"Le jeu est fait, rien ne vas plus!"

He was gone, and Arithelli was back in the hut again, and now the worst of it all was still to come. If Vardri was to have a fair start she must wait out the hour alone, realising every moment of the time what awaited her at the end of it.

A mad impulse seized her to rush up the steps to the loft, interrupt the meeting, defy them all and boast how she had schemed her lover's escape, and laugh at them and their plots, goad them into shooting her at once and finishing it all quickly. She felt that she could not endure any more suspense and strain. Anything would be better than this interminable, awful waiting in the semi-darkness and loneliness, with neither friend nor lover at hand, no single human to take her part or defend her. Emile had gone and now Vardri, and she must face everything alone. If she waited Vardri would have perhaps half an hour's grace and while they were dealing with her it would give him still another few minutes, and every minute counted.

She fought down the temptation, and began to move about, speaking to the mules and, horses, taking down saddles and bridles. She must not be too quiet, or they might suspect something, and come down sooner to see if she were still there. She must pretend to be busy, play out the play to the end.

She unhooked the lantern from its nail and placed it on the ground, and then stood still again to listen.

The smothered hum of voices grew louder overhead. It stopped suddenly, and she could only hear Sobrenski's slow, incisive tones. No doubt they were listening to him as to one inspired while he preached his gospel of destruction. Arithelli shivered, pressing her hands over her ears that she might shut out the sound of that hated voice that had bidden her outrage her sex.

She stumbled towards the bed of hay, still warm with the impress of her own figure, and flung herself upon it face downwards and lay there whispering to herself over and over again Vardri's name as one whispers a charm.

Would he forget her one of these days and marry someone else? Had it been real, anything of this that she had lived through during these months in Spain? Was she still that same "Arithelli of the Hippodrome" who had come gaily into Barcelona with her ridiculous dresses and her belief in herself and her career? She had known an hour of love and passion, and that had been worth all the rest Emile had always told her that people were not meant to be happy long ici-bas. She must pay now for her hour. The gods were angry and must have a sacrifice.

After she had been out in Barcelona only a week, Emile had taken her to one of the gambling-hells of the place, where the lights and mirrors and gilding hurt her tired eyes, and the croupiers called incessantly through the strained silence, "Le jeu est fait. Rien ne vas plus!"

It was like that with her now, "Le jeu est fait." How that sentence heat in her brain! She wondered if she were becoming delirious. Then she was on her feet, and her hand went to the Browning pistol at her belt. Sobrenski's figure had appeared at the top of the ladder. He was shading his eyes with his hand, and peering forward into the gloom. Only one of them there! The girl or Vardri, which was it?

Then the whole place was in darkness, for Arithelli had overturned and extinguished the solitary lamp. The excited whinny of a horse mingled with the sound of two shots fired in rapid succession, a rustling noise among the hay, a groan, and silence. Before he set foot on the ladder Sobrenski shouted to the rest of the conspirators to bring a light. He did not wait to look at the prone figure, but made straight for the door. His business it was first to see whether his quarry were still in sight.

All the other men were hustling each other in a hasty descent. "Que diable!" one of them said. "What is it now? A spy?"

The man who had lowered Arithelli from the window of the house in the Calle de Pescadores, made his way first to where Arithelli lay and stood beside her. He could only see dimly the outline of a figure which might have been either that of a man or woman. "Bring a light here," Valdez called impatiently. "Which of them is it?" Though he was a revolutionist he was still a human being, and he had always been as sorry for her as he had dared allow himself to be, and he hoped it was not the girl. Another man came up carrying a lantern, and flashed the light on what rested motionless at their feet. Arithelli lay on her face as she had fallen. Her hair streamed over her shoulders and mingled with the dark folds of the cloak. The hand that still held the pistol was flung wide.

"It's not Vardri," the other man said. "Is it—?" Sobrenski cut across the question. "A traitor," he said. "What does it matter about the name? Get back all of you and see to the horses. There should be two of them and there's only one here. We've got to find the other one."

With a sudden brusque movement Valdez knelt down, turned the limp body over, and rested the head upon his knee. "Pardieu!" he ejaculated as he let it fall gently back. "It's FatalitÉ!"

*******

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