ay above
the woods, the fields, above the roofs of houses and the heads of men,
above the secret peace of that hidden and flourishing settlement of
vanquished fanatics, fugitives, and outcasts.

Every afternoon Belarab, followed by an escort that stopped outside
the door, entered alone the house of his guest. He gave the salutation,
inquired after his health, conversed about insignificant things with an
inscrutable mien. But all the time the steadfast gaze of his thoughtful
eyes seemed to seek the truth within that white face. In the cool of
the evening, before the sun had set, they talked together, passing and
repassing between the rugged pillars of the grove near the gate of the
stockade. The escort away in the oblique sunlight, followed with their
eyes the strolling figures appearing and vanishing behind the trees.
Many words were pronounced, but nothing was said that would disclose
the thoughts of the two men. They clasped hands demonstratively before
separating, and the heavy slam of the gate was followed by the triple
thud of the wooden bars dropped into iron clamps.

On the third night, Lingard was awakened from a light sleep by the sound
of whispering outside. A black shadow obscured the stars in the doorway,
and a man entering suddenly, stood above his couch while another could
be seen squatting--a dark lump on the threshold of the hut.

"Fear not. I am Belarab," said a cautious voice.

"I was not afraid," whispered Lingard. "It is the man coming in the dark
and without warning who is in danger."

"And did you not come to me without warning? I said 'welcome'--it was as
easy for me to say 'kill him.'"

"You were within reach of my arm. We would have died together," retorted
Lingard, quietly.

The other clicked his tongue twice, and his indistinct shape seemed to
sink half-way through the floor.

"It was not written thus before we were born," he said, sitting
cross-legged near the mats, and in a deadened voice. "Therefore you are
my guest. Let the talk between us be straight like the shaft of a spear
and shorter than the remainder of this night. What do you want?"

"First, your long life," answered Lingard, leaning forward toward the
gleam of a pair of eyes, "and then--your help."

VII

The faint murmur of the words spoken on that night lingered for a long
time in Lingard's ears, more persistent than the memory of an uproar; he
looked with a fixed gaze at the stars burning peacefully in the squar