The camp was in a state of excitement; the natives in a whirl of breathless jabber, even the stolid Englishman slightly fluttered. Lion had been seen and heard at last—seen with the naked eye and heard by the fleshy ear. It was no question of imagination, nor of rumour, nor of excited fancy this time. It was true, genuine, solid fact. A small party of the native servants had been out reconnoitring some distance from the new camp into which they had just moved, and while returning at sunset, as they came up to the brow of a long low line of rocky hills, a tawny form had been seen swinging along over the gilded ripples of the sandy plain towards them and somewhere far on the left of them had disappeared amongst the rock and scrub.

The reconnoitring band had hurried back to camp, bursting with importance and triumph, and since their arrival with the news the whole party was a-buzz and astir with excitement.

There was a unanimous wish to go out that very night. They had all been tantalised and irritated so long now by lion stories that came to nothing, and wearied by every other kind of shooting than that which they wanted and had come out for, that they all burned with the same enthusiasm to catch the chance now it had come. The men called upon Everest to come and talk matters over with them in the gun-room tent, away from the women, and he went, leaving Regina cleaning her rifle and looking over her cartridge belt in their sleeping tent. Her eyes had sparkled when she had heard the news. She had no wish to kill a lion for herself, nor acquire as an indifferent hearthrug the beautiful golden coat that fitted him so perfectly, but the joy of going side by side with Everest into danger, and perhaps being of service to him, of even possibly saving his life, seemed to make every nerve and fibre within her glow like hot steel.

"I may come with you, mayn't I?" she had asked, before he left the tent, "and be close to you through it all, wherever you go, whatever you do?" And he had bent and kissed her.

"My darling, yes, I should think so. You have waited a long time for this. You must come now and show what you can do. You shall have the first shot if you like."

"Oh no, Everest," Regina exclaimed. "I want nothing really. I would not for worlds take your shot. I only want to be there so as to aid you or help in any way if it is necessary. Do you see? I don't want to kill a lion except in self-defence or defence of you."

"All right," laughed Everest in return, greatly amused. "You shall come to protect me. Get ready now as I sha'n't be able to keep these fellows waiting." And he had gone out.

She busied herself immediately with every detail of her dress, boots and equipment, her pistol, her tiny flask of brandy, her knife. Nothing was forgotten. Her courage and her blood rose with every instant. There was only one thing she feared, and that was any accident that might happen to Everest which should leave him maimed or disfigured. If he were killed, the matter was simple. She would instantly follow him by means of her pistol. But the thought of his living bereft of the physical beauty and power he now possessed filled her with horror. She would not think of it, however, for she was powerless. She knew Everest wished to go after the lion, and she could not deprive him of a danger and excitement, that he had enjoyed all his life, on account of her foolish—as he would consider them—fears. No, she would face everything with him and hope for the best, that was all she could do. Of herself she never once thought. In addition to her own naturally courageous nature, she had that added indifference to danger which we all feel when our life is unhappy and full of pain. Hers had contained so much slow corroding suffering lately that the thought of risking it in facing some active danger seemed of far less moment than it would have done on board the dahabeeyah on the golden Nile.

Meanwhile Everest had gone round to the gun tent, and the first thing he saw as he entered was Sybil, seated on a camp-stool under the rows of feathered game, surrounded by the three men, who were looking down upon her with various degrees of dismay written on their countenances.

She was white to the lips with terror, trembling and clinging to the sides of the stool with both hands to steady herself. The upshot of her incoherent talk was that she was too frightened to go with them and too terrified to remain alone in camp. Like most stupid, unimaginative people, she did not realise or picture a danger to herself until it was actually upon her, and when she had heard and spoken of lion-hunting no very definite idea beyond that of the discomforts of camp-life had presented itself to her. Now brought suddenly face to face with the proposition of going out to meet the wild beasts or being shut up alone in the camp, knowing they were in the vicinity, she lost her head completely and seemed beside herself with terror.

Shooting harmless, defenceless things that could not strike back had seemed pleasant and amusing enough to her all this time; when it came to considering the teeth and claws of a lion the whole matter had a different aspect.

Having just left Regina, brilliant and enthusiastic in her courage and devotion, when Everest's eyes fell on the pitiable object his cousin looked, shaking on her camp-stool, a throb of contempt went through him. He was intrepid coolness, courage and dash himself to the very brim, and he could hardly enter at all into the abject cowardice of the girl before him. Directly she saw him she sprang up and ran to him.

"Oh, Everest, you will stay in camp with me and protect me, won't you?" she exclaimed, and the contrast between the two women's cries struck him at the moment and recurred to him afterwards.

Regina's had been an appeal that she might come into danger to protect him.

"What nonsense is this, Sybil?" he answered impatiently. "We've been waiting all this time for our chance, and now you make a silly fuss about it! Don't you want to come with us after all?"

"Come with you?" stammered the girl, while her teeth chattered. "No, no, no, I couldn't."

"Well, then, you can stay at home," he returned curtly.

"That's what I've been telling her," interrupted Merton, "and she wants one of us to stay, too. I'll be hanged if I'm going to now after the rotten time we've had so far."

Sybil sank again on her camp-stool. Literally she could not stand up, her knees were knocking together, her limbs crumpling up beneath her. She was cold with fear.

"Well, why can't the two women stay and look after each other?" asked St John, who was standing, his feet apart, his hands deep in the pockets of his Norfolk jacket, staring at the little figure in the centre of the tent. "We'll get on heaps better without them; responsibility, you know, having women about."

"Regina! What good would she be?" answered Sybil.

"Regina would be as good as any of us," returned the doctor rather fiercely. "She's a better shot than any one of us, bar Lanark, and she's no fear of anything—she's Courage itself."

Sybil was too terrified to heed or care for the obvious comparison.

"You seem rather to forget, gentlemen," remarked Everest coldly, "that this whole camp and expedition was organised by me solely for Regina; and the first shot at lion really belongs to her. Our guests joined us afterwards as—er—an afterthought."

This silenced the guests. St John flung himself down on another camp-stool and began to clean his gun, muttering to himself it was always like this when you had women about. Merton looked as if he could have strangled his sister, the doctor turned to a hanging flamingo and fingered his rosy wing in silence.

"That's quite right, Everest, you're the boss of this show," Merton said, after a second. "You arrange the thing any way you like."

"Why won't you stay with me?" pleaded Sybil, looking up at Everest.

"Because I don't choose to," he returned, almost brutally for him, so great was the contrast to his usual voice and manner. "You are making yourself absolutely ridiculous. I will ask Regina to stay with you to take care of you, but if she refuses you'll have to stay alone."

He turned to the others.

"I'll go over and ask her and then come back to you and we can fix up our plans. I think if we could ride out to the ridge to-night in the cool, and be round those water-holes just after dawn, that's about the best we can do."

"Right! Anything you say, Everest," Merton responded, and the others grunted assent.

"Come, Sybil, you'd better go back to the dining tent and wait for me there till I've seen Regina," Everest said peremptorily, and they went out of the tent together.

"Splendid, plucky girl that other, you know," remarked the doctor. "I think it will be a beastly shame if Lanark makes her stop in camp to look after your precious sister."

"Don't talk to me," growled Merton. "I'm savage enough with her; she wants a good shaking, upsetting things like this."

"Everest, you're angry with me," faltered Sybil, as they got outside. "I can't help being frightened—can—can I?"

"Not altogether, I suppose," returned Everest contemptuously. "But you can help making a fuss about it. You could stay quietly in camp and not bother anybody else if you chose."

"I should have thought you would have liked to stay with me," she murmured plaintively, slipping her tiny hand through his arm. "If they all go, and Regina too, we should be in the camp all night—together—alone—we could——Oh, Everest, do; won't you?"

They were passing under the few palms that intervened between the gun tent and the dining tent. The moon was rising, but not yet very strong. His face was in the shadow and darkness. She could not see it, but she felt him let his arm fall so that her hand had no longer a resting-place, and noticed he moved from her.

"I do not think that Regina would go except with me or for me," he merely answered, but a great wave of passion for the woman he had named rose in him as he thought of that tender, eager, devoted nature longing to face death and danger for his sake.

Sybil felt silenced. She knew she had injured herself in his eyes by her fears, but it was no use her pretending to be brave; she was white and cold with fear. She did not know what to say. She felt he was angry with her, and she was almost as much afraid of him as she was of his lions.

Everest did not speak again till they reached the dining tent, in which he found her a chair, and then went on to Regina. He felt his whole being ablaze and aflame with love for her. Suddenly he hated himself for his conduct, and a resolve sprang into life that as soon as possible he would break up the present arrangement and go away alone, alone with her.... He was at her tent door and entered.

Regina sprang up. "Are we to start now?" she exclaimed joyously. She was quite ready, and looked gloriously handsome and vital and full of mettle, like a racer at the start, as she stood in the centre of the tent, flushed and smiling and animated, awaiting his commands. Everest went straight up to her and without a word caught her to him in one of those mad, passionate embraces she loved from him and never wearied of and never found too violent.

"Dearest, dearest, dearest!" she murmured, kissing him back as soon as he would let her. Whatever he had done, was doing, or desiring, however he had sinned or was sinning against her, he wanted her kiss now and she was powerless to do anything but give it.

He set her free after a moment and stood looking at her.

"Darling, I am so sorry, I have got to ask you something I hate. Will you do it for me?"

Regina's reply was instant.

"Of course, you know you have only to tell me your wishes."

"I am so sorry, so angry, so vexed, you have no idea, but will you stay in camp to-night and give up this expedition?"

Regina's face suddenly grew white and grave; the joyous flush vanished.

"You yourself going without me?"

"I and the other men, yes."

Regina fell on her knees before him and stretched out her arms.

"Everest! If you only knew what it means to me, to let you go into danger without me, you would not ask me. If anything should happen to you, I do so want to be with you. Won't you let me come?"

Her voice, in which her whole ardent nature, her great and overwhelming love for him revealed themselves in wonderful music of tone, made Everest's eyes suddenly swim and the image of her kneeling at his feet swayed mistily before him. He took both her arms and gently raised her.

"Dear one, listen. I know all you feel and I appreciate it so much, but there is no danger, or very little, for you to worry about. I know you want to share what there is and I want you with me, but in this case you can serve me so much better, if you will, by remaining here. After this we will break up the arrangement and you and I will go and hunt somewhere together alone, where we can do as we please."

"Why do you want me to stay?" she asked, looking up at him.

The red of angry savage annoyance surged all over his face.

"This girl Sybil has been making a scene and saying she cannot be left alone in camp, and of course, in a way, we are responsible for her. I can't order any of the others to stay with her, and it's hardly well to leave her by herself, she might do any foolish thing. She is simply in a state of nervous terror. So I am asking you to stay and look after her."

Regina paled with resentment. She did not know how utterly and entirely Everest revolted now from the girl whose physical beauty had for a time so ensnared and delighted his senses. She did not know how strongly he was drawn to herself and how completely the whole influence of the other had faded from his body and his mind. She had no clue as to the gradual weakening of this influence for some time past and the growing indifference on Everest's part which now had suddenly changed into contempt and revolt. He had been very silent about Sybil, after the manner of men, and had tried to show Regina by acts rather than in words that the matter, as far as he was concerned, was at an end. But as he stood to Sybil as host, and as she put out all her powers to keep him by her side, it was difficult for Regina to gain a just idea of the truth. Had Everest been of a more brutal and less refined type of sensualist he could have explained to Regina in a few short, outspoken sentences the fact that all and more than he wanted had been pressed upon him, and that he was now weary and annoyed with the girl and everything connected with her. But he revolted from any betrayal of a woman who, however selfishly, had loved him. He felt it a matter of honour to be absolutely silent about her. And in this way Regina had to be left to misunderstand and to suffer.

So now that he appealed to her to stay in camp it only seemed to her that she was appointed as guardian to the jewel he wished kept in safety, and her happiness, desire and pleasure was to be again sacrificed to this girl as it had been now for so long.

She was so bitterly angry; the rage and tumult of her jealous passion and indignation was such within her, that she could have turned upon Everest then and poured out a flood of burning reproach like a torrent of molten metal upon him.

But her self-control was perfect, her empire over self complete. She knew, with a man like this, violence, coercion was useless. And that moment of all others was not the one for recrimination or reproach.

She was white to the lips as she looked at him, but she said simply:

"I am to give up coming with you in order to take care of Sybil. Is that it?"

"That is the letter of it, the spirit is that you stay behind in camp because I have wished you to do so."

Unconsciously his tone was cold and commanding. He felt the intense vibration of resentment and indignation that went through her as plainly as if an assagai was shaken before his face, and he was enraged at the whole situation. For a second they both looked at each other in silence, and, as so often before, the girl felt that, if he chose, he had every right to command. To a man of inferior physical aspect, to one who had less influence on her senses, she could not in that moment of intense disappointment, of revolt and outraged feeling, have submitted. As it was, after that moment of silent rebellion, she laid down her rifle and turned away.

"There is no more to be said then: I will stay," she answered, in a low tone.

Everest's face softened. He followed her and put his arm round her neck.

"Dear little girl, you think me a brute, don't you? I will give up the expedition myself and stay with you. Do you wish me to do that?"

Regina looked up at him, her eyes were full of hot blinding tears.

"I shall be in an agony of suspense till you come back safely," she returned; "but I can't ask you to stay, I know how you would hate it—the other men thinking you perhaps wanted to get out of it and all that, or else that you had no will of your own and I had made you stay. As host and leader you can't well stay behind—you would feel it so."

The male nature in Regina made it easy for her to understand how hateful, nearly impossible, it would have been for Everest to stay in camp with the women while the rest of the party went out to the excitement of the hunt. The intense disappointment she suffered herself in foregoing this, the first really important, expedition with him, for which she had trained herself so patiently, made it easy to realise what his would be in missing the first opportunity for which they had all waited so long.

She turned and kissed his hand on her shoulder.

"Go, my dearest, as you wish; only come back to me safely."

When Everest left her and went back to the impatient men in the tent, his whole heart and soul seemed on fire with passion for her. He just looked into the dining tent as he passed, where Sybil was sitting quivering and pallid in her chair.

"You have got your way," he said curtly. "Regina has given up her own wishes to stay and look after you, but if this sort of thing is going to continue, the sooner you go home, I should think, the better. It is simple nonsense to join a hunt and then try and spoil the sport."

He felt so angry with her, she had spoiled the whole thing and prevented his having Regina with him, which he had really looked forward to. Above all, he was repelled by her weakness and cowardice. His passion leapt up for a woman who was courageous and fearless. There was something in himself that responded instantly to any heroic act or quality, and for the weak and timid he had nothing but a sense of aversion. Sybil was too cowed and too wretched altogether to reply. She could not find her voice and Everest went on his way to the gun tent.

"Hurray!" they shouted, as they saw him. "We thought you were never coming back. Well, what's the news?"

"Regina will stay," Everest answered quietly.

"She is a brick. You ought to have stayed, Merton, and let her come with us."

Merton only grinned and went on counting his cartridges.

Regina, left alone in her tent, sat down and pressed both her clasped hands on her knees. She was thinking of her love for Everest and how absolutely it made her his slave. She recalled the image of him as he had stood there a few seconds back, practically commanding her to stay in the camp, and realised how impossible it was for her to rebel against him as it would be impossible for her to refuse or deny him anything, as in fact it had always been from the first. And she was inclined to resent this taking away of her will-power and this feeling that it was beneath another's feet, but she was foolish to do so, for in the heart of worship of another is found the extreme of passionate pleasure. Above all she was fortunate, and this she did really feel grateful for, that the empire over her was in such hands as his. Everest was not a commonplace nor an ordinary individual. She had not that intensely painful humiliation of being conquered by an inferior. All her sense of wounded self-love and pride was tempered by her intense admiration of him; physically and mentally in every way he was worthy to command others and exact their obedience. Passion, the slave-driver, had at least made her over to a noble owner.

Immoral he might be called, but she would not say so, it did not seem to her the right word. She knew that almost nowhere, neither in the pages of history nor in the world, are there men to be found of great physical strength and energy combined with powerful mental equipment who have joined to them a rigid morality. That a vigorous and active male animal shall acquire all the unattached females in his vicinity is one of Nature's most general and fundamental laws, and Regina knew it, and that is why she had resisted and resented, as far as she had been able, the vicinity of camp-life that threw Sybil into constant contact with him.

And though he made her suffer frightfully for his own gratification, she did not blame him so blindly as another woman might have done, because she realised it was Nature's fault more than his—Nature who will not give that gift of intense vitality to a man without its accompanying dangers.

That vitality Regina loved and desired for her child. How she longed now to tell him he was the father of the little life that was forming within her! It was such a supreme happiness to her to know that she was bearing his child, something that would be perhaps the beautiful tiny image of himself. It would be a delight intensified if he knew it too. Perhaps, if she delayed, the pleasure of ever saying those happy words would be denied to her. Perhaps this very night he would be taken away from her, and then he would not ever have known that which once at least he had told her he desired so much.

She sprang to her feet, it was such a temptation to speak, to tell him, before he left this evening! But out of pure unselfishness she hesitated. If in reality he wished now after all to abandon her, to put his cousin in her place, she must, must, must leave him, as ever, free to do so, though it killed her.

He might already consider himself in honour bound to marry her, of that she could not be quite sure, but she was certain that he would feel bound if she told him she was to be the mother of his child.

No, she would wait still and be silent. Fate would perhaps reveal to her in some way, soon, the truth of things and how she ought to act.

She dismissed personal thought from her mind and began to gather some things together to take over to Sybil's tent. For, from the first, she had strenuously opposed the girl entering hers. This was the sanctuary of her and Everest's love. She would not have anyone to intrude there. The whole of the camp was public. She wanted one place at least where she could be secure of privacy. She had made a great point of this with Everest, and he had given absolute and stringent orders that neither Sybil nor anyone else was to disturb Mrs. Lanark in her tent. And Regina was grateful. She felt she could not tolerate the hateful presence of Sybil there. Everest was wonderfully good in matters like that, where so many men fail. If Regina expressed a wish, however little of importance it might seem to him, he exerted himself to have it carried out. He never pooh-poohed or waved away her request. If she wished it, that was sufficient. That same obedience he expected from her, he exacted from everybody else to the orders he gave for her sake. Regina was very grateful to him for this. It gave her a position in the camp that was very pleasant, and she knew intuitively that it was a rare quality in men. The small daily wishes of wives are generally, as in her father's case, politely but steadily ignored.

She cleared up the tent, and it was from Sybil's door, some two hours later, that both the girls saw the hunting party start, a small procession of camels, headed by the native guides, scouts and servants with all the necessary guns, ammunition, knives, flasks, water-bottles, flash-lamps, food-baskets, and all the rest of the necessaries for luxurious hunting.

Everest, having the arranging and planning of everything, mounted and started last and had moved a few paces already from the camp, the others being a little on ahead, when he paused and, drawing up the camel, told it to kneel down again, which it immediately did, for the tone of his caressing voice had the effect of reducing every camel he mounted to docility.

He never carried a whip or a goad, nor had the rein fastened in the nostril of the camel, relying entirely on his voice and magnetic influence over them to guide them. Nor had he ever struck an animal in his life. He used to say: "A man must be a fool if he can't manage an animal by his intellect," and it was a fact that they never disobeyed him.

Now Regina, watching him from the tent door, with tear-filled eyes, admired the easy skill with which he handled his camel and dismounted. She thought he had forgotten something and went forward to him. But Everest had only turned back for her. He clasped her to him and kissed her.

"My dear, good little empress," he whispered in her ear, as he bent over her, and Regina felt that he was pleased with her and her own heart grew hot with delight. She threw her arms round him with passionate fervour.

"My emperor! You know I would die for you," she murmured back.

Another moment and he had swung himself on to the saddle-cloth and the camel rose, to recommence its stately march. The moon was now high, and its light, clear and silver, flooded all the plain and illumined the string of moving objects. One of the men looked back and saw the incident.

"What's up?" asked St. John, who was close beside him. "Anything gone wrong?"

"Oh no, it's only Everest spooning as usual."

"Which one is it this time?" asked the doctor grimly, looking straight ahead of him.

"His wife, as it happens."

There was silence for a moment and then Graham said:

"But he's an awfully nice fellow. I don't wonder at the women all running after him, I should be in love with him myself if I were one. He's a marvellous person really. I don't believe he's ever lost his temper in his life, he's such tremendous command of himself. Animals are just as crazy about him as women. I saw him managing a horse, a vicious brute that no one else could get near. Everest was riding it and it began its tricks, it did everything to make a man in a rage, but Everest never turned a hair. He kept his seat just as if he'd been in an arm-chair, and talked to the animal the whole time and, by Jove! the horse seemed to understand him, he settled down and was as quiet and good as anything. Everest had never touched him once, except to stroke his neck; he'd no whip, no spurs, nothing. I expect that's how he manages his women, makes them do all he wants without a disagreeable word."

"Easy enough," mumbled the doctor, "when a man's so beastly good-looking."

Everest had just caught up with them, so they lapsed into silence, and the camels all sidled together and swung forward steadily into the silver silence of the desert night.

Regina, left behind, stood watching them diminish and diminish into distance with the blood racing madly in her veins and all her brain alight with anger. She did so long and yearn to be there, up beside him on the saddle-blanket, on the camel, swinging, swaying out into wide space, beneath that glorious, star-filled, infinitely arching sky. She loved being with him anywhere, and most of all riding, and on a camel.

The free, giant motion of the animal, the sense of strength and ease with which its great stride goes forward, bearing its burden high above the dust and impediments of the earth, sets the blood glowing and the pulses dancing, and she loved it. Here and now to part with him, to see him going to adventure, danger, risk she might not share, to be condemned to the hot, silent tent, to sit inactive there when all her eager, ardent frame was calling out for deeds, movement, action, hurt cruelly. Her brain was seething in fury and rebellion as she turned her steps slowly back to Sybil's tent.

"Come in and shut the door, do," came the latter's voice from within, peevish with fear. "I feel so frightened. I think they were brutes to go and leave us alone."

"I can't see what there is to be afraid of," returned Regina coldly, entering and letting down the tent flap.

Of another nature altogether, she had no fear of solitude, nor of the desert. She would have lain down anywhere on the sand, her hand on her rifle, her pistol in her belt, and slept like an English child in its cot at home.

"They are rather brutes, but they can't help it," she added absently, and sat down on a folding camp-stool, watching the other girl begin to undress.

The tent interior looked cosy enough, bright with red rugs on its sandy floor and a gilt-framed mirror swinging between the two narrow beds—for a second one had been put in for herself, as Sybil could not bear to be alone if Graham was no longer in the tent beside her.

"What are you afraid of specially?"

"Why, all these lions about!"

Regina laughed contemptuously.

"All these lions about! You talk as if we had been falling over lions and unable to get into our tent door for them!" she exclaimed. "As a fact, we've been here nearly two months and not seen one!"

"Yes; but that was in another camp. I do believe we've got into the districts now where they are. Regina," she added suddenly, "what does 'Hina' in Arabic mean?"

"'Hina' means 'here.'"

"I thought so; and 'henak,' what does that mean?"

"'Henak' means 'there,' 'over there,' 'at a distance.'"

"Well, that's just what I thought. Now I'll tell you what I heard those servants saying. They were talking about lions, because I know that word, and then one said: 'La, la mush henak, lekin hina, hina.' Now doesn't that mean: 'No, no, it's not over there but here, here'? And he got quite excited, and pointed just round the camp."

Regina looked grave.

"Why did you not tell the men?" she asked.

"I did, I kept telling them about it, but nobody would listen to me. Merton did ask the man something about it, but the others all swore the lions were over the ridge. You know how they jabber and how they contradict themselves and each other. My idea is, these horrid beasts are all round us," and she shivered. The light from the centre lamp fell on the fair, flower-like beauty of the girl, and as she let down the gold river of her hair the blood of her companion watching her seemed to turn into flame. She felt she would like to spring upon her and kill her, like the lions she was talking about.

"Well, if it's true, I am rather glad," she returned. "I'd much rather they would come and eat us up than Everest."

"Regina! How can you! You don't mean it!"

"Of course I mean it," she flashed out, with extreme passion in her tones, "to be here and know he is in danger, that's the worst agony I can have. I would give up my life for him any time."

"How wonderful!" returned Sybil, drawing off her shoes. "I couldn't care for a man like that."

"No, I don't suppose you could."

"Good-night, I shall try to go off to sleep and forget I am in this horrible place. How you stare, Regina! What's the matter? Won't you go to bed?"

"No; I shall sit up for a time. Go to sleep in peace. You are quite safe."

Sybil lay down on her bed, only drawing the rug partly over her. She had a loose thin flannel gown fastened round her waist and open a little at her neck in the hot night. It was very still within the tent, and without there was not a sound as the moonlit hours went by.

Regina sat like a statue, her elbow on her knee, her chin on her hand, watching the sleeping girl.

What mad, passionate thoughts came to her in their dark battalions and assailed her!

How beautiful it was, that delicate, ivory face, so exquisitely carved, as it lay against the white canvas pillow. It was no wonder that a man should covet it for his own, especially a man like Everest, with his artistic eye for perfect lines. He had always admired it enough to make him keep with him everywhere the blue velvet portrait-case he had had in his rooms at the Rectory. His sister had said that but for Regina he would have married her. But it was not true—Regina felt it was not true, that she never could have satisfied him—kept him—but yet, perhaps, beauty and name and breeding in his wife would have been enough, and for the rest, of all that is divine in humanity—passion and love and character—he would have sought in other women ... she did not know, her thoughts could only whirl round in dizzy, empty circles, outside the barrier of his implacable silence, as falling leaves might beat and whirl round a fortress wall. She knew nothing, and in the obscurity of another's feelings and passions there is no firm ground to stand on.

"It is not his fault, nor hers," she thought; "but oh! Fate! take her away from here, leave him to me again."

In the silence stirred a tiny sound, she heard it, and then, instantly, quicker than thought itself, the tent flap moved and a long yellow streak flashed by her and was upon the bed before her eyes.

One frightful shriek rang out, then the yellow flash passed by and was gone into the night, and the bed was empty where the golden beauty of the girl had been. Regina had sprung to her feet, but the lion had apparently not even seen her.

Almost like lightning, with a rapidity that no one can believe until he has seen it, the great beast had entered, seized its prey and gone.

For a second, Regina stood motionless. The blinding realisation came upon her that she stood alone in the tent and that her rival was gone from her to a certain death. Her invocation had been heard.

In that moment a view of her future came to her. She would be his, alone with him again, safe, secure, protected, loved, herself and her child. And all that was required of her was to do nothing. No one could blame her. Fate had come to her aid. Why should she not receive back her life and happiness at its hands?

The temptation came upon her and gripped her for a moment so that she could not move.

Then she picked up her rifle, jammed her pistol more firmly in her belt and went to the flap of the tent door and pushed it aside.

In the bright African moonlight she saw the form of the great yellow cat, trotting leisurely across the sand in the direction of a low ridge of sandhill, scrub and rock that lay towards the east, obliquely opposite to the direction in which the men had gone. The moonlight showed her clearly its victim flung over its shoulder for its convenience in long travel. She could see, too, it was a lioness, and these two facts made her think that the girl was probably uninjured. The lioness was out hunting, not for herself but for food for her cubs, and the prey was being carefully carried back to them. She could see there was no struggle. No screams broke the stillness. In helpless unconsciousness the girl was being borne away to a swift, inexorable death. And to the watcher at the tent door came again the great voice of Self and all the cries of the Flesh saying: "Let her go! It is not your part to save her."

She did not know how many servants had gone with the men; doubtless they had left some, but those probably not the most active nor the best shots. If she took the time to go to the back of the camp and find and rouse them, before anything could really be done in rescue the lioness would have disappeared. The natives would talk and gesticulate, weapons would probably not be ready, the time in which rescue could be effected would be lost. Yet Regina would appear to have done all she could, she would have roused the camp, she would have tried to get assistance; no one could expect a woman to go out on foot alone to face lions in the night, nor reproach her if she did not.

Regina would be guiltless and Sybil for ever unable to mar her life again.

But as there is a magnetic pole which draws all magnets to itself, so in this world there is that great indefinable Force of the Right which draws all noble natures always to itself. Where they see the Good and the Right gleaming ahead of them, there they must follow, though stones cut their feet and thorns tear their flesh. The Right, through everything, pulls them to itself. And it drew Regina's feet swiftly over the threshold of the tent now. Silently, quickly, gripping her rifle, she followed in the wake of the lioness. And Temptation walked beside her, trying vainly to suffocate her soul with its dark wings. She knew that in the effort before her she must probably surrender her own life, and the greatness of the sacrifice, the immensity of the demand made upon her appealed to her, called upon the heroism within her.

For some miles the lioness went on at the same easy trot, and Regina followed swiftly, but unable to shorten the distance between them. Then the yellow form began to spring and bound, and for a second now and then was lost to view, and her pursuer knew that she had reached the scrub by the rocks. Then the tawny form disappeared altogether and only the human figure remained, hurrying over the sand in the moonlight.

At last she reached the scrub amongst the rising sandhills and here she went very cautiously, searching for the mouth of the lair she guessed was hidden there. She stood still for a moment, listening for a sound to guide her. A faint scuffling noise came from a gully beside her, deep down between two black faces of rock and overgrown with stunted thorn and the disk-leaved cactus. Down, down through these, one step at a time, silently, holding her heavy rifle above her head to avoid the catching thorn, she descended. The moon, that had been obscured by a tiny cloud, broke suddenly again into full brilliance and she saw she was at the mouth of the cave.

Calm, cool, without a thought of her own life and beauty that she was taking to destruction, only filled with an intense determination to save another, she stooped down and entered the lair. The entrance was low, but worn smooth and easy of access, once reached, by the passing and repassing of a great body. Within the cave the floor was sandy, and the rock roof so near to it she could not stand upright, but had to move forward crouchingly, with bent knees. Through the obscurity of the inside she strained her eyes, and there, opposite her, far back from the entrance, she saw four green spots of phosphorescent fire against the rock background. She paused, holding herself very still. The warm, suffocating scent of the den filled her nostrils; she heard snuffing and scrambling noises, and then, as the darkness became more and more clear to her eyes, she descried the forms of two little yellow cubs tumbling over each other on some brush in the corner and snuffing at her with curiosity. The mother was not there. Regina looked round. On a ledge of rock jutting out from one side lay the unconscious form of her companion, her loose sleeping gown all gathered together by her neck, where the lioness had held her, but apparently otherwise untouched.

Regina's heart leaped up in a great sense of triumph. All personal feeling was lost and she was only intent now on her heroic duty to save.

As she had thought, the lioness had been out hunting, not for immediate food, but for the sake of filling up her larder, and having secured one victim, dissatisfied, perhaps, with the size of it, she had left it there and started out again to look for more.

Speed was the great necessity now! Regina felt that if she could get away from the den and cross the desert to the camp in time, her success was won. She turned to the rock and lifted the girl's limp body into her arms. One of the cubs ran out and snuffed and growled at her like a puppy and she nearly fell over its soft body as it waddled to the entrance with her. But in a moment more she stood upright outside and drew in a deep breath of the pure desert air.

Up, up through the brake and the tangle of tearing thorn and poisonous cactus, she ascended, panting with the burden of the girl and the rifle in her arms. She held her against her breast, one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees, and the rifle clasped flat along the girl's side in her right hand. How she blessed her splendid strength of limb and lung and muscle coming up that thorny, rocky path. The top of the sandhills gained, the worst was over, smooth and easy to travel lay before her the hard sand of the desert. Down from the sandhills in safety she stood now on the level and, breathing deeply, she started a steady, even walk over the moonlight plain. Her burden lay so still in her arms she feared the shock had killed her. But the body felt limp and warm; she could only hope she was merely unconscious. She walked on and the sweat in the hot night broke from her forehead and poured down her face, her knees trembled from fatigue. From behind a faint light of the coming dawn began to shine on the desert. Still very far in the distance she thought her strained eyes could distinguish the white peaks of their camp. Would the men have returned? Would he be there? How would—— Without her having heard a sound, there was a rush of wind past her, a blow on her neck and shoulders of something she could not see and the next instant she was flat on the sand, the body of the girl beside her, over which stood the lioness, growling and snuffing suspiciously. Confused by the scent of the den and the cubs, the animal paused there.

Regina scrambled to her knees, raised her rifle, took aim and fired, over the body of the girl, straight at the snowy breast of the lioness. There was a roar of agony and rage and the beast was upon her. Her bullet had found its heart, but it still had strength and time to take its vengeance. Without pain, for the girl was above the region of pain in that excitement that knows neither suffering nor fear, she felt its teeth close cruelly on her shoulder and break it, and its claws sink deep into her breast and back and tear the flesh. She turned her head away, cheek down to the sand, to save her sight, for she still had work to do, and so for a second remained motionless. The great beast's growling turned to long moans, slowly its teeth and claws relaxed. Then suddenly it rolled clear from her and lay still.

Regina picked herself up and stood, the blood pouring from her shoulder and chest, but the dauntless soul, strong and unbroken, determined to conquer.

With her left and uninjured arm she drew the girl's body up to her and walked forward, strong in that last great gush of vitality that Nature gives, opening all those reserves for which there is no future need.

Half-an-hour later, as the dawn came up over the ridge, she reached the camp.

Her eyes were dim, and vaguely she saw the press of figures, the fires, the standing camels. Her head was light and a strange singing filled her ears, but she heard the word "Regina" come in his voice to her, full of agony and love and passion, and she staggered towards him, livid, speechless, her clothing drenched with blood that still came slowly from her shoulder.

It seemed to her swaying vision that she was instantly surrounded by figures and faces, a thousand faces swam round her, her burden was taken from her, then came the roughness of sand to her cheek and lips as she fell, and then black unconsciousness.

The doctor and Everest knelt beside her; at his orders all the others fell back and the cool breeze that blows in the desert at dawn came to her unimpeded. With hands that did not show the slightest quiver, though the tension of agony in his brain was so great, it seemed as if it must break it, Everest loosened her cartridge belt and drew it from her.

"Good God! her right arm!" He exclaimed, as it fell unnaturally, broken, as he moved her and suddenly the words shot across his brain in its anguish, "if some love business does not cripple her."

The doctor forced a little brandy between her white lips, but she did not move, she lay there under Everest's eyes, the gay, radiant creature he had left, now crushed and senseless, a little heap of torn flesh and broken bones and blood-stained clothing.

It seemed to him that all the agony of a hundred lives of pain was forced into his brain at that sight.

"We must get this off," the doctor muttered, indicating the black and stiffening blouse; it was already torn down by the lioness's claws at the back, and the under-linen bodice and flesh and skin with it. St John and Merton, who were standing by, turned away, unable to bear the sight of all that white loveliness mangled and destroyed. Everest, pale as ashes, but perfectly calm, drew and cut away the stuff, piece by piece, with infinite skill and care.

No one seemed to think of Sybil; after the first hasty pronouncement of the doctor that she was alive and uninjured, she had been carried to her tent. Merton had given some orders about her, then he had come back to Everest's side, but Regina herself, as sense struggled back to her, asked as she first unclosed her eyes:

"Is she all right? Did I save her?"

"Yes, my sweet, my brave darling, you did," Everest answered, bending over her. Their eyes met, and a little smile played in hers as she saw the fire of love in his.

"I'm glad," she said faintly. The agony was intense now that action was over. Her eyelids quivered and then grew still as she lapsed into senselessness again.

Merton, who was watching her face, turned to St John and gripped his arm.

"Oh, St John, this is too horrible. If she dies what shall I do? Why did I leave Sybil with her?" His face was working convulsively. St John drew him away.

The sun was getting quite hot, in that instant way it has in Africa; as soon as its rays are well over the horizon they begin to burn.

The doctor wanted to get her into the shelter of the tent. As he touched her to raise her she groaned.

"Let Everest lift me," she murmured, and the doctor drew back.

"She can stand it better from you," he said to Everest, and the latter slipped his arm very gently under her and raised her. It was agony to be touched, frightful pain to be moved, but she was silent in his arms as he lifted her and carried her into their tent.

He laid her on the bed, on her unwounded side, and put a pillow to support the broken, useless arm, and then bent and kissed her as, in all their days of passion, he had not done yet. She saw in the anguish on his face at that moment his suffering, that he showed in no other way.

"Do not grieve so," she whispered. "I am so strong. I shall recover all right. Tell me, did you find any lion?"

He shook his head. "No, not where we went. That's why we came back. They were on this side."

"Then I did have the first shot at lion in this camp, as you said I ought to. How strange it all seems! I shot it out there to the east of the camp. I want you to have that skin. Will you send after it? Get it before it is spoiled, and always keep it. Everest, you know—I saved her—for you."

"I know, I know," he answered, and his voice told her the words were wrung out of his inmost soul. "But I only want you. It has all been a mistake, and I felt I could not explain. You are my very life, dearest, no one else is anything."

"Come, come, this won't do!" broke in upon them from the door. "No talking, no excitement, please."

The doctor had gone for his case of probes and dressings. He stood now with it in his hand and disapproval on his face. Everest moved a little from the bed.

"Leave me with the doctor for a moment," Regina said. "I want to ask him something," and Everest left the tent to give orders for the body of the lioness to be brought into camp.

As he came back from doing this, he came upon the doctor just leaving the tent and stopped.

"Will she live?" he asked, and the doctor thought in all his experience he had never seen so much suffering and anxiety on a person's face, combined with such perfect self-control and calm, and thought what a splendid pair they were.

"No one can say," he replied, "but I should think there is every chance of her doing so. I was just coming out to find you. This probing of the wounds is a most painful process, but it's extremely necessary; all our success depends on getting them clean. They are all choked up now with clotted blood and bits of linen driven in by the beast's claws. Your wife's just as brave as she can be, but she must suffer intensely. Your influence is so good over her, you'd better be present while I'm doing it: you soothe her, mesmerise her in some way, and that's better than an anÆsthetic. I believe she'd let you mince her up alive and never complain. It's a nasty business for you seeing it done, but if you can stand it, it's better for her."

"Of course I will," rejoined Everest. "I was coming back now to her," and both men entered the tent together.

It was a hideous scene of four long hours of suffering that followed, but suffering illumined by those noblest qualities in humanity that shine out like lamps here and there and throw their light across the stained pages of humanity's black record as a whole.

The girl never flinched nor groaned as the probes went deep into the long slashes from shoulder to waist made by the lion's claws, nor when the forced-in linen was drawn out from the wound above her breast, nor when her broken arm was handled and set. Of all the great horrible pain she was suffering the men were given no sign to increase their difficulty and labour.

Everest at first held her hand and spoke to her, putting to her lips from time to time the liquid the doctor ordered, but when the wounds were clean it was his strong, slight hand that, without a quiver of the muscles, replaced as far as was possible the torn fragments of flesh and strips of skin exactly and perfectly in their place in the hope that they would grow again, reunite and join without a serious scar. The union of brain between these two was so complete that, though Regina had not uttered any word on the subject, to Everest it seemed as if her whole body, as it lay there so broken and wounded, was crying out to him: "My beauty, my beauty! Save that if you can for the sake of our love." And the doctor watched with surprise the admirable skill and infinite care with which he pieced all the satin surface together. Some of the places were too deep to be treated in any way but stitched up, and this the doctor did himself. Then they dressed and bandaged the whole of the back and shoulder and breast and set and bandaged the broken arm, and only at the very last Regina quietly fainted as Everest kissed her and told her it was finished.

When she recovered consciousness she passed almost immediately into a deep sleep. She was so very, very tired and everything was done now, and he was pleased with her, so nothing mattered and the sense of suffocating heat in the tent as the noon rays poured down on the canvas, the buzz of the flies, the sight of the instruments and basins and bandages, the long ache and smart of her whole body, all these were blotted out as the soft, velvet darkness of sleep enfolded her.

The doctor turned to Everest.

"Now you must turn in and take a rest. Out riding all last night and then four hours of this. Tell them to send in that extra little bed here and then get a good sleep. If you don't you'll be done up and no good to nurse her."

"But it's the same for you, doctor," rejoined Everest, smiling. He was standing erect at the foot of the bed, without any sign of fatigue. "You've been without sleep as long as I have; you want a rest."

"Oh, nonsense. I'm not leading the life you are and taking it out of myself all ways at once. I'll get that bed in and then off to sleep you go. When you wake up you can watch her and let me doze a bit." And he went out.

A little later, when he had seen his two patients, as he called them to himself—for the pallor and extreme mental distress of Everest's face told him that, unless there were some alleviation of the strain, physical collapse must follow—asleep in the big tent, he crossed the strip of fiery sand to the two little white ones opposite of Sybil and her brother. He entered the girl's and found her white and shivering in her bed with the rug drawn up to her neck. Merton was standing beside her.

"Why doesn't Everest come to see me?" Sybil asked directly the doctor appeared. "It was all so awful for me. He might have come."

"Mr. Lanark has not had a moment in which to think of anything but his wife and her suffering; he's been working with me there for her these last four hours, and now I've made him go to bed. He's utterly exhausted with it all," the doctor answered, with some asperity.

"I don't believe I shall ever get over it," moaned Sybil, "that awful beast coming on to the bed. I think it's coming again every minute."

"You had better try and brace up, and not give way to your nerves like this," he returned. "Your friend shot the lioness, so you've nothing to fear from the same one anyway. You'd better get up and have some luncheon with the rest of us. There's nothing on earth the matter with you."

"Oh, doctor, how can you! You don't know what I feel! I couldn't eat! I want to see Everest. I am sure he would come if he were told." And her eyes began to fill with tears.

"I'll go and get him, Sybil; don't cry," exclaimed Merton, who resented a little the doctor's attitude to his sister. He approached the door, but the doctor barred his progress.

"You shall not go," he exclaimed angrily, "and disturb him now. I won't be responsible for his life, I tell you, if you drag him up from his sleep and bully him. Let your sister wait till the evening. If she has the smallest consideration for him she will do that at least."

The doctor was a great burly man and Merton could not get by him. He stopped sulkily and Sybil said:

"Don't go, Merton, I'll wait."

"I should think you would," grunted the doctor, "when you've caused all this trouble already!"

The contrasts of humanity, he was thinking—Regina in her agonies had declared they were not to worry about her, she was not suffering, she would soon recover. This girl, untouched, persisted in lying in bed and magnifying her little woes.

Regina's first inquiry had been for Sybil. Sybil never troubled herself once to ask about the one who had rescued her!

"Well, if you won't get up and lunch," he said aloud, "you'd best have a sleeping draught and try to go to sleep."

But Sybil did not want to be put to sleep, she wanted to lie and shiver and look ill and complain and talk about herself. So the doctor put the draught back in his pocket and went off to the dining tent, where he found St John, and the two men sat down to luncheon alone.