-forgotten individual? And if so, could it be that
_Leo_ was the man that _She_ was waiting for--the dead man who was to be
born again! Impossible! The whole thing was gibberish! Who ever heard of
a man being born again?

But if it were possible that a woman could exist for two thousand years,
this might be possible also--anything might be possible. I myself might,
for aught I knew, be a reincarnation of some other forgotten self, or
perhaps the last of a long line of ancestral selves. Well, _vive la
guerre!_ why not? Only, unfortunately, I had no recollection of these
previous conditions. The idea was so absurd to me that I burst out
laughing, and, addressing the sculptured picture of a grim-looking
warrior on the cave wall, called out to him aloud, "Who knows, old
fellow?--perhaps I was your contemporary. By Jove! perhaps I was you and
you are I," and then I laughed again at my own folly, and the sound of
my laughter rang dismally along the vaulted roof, as though the ghost of
the warrior had echoed the ghost of a laugh.

Next I bethought me that I had not been to see how Leo was, so, taking
up one of the lamps which was burning at my bedside, I slipped off my
shoes and crept down the passage to the entrance of his sleeping cave.
The draught of the night air was lifting his curtain to and fro gently,
as though spirit hands were drawing and redrawing it. I slid into the
vault-like apartment, and looked round. There was a light by which I
could see that Leo was lying on the couch, tossing restlessly in his
fever, but asleep. At his side, half-lying on the floor, half-leaning
against the stone couch, was Ustane. She held his hand in one of hers,
but she too was dozing, and the two made a pretty, or rather a pathetic,
picture. Poor Leo! his cheek was burning red, there were dark shadows
beneath his eyes, and his breath came heavily. He was very, very ill;
and again the horrible fear seized me that he might die, and I be left
alone in the world. And yet if he lived he would perhaps be my rival
with Ayesha; even if he were not the man, what chance should I,
middle-aged and hideous, have against his bright youth and beauty? Well,
thank Heaven! my sense of right was not dead. _She_ had not killed that
yet; and, as I stood there, I prayed to Heaven in my heart that my boy,
my more than son, might live--ay, even if he proved to be the man.

Then I went back as softly as I had come, but still I could not sleep;
the sight and t