ly, 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'