A NARROW strip of haze above the western horizon obscures the coastline and dims the burning rays of the setting sun. The blood-red ball, just visible above that indefinite line where ocean, sky and land might meet, burnishes the lazy leaden waves of the sea, oily and sluggish as if affected by the oppressive heat. Purples and blues, reds and greens vie with each other in a seeming desire to extinguish the burnt orange which fades but slowly and reluctantly. Everywhere reigns the deep dusky yellow heat, with an utter absence of either sound or motion.

It is as if a thick sheet of glass had been interposed between the observer and the rest of creation, with nothing tangible, nothing real except the one all-prevailing sensation of oppressive heat.

The P. & O. liner gliding through the fiery molten bronze seems as if it were “a painted ship on a painted sea”; its motion barely perceptible, like that of a phantom ship, the wake in its path but a feeble streak in the dull coloring, and the funnels reluctantly and faintly releasing a timid cone of hazy smudge.

Dimly outlined against the Northeast the slowly receding line of grayish ochre marks the mute sentinels of Arabia; to the West a heavy bank of sienna-edged clouds veils the shore of Dana Kill and the African hill desert.

On the aft deck are grouped in nondescript neglect a few men in the uniforms of British East India troops. A stolid, swarthy Sikh and some lean Bengals with their patient, gentle eyes, clad in filthy though picturesque garments, huddle in the shade of dirty awnings. Forward, the solitary figure of the watch drowsily moves with halting nerveless steps in the narrow confines of his little realm. All is pervaded by quiet and repose, a sort of fatalistic waiting for the cooler evening.

A man reclining in a steamer chair on the hurricane deck is the one human being on the upper structure of the vessel. He is a slender sunburnt man past middle age with commanding features and a close-cropped beard flecked with gray. He is well groomed in immaculate white flannels. The half-hidden gray fathomless eyes, created to observe and to remain discreet, the fine mouth closely compressed, the long slender hands idly crossed on his knees, he sits seemingly as if in a dream.

He strikes a close observer as one who could not easily be overlooked in any gathering. His face would remain in the memory—a face of one born to direct the thought and work of others, to lead and command. It shows the marks of the inroads of time and care, the severe pallor of weariness beneath the tan of exposure. His posture betrays the soldier beaten in life’s battle.

A nearby cabin door is opened and a pleasant-faced young man in the uniform of a ship’s officer steps toward the dreamer.

“How do you feel on this hot afternoon, Your Excellency?”

The dreamer turns with a smile and replies, “Very well indeed, but a little lazy. Won’t you sit down a minute, doctor?”

“Thank you, Excellency.” Dr. Brown, the ship’s surgeon, with a little nervous motion and a quiet apology, draws a camp-stool near and seats himself facing the older man.“I have completed the examination and analysis which my limited equipment permits, Count. I have read up the case and I should like to make my report. You know that my practice of late years has been restricted to the traveling public, but I feel I am competent to diagnose fairly accurately.”

“My dear doctor, I have the fullest confidence in your judgment,” with a deprecating gesture.

“I should say that owing to your sojourn in that confounded India your case has been considerably aggravated and has become more severe; it is not now acute or at all serious, but requires careful attention. Avoid excitement and do not undertake anything which will strain your physical powers. I regret that I must be strict with you with regard to your diet and habits. But when you arrive at Brindisi, go to Karlsbad, and in a few weeks you’ll be well enough to take up the affairs of your country.”

“Thank you, doctor. But to me time means the trust and perhaps the fate of others. It is, therefore, more than a question of self. Doctor, how long do you give me?”

The doctor flushed and looked pained. “Count, you must believe what I have said. I will not hide from you that you are in a serious condition but—once you get on land and out of this floating inferno, you’ll be as well as ever, I think. Don’t attempt to do too much now and don’t worry.”

“Thank you most sincerely, doctor. Well, I suppose even a diplomat can live plainly and give up wine and tobacco.”

He bade the doctor a pleasant “au revoir” and sauntered toward the ship’s side. In deep thought he leaned against the railing, gazing into the now fiery sienna of the horizon. The smile on his lips faded, his assumed indifference had left him. Deep lines of care contracted his brow and the eyes looked troubled and sad.

A quick step and a cheerful voice called out heartily, “Good evening, Excellency! Dreaming or thinking—or both?”

Heavily set, smooth-faced and jovial, Captain Pollard of the ship walked toward him.

“My dear Captain, I am only too glad to have you break in on my dreams. They were not the rosiest just now, even though the evening looks beautiful enough to charm an anchorite.”

The Captain nodded his head. “That red sky is rather a promise of another hot day for to-morrow, Count. In a few hours we’ll be in the Red Sea, the furnace of creation. I am afraid to-morrow will be a broiler. Look, Count, there to our left is the Ras SÉan with the cloud wreath on top of him. In an hour we shall be in ‘Bab El Mandeb,’ the Gate of Dirge of the Arab. Gloomy premonition, I call that. We are going fine and are ahead of our schedule.”

“All right, Mr. Malone, what is it?” This to the officer of the deck who was rapidly approaching.

“The pilot is signalling from Tadshurra Bay, sir. Shall I slow down, Captain?”

“Very well, sir, glad to get him promptly. What is the boat’s number?”

“Seven, sir.”

“Good, that is old Abdullah, a good sailor and a fine fellow. Report when he gets aboard, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

The officer hurried away and shortly after the siren gave two short blasts and the boat lost headway.

“May I join you for a bit, Count?” Captain Pollard took the stool vacated by the doctor following the gesture of polite assent of the Count.

“The doctor’s report left a bad taste in your mouth, eh? If you don’t mind, I’d like to say a few words more on this same subject, your Excellency.”

The Captain stuck his hands deeply into his coat pockets, looking straight at the Count. “You are an old soldier and a gentleman who knows the world, Count. Dr. Brown came to me this afternoon somewhat worried. He doesn’t want to scare you needlessly but neither does he intend you should get off the boat a sick man. He is probably a little over-cautious. Now, just to please us all, let him look after you until we land. There is nothing more trying after a residence in India than the passage we have ahead of us for the next five or six days. Do as Dr. Brown advises and when you get home send him a nice letter telling him he was right. Is it a bargain?”

“My dear Captain, it certainly is; and I appreciate your interest very much and won’t fail you and the good doctor.”

He had regained his smiling manner: “Captain, why are we men such restless wanderers? You could settle down in your nice little cottage at Bournemouth, draw your pension, trim your apple trees, read your old friend Marryat, chat with Mrs. Pollard and curse the Liberal Party; and I—I could write my memoirs, raise tulips and roses and blooded sheep, sneer at the Radicals and Progressives, and criticize the weak policy of the Hapsburgs! What fun we could have, Hein?”

“Your Excellency, I guess we both do what we believe to be our duty. Neither of us is good at idling, I think, and our work is our life. Some day I might do as you say—but I hope that day is a long way off,” with a merry chuckle.

A crunching sound against the ship’s side and the pilot’s dingy pulled by two powerful negroes had come alongside. With the pilot two other figures were visible in the dim light. The nimble, old, beturbaned Arab pilot, with broad red sash around his ample waist, swung himself aboard, the two men following him.

On the upper deck the conversation which had lagged during this busy interval was further interrupted by the approach of a steward in search of the Captain.

“Two passengers boarded with the pilot, sir. One of them requests permission to speak to you for a minute, Captain.”

“Has the purser seen him?”

“Yes, sir; but he asked for you; he says you know him.”

“Very well, send him up.”

The steward left and shortly after a heavily bearded, well-set-up, broad-shouldered man, in rather shabby linen blouse and baggy trousers, a pith helmet in hand, walked towards the Captain. In the rapidly failing light the deeply tanned features with calm eyes and pleasant smile were just visible. With hand outstretched he stepped up to the group and in a hearty voice exclaimed: “How do you do, Captain Pollard! I was most anxious to meet an old friend again and couldn’t wait. Don’t you remember me, Captain? The clothes and beard make it hard, I guess. I am John Morton.”

“Why, bless my soul, I wouldn’t have known you! My dear Mr. Morton, I am delighted to see you!” He shook the visitor’s hand heartily.

“My, but you do look like a globe trotter—and one that has done some trotting! It is good to shake hands with you once more and to have you on the ‘Hindoostan.’”

“I am, indeed, glad to have the chance to get your boat, Captain. From my last camp the bay was easier to make than the upper Nile, and when I found at Aa-nin that you were expected to-night, I made a run for the shore and was just in time for the pilot’s sloop. I haven’t been near civilization in eighteen months, Captain! I have with me my man, Donald, whom you may remember. He looks, if anything, even worse for wear than I. May I see you again after the cleaning-up process, Captain?”

“Certainly, my dear Mr. Morton. I shall be delighted if you will honor me. I am as curious as an old magpie to hear what brought you here of all spots in the world! Are you nicely placed aboard?”

“Yes; thank you.”

He made a movement to withdraw but Captain Pollard took him by the arm and led him towards the Count.

“Your Excellency, will you permit me? This is Mr. Morton, an old friend of mine, an American gentleman who is quite a traveler and explorer—his Excellency Count Rondell.”

“Happy to make your acquaintance, Your Excellency; I trust you will pardon my appearance.”

“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Morton. Don’t apologize. You look fit and ready for good sport.”

The men shook hands. Morton stepped back: “Gentlemen, permit me to retire. I trust I shall have the honor later, Your Excellency.”

“There goes one of the finest young men,” said the Captain, looking after the rapidly retiring form, “a man in a million, Count.”

“He looks keen and strong; a bold man and true,” gently said the Count with almost a sigh. “Sportsman?”

“I don’t quite know, Count. I think he went out to explore the Soudan and the Blue Nile country, if I remember correctly. He comes of a very fine family—a man of rare good judgment and the very man to have around when trouble is brewing. Some time I will tell you how I met him. If you’ll permit me, Count, I’ll now look up that pilot. We are getting under way. Good evening, Excellency!”

“Au revoir, Captain. I shall have to interview the chief steward and see if Dr. Brown will allow me another meal to-day.”

Now that he was once again alone, the Count forgot the evening meal, forgot the steward and the man he just had met—he had weightier matters on his mind. This man of the world, trained to think while chatting and seemingly enjoying small talk—this old diplomat realized that he had arrived at a parting of the ways. The oppressive heat of earlier day had yielded somewhat to the gentle breeze rising from the ever-nearing mountainous shore. A brilliant crimson band silhouetted sharply the deep purple of Ras SÉan, the bluish haze half hid the frowning abrupt cliffs of Perim Island; the first twinkle of the lighthouse shone like a firefly, coming and going in rhythmic flashes. To the north the broad dome of Disohebel MenghÉli rose high, the towering guardian of the strait, the dread of the unwary skipper. Over the ultramarine hills rose the red moon of the silent East, mysterious and alluring, the light of the romantic night. Count Rondell, obeying the promptings of weary limbs, sank into his seat and gazed as if fascinated into the glory of the tropical eve.

The world was so beautiful and life so promising! Moments of the years gone by passed in rapid succession through his mind; the days of youth and hope—the years of ambition and fulfillment. The shadows of beloved faces rose to disappear; the joy of deeds performed, the regret of acts omitted. As in a panorama he saw his life over again and lived it once more.

A flock of buzzards flying across the hazy light of the moon that looked for all the world like a flattened giant orange, by a curious disconnection of the phenomenon so well known to him, awoke him to the present; to the warning he had received, to the call of a life which was to end. A slight tremor passed over the frame of the man, who seemed to have aged considerably within the last hour.

The training of decades, the inbred desire to suppress thoughts and control the mind, supervened. He lightly passed his hand over the smoothening brow, caressing the thick hair upon his temple and the old gentle smile appeared again in his eyes. “Well, I have run a long race—and on the homestretch I am beaten. Vivat sequens!” he whispered to himself.

He rose and walked freely to the rail, contemplating the wondrous evening, admiring the marvelous light effects in the now rapidly darkening sky. He gazed at the minute wavelets springing from the sides of the boat and spreading their gory crests endlessly toward the east, ever widening and disappearing in purplish black shadows. The first stars as if by magic had leaped upon the zenith, new born, blinking mockingly to him.

A smile gentler than before illuminated the fine features. “God is great, nature is full of wonders, and I shall not cry quits and sulk. There is work before you, my boy, work and duty. And when that is done, my beloved, I shall be glad to join you.”

With a deep sigh and a proud smile he wearily turned toward the line of cabins from whence a light step now proceeded.

His valet came forward, cap in hand. “Your Excellency, dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Will you not come to your room, sir?”

“Very good, Jean; but I believe I shall not dress to-night. I am fatigued and I expect no one else will. Just a little touching up and a dark coat and scarf. I shall follow you.”

Musing, he turned once more to the waters which had lost their mirror-like smoothness upon entering the narrow channel. Before him rose the escarpment of Perim’s forts, with their twinkling lights; the breeze carried to his ears the bugle call from the barracks, the one discordant sound in the serene stillness of the fairy landscape.

“Gate to an ocean—England will hold it,” he muttered. “Passage to power and trade—Albion will rule it. Other nations may strive and plan, dream and scheme, but Albion takes and holds. I wonder if, when my last call comes, I shall find a Briton guarding the Pearly Gates? Well, I have done the best I could for my king and my country. I must not grudge the men who have done theirs for their queen and land—and with more glorious and happier results. The race is to the swift, the laurel to the victor, glory to the lucky! L’homme propose, Dieu dispose!”

He gave one more look round, turning in all directions, and then slowly left the deck.

The moon had risen above the haze and shone a lustrous brightness. The sky, a deep unfathomable marine, was dotted with countless blinking stars; the shimmering sea was scales of silver; the hum of giant machinery throbbed on the balmy air. It was a night so glorious that one doubted if there could be anything but beauty and happiness on earth.

And yet—how much misery and sorrow, pain and tears are mingled with joy in life! The lure of the East, the mystery of dreamed-of Eden and with it strife and labor! The nobility of creation, the pettiness of life; the loveliness of nature, the emptiness of man’s efforts.

Five bells—the Vesper on shipboard.The muffled call of the Muezzin from the nearby minaret of Perim town drifted across the silvery stream.

And the bells, re-echoing from fore and aft, seemed to call out: “All’s well, good night!”