" he said.
She made a small, impulsive movement of protest. "I didn't—quite—trust you," she said.
"But you knew I loved you!" he said.
She shook her head again with vehemence. "I didn't know—I didn't know! How could I? Why, you have never told me so—even now."
"Great heavens!" he said, as if aghast.
Very oddly his unexpected discomfiture restored her confidence. She faced him again. "It doesn't matter now," she said. "You needn't begin at this stage. I've found out for myself—as you might have done long ago if you hadn't been quite blind. But I'm rather glad, after all, that you didn't, because—you learnt to trust me without. It was dear of you to trust me, Burke. I don't know how you managed it."
"I would trust you to the world's end—blindfold," he said. "I know you."
"Yes, now. But you didn't then. When you found me in the hut—with Guy," her voice quivered a little—"you didn't know—then—that I was with him because he was too ill to be there alone."
"And to protect him from me," Burke said.
"Yes; that too." She laid her cheek suddenly against his hand."Forgive me for that!" she said.
He drew her head back to his shoulder. "No—you had reason enough for fearing me," he said. "God alone knows what brought you back to me."
She leaned against him with a little sigh. "Yes, He knows," she said softly, "just as He knows what made you stay behind to die alone. It was the same reason with us both. Don't you understand?"
His arms grew close about her. His lips pressed her forehead."Yes," he said. "Yes, I understand."
They spoke later of Kieff and the evil influence he had exerted over Guy.
"The man was his evil genius," Burke said. "But I couldn't keep him away when the boy was damaged and there was no one else to help." He paused a moment. "He was the only man in the world I was ever afraid of," he said then. "He had an uncanny sort of strength that I couldn't cope with. And he was such a fiend. When he tried to get you into his toils—frankly, I was terrified. He had dragged down so many,"
"And you think—Guy—might have been different but for him?" Sylvia questioned.
"Yes. I believe I could have kept him straight if it hadn't been for Kieff. He and Piet Vreiboom were thick as thieves, and between them the boy got pulled under. I was beat, and Kelly, too."
"Mr. Kelly!" Sylvia gave a slight start; that name reminded her. "Burke, do you know—I owe him money? I've got to tell you about that."
She paused in rather painful hesitation; it was hard to tell him even now what she had sacrificed so much to hide.
But he stopped her. "No. You needn't. I know all about it. I put Kelly up to the job. The money was mine."
"Burke!" She stared at him in astonishment. "You—knew!"
He nodded. "I guessed a little. And I made Donovan do the rest.You were so upset about it. Something had to be done."
"Oh, Burke!" she said again.
He went on. "Guy told me all about it too—only a little while ago. He made a clean breast of everything. He was—awfully penitent. Look here! We'll forget all that, won't we? Promise me you'll forget it!" He spoke rapidly, just as Guy would have spoken. She saw that he was deeply moved. "I was a devil ever to doubt you. I want to be sure—to be certain sure—that you'll never think of it again—that you'll forget it all—as if it had never been."
The earnest appeal in his eyes almost startled her. It brought the quick tears to her own. She gave him both her hands. "I shall only remember—one thing," she said. "And that is—your great goodness to me—from beginning to end."
He made a sound of dissent, but she would not hear.
"I am going to remember that always, for it is the biggest thing in my life. And now, Burke, please tell me—for I've got to know—are we quite ruined?"
He gave her an odd look. "What made you think of that?"
She coloured a little. "I don't know. I have been thinking about it a great deal lately. Anyhow," she met his look almost defiantly, "I've a right to think of it, haven't I? We're partners."
"You've a right to do anything that seems good to you," he said. "I am not absolutely down and out, but I'm pretty near it. There isn't much left."
She squeezed his hands hard, hearing the news with no hint of dismay. Her eyes were shining with the old high courage. "Never mind, partner! We'll pull up again," she said. "We're a sound working proposition, aren't we?"
He drew her suddenly and closely into his arms. "My own brave girl!" he said.
* * * * *
Bill Merston came over in the evening, summoned by one of Burke's Kaffirs, and they buried Guy under the shadow of thekopjein what in a few more days would be a paradise of flowers. The sun was setting far away in an opalescent glow of mauve and pink and pearl. And the beauty of it went straight to Sylvia's heart.
She listened to the Burial Service, read by Merston in his simple sincere fashion, and she felt as if all grief or regret were utterly out of place. She and Burke, standing hand in hand, had been lifted above earthly things. And again there came to her the thrilling certainty that Guy was safe. She wondered if, in his own words, he had forgotten it all and started afresh.
Merston could not stay for the night. He looked at Sylvia rather questioningly at parting.
She smiled in answer as she gave him her hand. "Give my love toMatilda!" she said. "Say I am coming to see her soon!"
"Is that all?" he said.
She nodded. "Yes, that's all. No—one thing more!" She detained him a moment. "Thank her for all she has done for me, and tell her I have found the right mixture at last! She will understand, or—if she doesn't—I will give her the recipe when I come."
He frowned at her with masculine curiosity. "What is it for? A new kind of pickles?"
She turned from him. Her face was deeply flushed. "No. It's a thing called happiness. Don't forget to tell her! Good-bye!^
"Then in heaven's name, come soon!" said Merston, as he mounted his horse.
* * * * *
When he was gone, they mounted thekopjetogether, still hand in hand.
The way was steep, but they never rested till they reached the top. The evening light was passing, but the sky was full of stars. Thespruitwas a swift-flowing river below them. They heard the rush of its waters—a solemn music that seemed to fill the world.
Sylvia turned her face to the north, and the long, dim range of hills beyond theveldt.
"We will go beyond some day," Burke said.
She held his hand very fast. "I don't mind where we go, partner, so long as we go together," she said.
He drew something out of his pocket and held it out to her. "I've got to give you this," he said.
She looked at him in surprise. "Burke! What is it?"
"It's something Guy left to you," he said, "with his love. I promised to give it you to-night. Take it, won't you?"
She took it, a small object wrapped in paper, strangely heavy for its size. "What is it?" she said again.
"Open it!" he said.
She complied, trembling a little. "Oh—Burke!" she said.
It lay in her hand, a rough stone like a small crystal, oddly shaped. The last of the evening light caught it, and it gleamed as if with living fire.
"The diamond!" she whispered.
"Yes—the diamond." Burke spoke very quietly. "He gave it to me just before he died. 'Tell her she is not to keep it!' he said. 'She is to sell it. I won it for her, and she is to make use of it.'"
"But—it is yours really," Sylvia said.
"No. It is yours." Burke spoke with insistence. "But I think he is right. You had better sell it. Vreiboom and some of Hoffstein's gang are after it. They don't know yet who won it. Donovan covered Guy's tracks pretty cleverly. But they'll find out. It isn't a thing to keep."
She turned to him impulsively. "You take it, partner!" she said."It was won with your money, and no one has a greater right to it."
"It is yours," he insisted.
She smiled. "Very well. If it's mine, I give it to you; and if it's yours you share it with me. We are partners, aren't we? Isn't that what Guy intended?"
He smiled also. "Well—perhaps."
She put it into his hand and closed his fingers over it. "There's no perhaps about it. We'll take it back to Donovan, and make him sell it. And when we've done that—" She paused.
"Yes?" he said.
She pushed her hand through his arm. "Would it bore you very much, partner, to take me back to England—just—for a little while? I want to see my daddy again and tell him how happy I am. He'll like to know."
"Of course I will take you," he said.
"Thank you." Her hand pressed his arm. "And then we'll come back here. I want to come back here, Burke. It isn't—a land of strangers to me any more. It's just—the top of the world. Shall I tell you—would you like me to tell you—how we managed to get here?"
His arm went round her. "I think I know."
She turned her face to his. "By faith—and love, my darling," she said. "There is—no other way. You taught me that."
He kissed her fervently, with lips that trembled. "I love you with my whole soul," he told her, with sudden passion. "God knows how I love you!"
She gave herself to him with a little quivering laugh. "Do you know, partner," she said, "I wanted you to tell me that? I've been wanting it—for ever so long."
And they were nearer to the stars above them in that moment than to the world that lay at their feet.