That same evening, late, when the moon was pouring silver over the encampment and over the level plain, and the pink and orange ridges of rocky hills that lay to the west and east, and the air was cool and still, Everest and Sybil sat in the latter's tent, of which the flap was securely shut and tied. They were alone. The girl was dressed now, and sitting on a folding-chair. She looked pale, and her face was tense with anxiety, her eyes distracted.

Everest sat opposite her, restored by his long sleep, calm and entirely composed. On his face was an unusual expression of severity: it looked implacable, absolutely immovable, like a countenance of stone. Sybil clasped her hands and wrung them together in her lap.

"Oh, Everest, don't say such things," she said, in a low tone. "Don't say you won't marry me—any time. Not just now, I know you can't—not for some time, perhaps, but promise you will some time—when we are back in Europe, say. It is so dreadful to me to think of—of—all that has happened, if we are not to marry after all."

"Why did you seek such a position, then?" he asked, looking across at her steadily; and she, meeting the gaze of those large eyes full of fiery darkness like the African sky at midnight, felt her soul sink and faint in a mingled anguish of shame and despair and hopeless longing for him.

"You knew that I was with a woman I loved, and who loved me. Why did you come and try to force yourself, as you did from the first, between us?"

"I felt sure you were not married. Regina was only one of all the many women you have had with you for a time. She would have to give way to any woman you wanted to marry."

Everest's face grew still more set and cold, if that were possible.

"You see you chose to assume all that, and assumed wrongly," he said quietly, and his tones were like falling ice. "Had you accepted the idea that we were married you would have been wiser. Regina is virtually my wife. I should never place any other woman than her in that position. I shall be glad if you will try to grasp that now."

Sybil, unable to bear his gaze, his voice, beside herself with wretchedness, burst into tears.

She slipped from her chair to the floor and put her hands pleadingly on his knees.

"You can't mean it, Everest, I am sure you don't. It would be the wrecking of my life."

Everest's face did not change; he looked down upon her unmoved. She was very beautiful, but in that moment he did not even admire her. The passion for Regina, stirred now into a great blaze, seemed literally to hide this girl from him; moreover, she had deceived, entrapped and was now trying to coerce him.

"Do you not see that if I did marry you it would mean the wrecking of Regina's life?"

"I have not to think or care about Regina!"

"Did she not think of you when she followed you into the lion's cave? You would not be living at all now but for her. For you she is lying there in agony, maimed and mutilated, that you may be here safe, and you talk of not having to think of her!" His voice shook with anger.

"Rubbish! She didn't do it for me, she did it for you."

This was perfectly true, but it was the worst thing she could have said in her own cause. It came over Everest with heartrending force, the truth of it. Regina had done it for him. For him she was now lying crushed and broken, with all her glorious vitality laid by perhaps for ever.

"For me, well, then, yes, for me; and you want me to desert her in return, to consider you before her. You talk of my duty to you when she has all but given up her life for me! I have no duty whatever to anyone, except to her!"

"Nonsense, Everest; you know it's no use to talk like that. You must marry me now after what has occurred. You knew very well I considered myself engaged to you or I should never have allowed it."

"Allowed!"

Everest only uttered that one word. His face was very pale; his lips compressed into one hard line; his brows contracted. Vividly the whole scheme of the last two months stood before him; like a raised map in black and white relief. The coming of this girl and her brother to join their expedition, their insistence on being in the same camp with him, the daily, hourly companionship she had forced upon him, the persistent court, the final deliberately compromising situations, the seduction of his senses, the difficult overthrow of his reason.

As in Regina's case he had taken all blame to himself, and knew that he had abused her innocence and trusting love, so here his conscience absolutely acquitted him.

Just then the string of the door flap was pulled undone from the outside, the flap pushed aside and Merton came in. It seemed to Everest as if his coming had been arranged beforehand. Sybil rose and sat back in her chair. Everest did not move. Merton looked from one to the other.

"I can guess what you've been discussing," he said rather awkwardly. "Look here, Everest. Sybil has told me everything, and I really do think you ought to do something about it."

"What would you propose my doing?" returned Everest coldly, looking steadily at Merton, who flushed uncomfortably under the older man's gaze.

"Well, marry her, or promise to marry her when we all meet again in Europe, because I suppose we'll have to break up now. She's had such a shock she wants to get out of this, and I imagine you'll be tied here some time yet; but I'd like some understanding as to what you're going to do before we leave."

"I have already told your sister I can do nothing."

"But you know, it's all very well," remonstrated Merton hotly; "we're cousins, and you have some responsibility to her. She says you have been intimate, that you forced her——"

Everest rose from his chair with a sudden movement.

"You believed that—of me?" he asked, and Merton shrank under his eyes and tone.

"I don't know what to believe," he said sulkily.

"Will you repeat that accusation, Sybil, in my presence?" he asked, turning to her, but Sybil could not raise her eyes. She turned scarlet and looked down on the camp-table beside her.

"No, no," she faltered hurriedly, "I never said exactly that. Merton must have misunderstood."

A look of contempt passed over Everest's face as he turned again to Merton in silence, his eyes seemed to say, "You see what a liar she is."

"Will you admit your relations with her?"

"If Sybil wishes me to, yes, I admit that, otherwise I should never have admitted it to anyone."

"Then you owe her some reparation."

"I owe her nothing," rejoined Everest, with some heat. "It was a mutual amusement, and she understood perfectly from the very first it was not, and could not be, anything more. I decline to discuss the matter any further. It is done, over. As far as I am concerned it is effaced from my mind. What do you want, Merton? Do you want a duel with me over it, or what?"

"No, oh no, of course not," Merton replied hastily; "that can do no good. I want you to promise to marry her some time, next year, say. Why not, Everest? It has always been thought and talked of in our families, and Sybil has as much as you have. We have all hoped you two would marry."

"I refuse absolutely. You must be made of stone if you can talk of my marrying your sister when the woman I love is between life and death because of her devotion and self-sacrifice. Sybil would not be here at all to make her mad charges and demands but for her. She is my wife, or will be as soon as I can make her so. It is useless to go on talking. Let me pass."

Merton moved from the door and Everest, without a glance at Sybil, went out.

Coming out of her tent, white with anger and vibrating with an indignation he could not repress, little as his general impulse was to condemn others, he ran almost against the doctor who was coming from Regina.

"How is she?" he asked. "Is she out of danger now? For God's sake tell me she is."

"Don't excite yourself so; yes, yes, she is out of all danger, humanly speaking. I see no reason why she should not quite recover. Of course her condition complicates matters a little, but, as far as one can judge, she is going on very well indeed."

Everest stared at him.

"Her condition? But she was in splendid health when this happened!"

The doctor stared in his turn.

"Health? Oh yes, but I was alluding to her state—being enceinte, I mean."

Everest paled till he was whiter than the drill he was wearing.

"Is it so?" he asked, after a second's blank gaze at the not too friendly face regarding him, "and she—did she know it herself?"

"Oh yes; I should think so, undoubtedly. Yes, I know she did, for the first thing she asked me when we were alone was, would all this make any difference to the child."

"And what did you say?" Everest asked, with difficulty; his throat seemed dry; a cramp stretched round his heart.

"I told her no one could say, but quite possibly it would make no difference since it was so near the beginning."

"Why did she not tell me?" asked Everest blankly, incredulous still.

"Perhaps she thought it wouldn't be welcome news," grunted the doctor grumpily. He had scant sympathy with Everest's conduct as regarded his cousin, though he had shown such genuine and passionate devotion towards Regina to-day that the doctor was inclined to be lenient.

"May I see her now? Go to her?" Everest asked.

"Yes. She's had a splendid sleep, the best thing in the world for her. Only don't let her talk too much, or excite her in any way."

Everest nodded in assent and went on. A strange feeling of delight, of triumph, of joy in his possession of her, filled suddenly his veins. And she had known it all this time and had not told him! Even, he remembered, she seemed to equivocate a little once when he had questioned her.

He came into the tent with a quick step. The moon rays, softened by the white canvas through which they streamed, filled the interior with pale light, and a small lamp burned at the side of the tent under a shade. Regina was lying with her head raised on a couple of pillows and the soft masses of her fair hair fell over the edge of the bed and in its long waving lines to the floor. The bandages disfigured her upper arm and shoulder, but the other, bare in the intense heat, showed warmly white above the blanket. The extreme pallor of her face threw up in new beauty the sweeping dark lines of her brows and the wide-open, light-filled eyes. She was looking towards the door and saw him enter. His cheek was flushed, his eyes kindling and full of fire. He looked like a man who had drunk exhilarating and unaccustomed wine. He crossed to her. He did not dare to lift her, not even touch her as he longed to do, to crush her to him. He bent over her.

"My very, very own, my life, my soul! I am so glad."

She also did not dare to move her body, but she lifted her bare left arm and put it round his neck.

"Are you?" And her eyes grew radiant and full of intense passion as they searched his face in the tender light. "I could not tell—now—and under all the circumstances ... I thought it might only seem a tie to you, but oh! if you are glad, Everest, I cannot tell you the delight it is to me! To know that I am to have a child by you—the most perfectly beautiful thing I have ever seen!"

"You will marry me now, won't you, for its sake anyway?"

"Not for its sake, no, only for yours, if you really wish it. Do tell me the truth, Everest, it is so important for all the rest of our lives. Do you wish, would you like Sybil in my place?"

"Sybil! Never mention her name to me," he said, while the blood surged all across his face and then left it white again. "I hate it, loathe it and everything connected with her. I hope I may never see her again. I only want to blot out the detestable memory of her! Is that enough for you?" he asked passionately. "Do you want me to say any more?"

Regina lifted her left hand in protest.

"It is quite enough, kiss me, let us forget it all."

There was silence in the tent for a little while. Over the girl from head to foot seemed to flow a deep peace and joy like some magic balm, lulling every pain and every doubtful thought. The great loss of blood she had suffered produced in her a physical tranquillity, an attitude of mental acquiescence.

It was different with Everest. The long sleep had quickly repaired the strain of the previous hours, he was in perfect physical condition, the blood flowing at full tide and pressure in his veins and his whole brain was on fire with anger and irritation under Sybil's accusations. His whole being seemed in a violent turmoil, and on the crest of the storm within him rode like a white seagull, joyous and buoyant, the thought of his child—the last idea that had been thrown so unexpectedly into his mind, the final shock in the whole series of that terrible day, and through all the tempest of his brain it seemed to flash in and out among the storm-clouds on its white and glorious wings. He had always loved Regina more deeply than any other woman—she had all those qualities which appealed to every strain in his own nature, and now to him their love and passion and union seemed complete. This last action of hers in saving Sybil was one a man might be proud of, and it had not been done by a man but by the woman he loved, and while she was bearing his child, and the two facts, intertwisted as they were, seemed like a double steel cable binding him to her in the most passionate devotion.

He passed his arm under her head amongst the soft waves of her hair, and she seemed to feel the vibration of all the eager tumult of emotion in him pass through it. She raised her eyelids with a quick smile.

"It is such good news, such a pleasure to me. Why did you not tell me sooner if you knew?" he questioned wonderingly.

Brought up in the knowledge of and accustomed to ordinary women, he could not grasp entirely the heroic greatness of this girl's nature.

"My dearest, I could not tell you at a time when you were leaning towards separation from me. It would have seemed like trying to tie you to me against your will, to make some claim upon you, which I would never do." Her head turned restlessly on his arm. The light flooding her face showed it pale and drawn with pain.

"But it makes such a difference," he pursued. "Even if it did not affect my wishes and desires, my duty would be——"

Regina looked up with a smile in her eyes, so darkened by suffering.

"Oh, Everest, what has duty to do with passionate love like ours? Once before you thought it your duty to marry me, and I would not have it. Don't you see that I want you to be happy? That is all I care about. Do your duty to the world, to others if you like, but do not think of it where I am concerned. Let it be all passion, pleasure, desire, with me or—nothing."

"But then there would be another to be considered, provided for, my sweet. Did you think of that?" Everest rejoined very softly.

"I knew I could always make much more money than I want for myself, the child could have had the rest."

Her voice was very faint, the light showed the drops of sweat standing out on her ashy forehead.

Everest bent over her.

"Are you in pain now?"

"Oh yes; I ache, I ache in every fibre; it is the constriction of lying so long without moving; but you must not worry about it; there will be such lots of it to bear!"