ought up in the desert. And the only
reason he could win back the Spear, and cure the king, and bring back
the symbol of God's Presence on earth again, was that he was so sorry
for the king. He wanted so much to heal him that, whenever he got tired
and sick, and whenever he got into temptations he was able to conquer
them. It was his pity made him conquer where wiser people, more selfish
and less loving, had failed."

Marcella let the far-off, gentle voice sink into her mind, then. She saw
herself very consciously as Parsifal; he, too, had been a fool. She felt
she could take heart of grace from the fact that another fool had won
through to healing and victory. When, presently, Louis's voice came to
her, she turned with a swift vision of him as King Amfortas with the
unstaunchable wound.

He had washed and brushed his hair, and changed into pyjamas. He looked
very pitiful, very ill. He was standing in the middle of the room with
the two candles flicking in the light night breeze, making leaping
shadows of him all over the walls.

"My head's damn bad," he groaned. "It feels as if it's going to burst."

He swayed and almost fell. She helped him over to the bed. He sunk on it
with a sigh of relief.

"I feel damn bad," he said again, and burst into tears.

"Don't cry, Louis. I'm going to make you better now," she said, sitting
on the edge of the bed and stroking his damp hair gently.

"Light me a cig-rette--light me a cig-rette," he said, rapidly, shaking
his hands impatiently. "In my coat--find my cigarette-holder. Be
quick--be quick--There, I'm sorry, old girl. I felt so jumpy then. It
seems as if there are faces watching me. Marcella--I'm sure there are
Chinks about."

"You're quite safe with Marcella," she said, soothingly, as if she were
speaking to a child. He puffed at the cigarette but his hands shook so
much that she had to hold it for him. It soothed him considerably. She
registered that fact for future reference. Presently he threw the
cigarette across the room into the grate and turned over.

"Lord, I'm tired. Not had a decent night's sleep for centuries. Those
damn bunks on the Oriana were so hard! Marcella--I want to go to sleep.
If I don't get some sleep I shall go mad. Let me put my poor old head on
your shoulder and go to sleep. I--dream--of your--white shoulders."

She sat quite still, trembling a little until his heavy breathing told
her that he was asleep. His hair, which he had soaked in wate