aring a sound or seeing a living
thing--expecting the SNAKE night and day, and, moreover, that he was
starving, dying of thirst, and light-headed, and that he was in the
awful position of choosing between murdering the camel that had stood
by him--no, under him--all that fearful time, and breaking his word to
Lucille--cheating and deceiving Lucille. Then why couldn't they _say_
something instead of sitting there in their endless millions, mile
after billions of miles, post after billions of trillions of
posts--menacing, watchful, silent, silent as the awful desert, silent
as the SNAKE.... This would not do ... he must think hard of Lucille,
of the Sword, of his Dream, his Dream that came so seldom now. He
would repeat Lucille's last letter, word for word:--

"MY DARLING,

"It is over, thank God--Oh, thank God--and you can
leave the army at once and become a 'gentleman' in
position as well as in fact. Poor old Grumper died
on Saturday (as I cabled) and before he died he
became quite another man--weak, gentle and anxious
to make any amends he could to anybody. For nearly
a week he was like this, and it was a most
wonderful and pathetic thing. He spent most of the
time in telling me, General Harringport, Auntie
Yvette or the Vicar, about wicked things he had
done, cruelties, meannesses, follies--it was most
distressing, for really he has been simply a
strong character with all the faults of
one--including, as we know too well, lack of
sympathy, hardness, and sometimes savage cruelty,
which, after all, was only the natural result of
the lack of sympathy and understanding.

"As he grew weaker he grew more sympathetic with
illness and suffering, I suppose, for he sent for
me in the middle of the night to say that he had
suddenly remembered Major Decies' story about your
probably being subject to fits and seizures in
certain circumstances, and that he was coming to
the conclusion that he had been hasty and unjust
and had unmercifully punished you for no fault
whatever. He said 'I have punished him for being
punished. I have added my injustice to that of
Fate. Write to him that I ask his pardon and
confess my fault. Tell him I'll make such
reparation as I can,' and oh, Dam--he leaves _you_
Monksmead, and _me_ his money, on the
understanding that we marry as soon as any
physician, now living in Harley Street, says that
you are fit to marry (I must