ed his timorous
fear and his living lie. His head sank, he seemed to shrink under her
gaze; his act had never looked so vile to him as it looked now.

She gazed a moment longer at him with her mute and wondering disdain
that there should be on earth a male life capable of such fear and of
such ignominy as this. Then the strong and rapid power in her took its
instant ascendancy over the weaker nature.

"Monsieur, I do not know your story, I do not want. I am not used to men
who let others suffer for them. What I want is your written statement of
your brother's name and station; give it me."

He made a gesture of consent; he would have signed away his soul, if he
could, in the stupor of remorse which had seized him. She brought him
pens and paper from the Turk's store, and dictated what he wrote:

"I hereby affirm that the person serving in the Chasseurs d'Afrique
under the name of Louis Victor is my older brother, Bertie Cecil,
lawfully, by inheritance, the Viscount Royallieu, Peer of England. I
hereby also acknowledge that I have succeeded to and borne the title
illegally, under the supposition of his death.

"BERKELEY CECIL." (Signed)

He wrote it mechanically; the force of her will and the torture of his
own conscience driving him, on an impulse, to undo in an instant the
whole web of falsehood that he had let circumstance weave on and on to
shelter him through twelve long years. He let her draw the paper from
him and fold it away in her belt. He watched her with a curious, dreamy
sense of his own impotence against the fierce and fiery torrent of her
bidding.

"What is it you will do?" he asked her.

"The best that shall lie in my power. Do you the same."

"Can his life yet be saved?"

"His honor may--his honor shall."

Her face had an exceeding beauty as she spoke though it was stern and
rigid still, a look that was sublime gleamed over it. She, the waif and
stray of a dissolute camp, knew better than the scion of his own race
how the doomed man would choose the vindication of his honor before the
rescue of his life. He laid his hand on her as she moved.

"Stay!--stay! One word----"

She flung him off her again.

"This is no time for words. Go to him--coward!--and let the balls that
kill him reach you too, if you have one trait of manhood left in you!"

Then, swiftly as a swallow darts, she quitted him and flew on her
headlong way, down through the pressure of the people, and the throngs
of the m