ing 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 d