chairs and a kind of bench we use for a table."

"I see." Anstice looked round the room, noting the rough stone walls,
the ancient, uneven floor, uncovered by so much as a piece of matting;
and then his glance returned to the large modern window which looked so
incongruous in its mediaeval setting.

The room into which a moment later Iris showed him was of the same shape
and size as the one they had just quitted; and boasted the second of the
windows which might, were help too long delayed, prove the undoing of
the little garrison. It was, however, roughly furnished, though it was
evident that the Frenchman, for all his reputed wealth, had been no
Sybarite by inclination. The bed was of a common pattern, and the few
other things scattered about on the scantily matted floor were of the
most primitive description.

As a room for an invalid the apartment certainly left much to be
desired; but Anstice did not waste time over his surroundings. He moved
quickly towards the bed; and stood looking down upon the man who lay
thereon in silence.

And as he looked at the wreck of the once gallant Bruce Cheniston, his
heart sank within him; for if ever Death had printed his sign-manual on
a living man's face, it was written here too legibly for even an
untrained eye to miss its significance.

Cheniston was wasted to a shadow by fever and suffering. From his
haggard face his sunken eyes looked out with an expression of anguish
which was surely mental as well as physical; and though he evidently
recognized his visitor, he was too weak to do more than move one
fleshless hand an inch or two towards Anstice by way of greeting.

Hiding the shock Cheniston's appearance had given him as well as he
might, Anstice sat down beside the bed and took the painfully thin hand
in his own.

"Cheniston, I'm sorry to see you in such a bad way." He spoke very
gently, his eyes on the other's face the while. "It was hard luck
falling ill out here--but I've brought up several things from Cairo that
will give you relief in no time."

Over Cheniston's face flitted the ghost of a smile; and his voice, when
he replied, gave Anstice a fresh shock, so thready and devoid of all
tone was it.

"Thanks--very much--Anstice." He spoke slowly, with spaces between the
words. "I'm very ill--I know--I think I'm going--to peg out--but I can't
bear--to think--of Iris."

He stopped, quite exhausted by the effort of speech; and Anstice, more
moved than he cared