It was close upon sundown when Michael and Millicent got back to the camp. Abdul had come a little way to meet them. To an observant eye, the calm of his Eastern countenance showed some anxiety. Millicent did not see it. Michael was riding on ahead when Abdul met him. Abdul turned his mule and rode by his master's side.

"You have something to tell me, Abdul?"

"Aiwah, Effendi, I have something to tell you."

They increased the space between themselves and the camels which were following them in Indian file. Abdul spoke in Arabic, as he always did to his master. When he had confided his secret to Michael he lapsed into silence. The Effendi looked very grave. The news was far from pleasant.

"You need not tell Madam," Michael said. "Not until you are quite sure, Abdul. It will only alarm her."

"Aiwah, Effendi, I gave it to your ears alone."

"How is he?" Michael referred to the saint.

"His temperature has fallen—head no longer aches. That is always the case."

"You have done all that is necessary?"

"All I could do, Effendi. Madam has good medicines, praise be to
Allah! We can be hopeful."

They rode on to the camp in silence. Michael's thoughts were busy. What would Millicent say? Would she be afraid? The idea was not pleasant.

When they had dismounted Michael went at once to see the saint and Millicent hurried off to her tent to change her dusty garments for daintier ones. She was still penitent and half-ashamed. Who knows but that Michael's efforts to help her were already beginning to bear fruit? If thoughts can purify, Millicent's heart should have been as fair as a white lotus flower whose roots are in the mud. Michael's thoughts had baptized it.

When she had tidied up and was beautifully fresh in her snow-white muslin frock, she went outside and waited for the dinner-gong to sound. Even that item of civilization had not been forgotten—it is true it was only a drum, an earthen darabukkeh, but it filled its purpose well. Its dull thud, thud, had scarcely ceased vibrating the air when Michael appeared. As he came towards her, Millicent went to meet him. He had not yet changed his day clothes.

"Don't come near me!" he called out. "Not any further."

"Why not?" Millicent said. "What's the matter? Are you stricken with the plague?" She spoke laughingly.

Michael stopped within a few feet of her. "Perhaps I am stricken with the smallpox," he said. "The saint has got it—it may be of a very malignant order. We don't know."

Every vestige of colour left Millicent's face. She felt sick. "And you have been to him? You touched him!"

"Of course. I wished to judge for myself. There is no doubt about it."

"M-i-c-h-a-e-l!" The word was a long-drawn-out expression of horror. A wave of inexpressible terror and disgust overwhelmed Millicent; she could scarcely speak or move. "You knew, and yet you went to him. How could you, oh, how could you?"

He scarcely heard her. "These natives who have never been vaccinated take it very badly. Smallpox is a scourge with all Africans, from the north to the south."

Millicent's mind was now working furiously. She did not wish to let
Michael see how terrified she was, or how angry.

"Go and change," she said. "Go at once. Get Abdul to disinfect you—I brought any amount of stuffs."

"Oh, I'm all right—I'm not afraid. I was with him for a long time last night. If I'm going to take it, the mischief's done."

Millicent's quick mind travelled. Michael had been with this sick saint the night before. He, Michael, might be a carrier of the disease, even if he were immune from it himself. And she had been fool enough to throw herself into his arms! Oh, what a fool! She might even now be incubating the horrible, loathsome disease. She was soul-sick. Her fear and rage were inseparable. But she must, of course, make a good show.

"Never mind, Mike, about last night. Probably the disease was not at such an infectious stage as it is now—you may not have contracted it. Take what precautions you can—go quickly and disinfect yourself. Are you really sure it's smallpox?" She said the last words with a shudder. "Ugh! it's horrible!"

"Yes," Michael said. "The spots have appeared on his wrists and at the back of his neck. Abdul knows the beastly disease only too well—the vomiting and the headaches and the fall in the temperature. It appears that he told Abdul that he had been very, very sick for some days before we met him. But malaria might have accounted for the sickness—and the headaches. No one could have diagnosed it until the spots appeared. Abdul's not to blame."

"What are you going to do?" Millicent said. "Stick to him? I suppose you will!" she shivered.

"I will isolate his tent. I can't go on and leave him here, if you mean that."

"Oh, you're crazy! Think of Margaret, if you won't think of yourself!"

"She wouldn't have me do it."

"Leave one or two of the men behind with him. It's absurd, running such a risk. He will probably die, in any case."

"When I needed his help I meant to stick to him. When he now needs mine, am I to desert him? You said my goodness was not disinterested. It was not, but I can't stoop to that."

"If these Moslems really think he's a saint, they'll nurse him faithfully. I'll pay them what they ask—anything."

"Money isn't everything, Millicent—surely you know that?"

"It can do a great deal. If you hadn't met him, he'd have died."

"But I have met him. Doesn't that show that I am entrusted with his welfare?"

"A chance meeting."

"That absurd word! By chance you mean such a big thing that your mind can't imagine it! You choose to call a link in the Divine Chain chance! the Chance which gives life, the Master of that which is ordained, you mean!"

"You can't nurse him, you can't do anything more for him than see that he has all that he wants. 'The faithful' will carry out your instructions. Do be practical, reasonable."

"It's no use, Millicent, I can't leave him. I won't." Michael shivered. "It's chilly. Let's go and eat our dinner."

"You must change first—I insist. It's only right to others."

"Then don't wait for me."

"Oh yes, I will. Only be quick." Millicent knew that she was too sick with fear to eat and enjoy the excellent dinner which had been prepared for them. As she waited for Michael, she cursed her own folly, her own abominable bad luck. If Michael was a carrier, she had no chance, unless she was one of those rare people who are immune from the disease. She did not think she was, because when she was last vaccinated, when she was fifteen, she had been very, very ill and sick. She felt physically tired, for her brain was quick. It was imagining horrible things. She was visualizing her own beauty spoilt, her fair skin deeply pitted with pock-marks, her colour all gone. The disease would take the glitter from her hair, the glow from her personality. She knew the result of smallpox. She saw herself, a little, washed-out, yellow-skinned woman, with weak eyes and drab-coloured hair.

Oh, why had she ever called Michael's attention to the saint? If he had not gone to his rescue, he would have died where he fell, bathed in the blood-red light of the afterglow. Why had Michael been such a fool as to touch him and nurse him? Had she not warned him that the fanatic was filthy and probably infectious? And, to make matters still worse, to leave no room for chance, she had of her own will flung herself into Michael's arms! Her determination to subject his will to hers, to triumph over Margaret, had brought her to this! Michael was further from her than ever. She had disgusted him; his only thought for her now was his desire to make her as religious as himself. She had to admit her defeat.

And this was how it had ended! Michael, the mystic, the quixotic idiot, had taken into his camp a creature sick with smallpox, and she, Millicent, had probably contracted it by her act of rashness! The desert seemed scarcely large enough to hold her anger. It stifled and exhausted her.

During dinner very little was spoken between the two, for Millicent was devastated by her own terrors and Michael was making plans for the sick man's isolation. His tent must remain where it was, while Michael's own, and all the servants', except those inhabited by the men who wished to nurse the saint, must be moved to a safe distance. Millicent's going was driven from his mind.

Millicent was thankful that Michael did not notice how little she ate at dinner. The servant did; nothing passes a native's eye. He knew the woman's terror.

Soon after their coffee was served they separated, Millicent going to her own tent and Michael to consult with Abdul. When Millicent reached her tent and had managed to compose her mind, she sent for Hassan. Half an hour later he left her. He had much to do. The Sitt's orders were comprehensive.

* * * * * *

Michael went early to bed. He was very tired. At about two o'clock in the morning he stirred in his sleep. Was he hearing the distant sound of camels roaring, or was he dreaming? He was too lazy to find out. If there were jackals prowling about, the night-guards would see to them. Undoubtedly something had disturbed him, for as a rule he slept without moving the long night through.

Conscious of feeling deliciously sleepy and totally indifferent to anything but his own comfort, he soon fell asleep again. In his dreams he heard again the liquid sound of bells—mule bells and camel bells—growing fainter and fainter as the animals travelled into the distance.

* * * * * *

In the morning, when he awoke, it was with a new lightness of spirit and refreshed vitality. A sense of freedom exalted him, a subconscious freedom, which had been absent for some days. The glory of the desert called to him. He felt spiritually and physically vitalized.

Even the recollection of the nature of the saint's illness did not damp his spirits. He would recover with careful nursing, and when he was better they would go on their way rejoicing. The Promised Land seemed nearer.

It was scarcely time for his early cup of tea, yet he saw Abdul bringing it. Perhaps the joy of life had waked him, too, perhaps he also was eager to get up and greet the morn. What a wonderful morning it was! All pure, cool, clear sunlight. Michael's heart, a throbbing organ of praise, sent forth a paean to the pagan skies.

"Is the Effendi awake? May his servant enter?"

"Yes, Abdul, come in."

Abdul entered with the noiseless movements of his race. As he stood by his master's bed, Michael saw that the unemotional native was attempting to hide his anger. Something had greatly upset him.

"What is it, Abdul? Has anyone been unkind to the saint?"

"Aiwah, Effendi, it is not that." Abdul spoke lengthily and in the correct Arabic fashion. He must not approach the subject too quickly.

"Tell me," Michael said. "What troubles you, Abdul?"

"Aiwah, Effendi, the honourable Sitt has left you. She has gone—there is no trace of her camp."

"What?" Michael jumped out of bed. "The Sitt has gone? No sign of her camp?"

"Aiwah, Effendi, that is so. Your servant offers his apologies for bringing you bad news."

To Abdul's eternal amazement, Michael burst into a roar of laughter, hearty, unsuppressed enjoyment of a good joke.

"Gone?" he repeated. "The Sitt has gone, made a moonlight flitting?
The little devil!"

Abdul's mystification was so complete that he could only salaam.

"The little coward!" Michael said. "The miserable little coward!"

He spoke so rapidly, and in English, that Abdul could not fully understand. Indeed, he was totally at a loss to comprehend anything of the situation. It baffled him. His master actually seemed pleased and highly amused at the cowardly conduct of his mistress!

"When did the Sitt leave the camp, Abdul?"

"At about two o'clock this morning, Effendi. She has taken everything with her," he threw up his hands. "Her medicines, her delicate food, everything we need for the saint."

"Curse her!" Michael said. "What a dirty trick!"

"The Sitt was very much afraid, Effendi."

"Well, perhaps that was quite natural, Abdul. But to take everything away! What shall we do without her tins of milk, her medicine-chest?"

"Insha Allah, we will save the 'favoured of God,' Effendi. There in the Bedouin camp they will give us milk—they have goats."

"How is he this morning?"

"The Answerer of Prayer has heard the cry of His children. He has again bestowed upon us His everlasting mercy, His compassion is infinite."

"The saint is better?"

"The malady is running its course. Insha Allah, it will do so without any complications. The pox now appears on his back and body. The condition of the saint's general health is not such as to cause any undue anxiety to the Effendi."

"Is he conscious?"

"His thoughts are in heaven, but his mind is clearer, praise be to
Allah."

"And the Sitt?" Michael said. "How did she get away?"

"She gave minute instructions to Hassan early in the evening." Abdul salaamed. "Aiwah, honourable Effendi, you will be relieved of a double anxiety—the Sitt was greatly afraid."

"Yes, Abdul, I'm thankful, very thankful." Michael stretched out his arms and breathed a deep breath of freedom. Thank God she had gone, gone of her own free will! This, then, was the meaning of his sense of liberation. The white tent was there no longer. It had vanished.

Then he remembered having stirred in his sleep. The bells he had heard were the bells on the animals which were carrying the frightened Millicent. Her hijrah had not been achieved without affecting his subconscious mind.

Meanwhile, Abdul was studying his master's mind. He was reading his thoughts as one reads a story from the illustrations of a book. He saw relief and freedom—and, above all, thankfulness. His master's besetting sin was his dislike of scenes, his hypersensitiveness in the matter of causing pain to others, the desire to surround himself with happiness.

"Gehenna to the harlot!" he said to himself. "Insha Allah, she will regret last night's work, even though it may benefit the Effendi!"

"You will be lonely, Effendi," he said. "But without the honourable Sitt your work will progress. Women are a hindrance to men's minds, an anxiety."

"I am well pleased, Abdul. We were not lonely before Madam came."

"Aiwah, Effendi, there was the prospect of the meeting with the honourable Sitt. Now there is desolation."

"I did not seek the meeting, Abdul. All is well."

"Insha Allah, things will progress more favourably."

Abdul left his master. He had learned all that he wanted to know. The Effendi did not love the harlot. He knew now that the woman had followed Michael, and that she had got wind of the hidden treasure.

When he was alone, he gazed at the shrunken encampment. The white tent was there no longer; the place was rid of the woman and her luxuries. Had she decamped with two ends in view—to get away from the infected spot and to anticipate the Effendi in his search?

"Gehenna!" he said again. "I did not tell the honourable Effendi that the linen sheets in which the saint slept last night belonged to the Sitt—that they are packed with her clothes which she will wear again! She has made her own bed—let her sleep in it. Hassan will see to that."

The distance of the flat desert had obliterated Millicent's cavalcade. Was it journeying towards civilization, hurrying from the plague-spot in the desert, or was it going to the hills behind Akhnaton's city?

When Michael had hurried to the saint the night before and had shown himself totally fearless and unmindful of his own welfare, the saint had implored him to leave him. He knew the danger and the awfulness of smallpox; he knew the risk the Englishman was running.

When Michael made him understand that he had no intention of leaving him, that he was going to wait for him until he was better, the sick man was overwhelmed with gratitude. He told Michael that he would show him, if Allah permitted, the place in the hills where the hidden treasure lay. But in case it should please the Giver of Death to allow His servant to look upon the beauty of His face (which was the sick man's way of saying in case he should die), he would beg of the Effendi to listen to what he had to tell him.

"While my memory is clear, while the All-Merciful permits me to speak to the Effendi, I will instruct him, the treasure shall be his."

Had the saint's instructions been passed on to Millicent's ears? Were her fast-moving camels bearing her to the crocks of fine gold and the wealth of jewels which the hermit of el-Azhar had visualized?

The fate of every man hangs round his neck. If Allah had willed it?