had
forbade him to betray a brother's sin, he had never paid so heavy a
price for his act as that which he paid now.

Through the yellow sunlight without, over the barren, dust-strewn
plains, in the distance there approached three riders, accompanied by
a small escort of Spahis, with their crimson burnous floating in the
autumnal wind. She started, and turned to him.

"It is Philip! He is coming for me from your camp to-day."

His eyes strained through the sun-glare.

"Ah, God! I cannot meet him--I have not strength. You do not know----"

"I know how well he loved you."

"Not better than I him! But I cannot--I dare not. Unless I could meet
him as we never shall meet upon earth, we must be apart forever. For
Heaven's sake promise me never to speak my name!"

"I promise until you release me."

"And you can believe me innocent still, in face of all?"

She stretched her hands to him once more. "I believe. For I know what
you once were."

Great, burning tears fell from his eyes upon her hands as he bent over
them.

"God bless you! You were an angel of pity to me in your childhood; in
your womanhood you give me the only mercy I have known since the last
day you looked upon my face! We shall be far sundered forever. May I
come to you once more?"

She paused in hesitation and in thought a while, while for the first
time in all her years a tremulous tenderness passed over her face; she
felt an unutterable pity for this man and for his doom. Then she drew
her hands gently away from him.

"Yes, I will see you again."

So much concession to such a prayer Venetia Corona had never before
given. He could not command his voice to answer, but he bowed low before
her as before an empress--another moment, and she was alone.

She stood looking out at the wide, level country beyond, with the glare
of the white, strong light and the red burnous of the Franco-Arabs
glowing against the blue, but cloudless sky; she thought that she must
be dreaming some fantastic story born of these desert solitudes.

Yet her eyes were dim with tears, and her heart ached with another's
woe. Doubt of him never came to her; but there was a vague, terrible
pathos in the mystery of his fate that oppressed her with a weight of
future evil, unknown, and unmeasured.

"Is he a madman?" she mused. "If not, he is a martyr; one of the
greatest that ever suffered unknown to other men."

In the coolness of the late evening, in the court of the car