It was a perfect moonlight night, and as he swung himself out over the rocky precipice, which was surely more formidable at close quarters than it had appeared from above, Anstice was conscious of a sudden wild exhilaration which sent the blood coursing like quicksilver through his veins.

He knew very well that he was embarking upon a perilous adventure which might easily end in disaster, for he had no delusions on the subject of his probable fate did he fall into the hands of the vengeful Bedouins. But somehow, as he swung between earth and heaven, the rope slipping with almost uncomfortable rapidity through his fingers, he felt no fear, only a joyous thrill which strongly resembled the boyish glee with which, in his school-days, he had taken part in many midnight adventures strictly hidden from the notice of the authorities.

His former proficiency in gymnastics and his natural love of climbing stood him in good stead. He had never been addicted to nerves, had never known what it was to experience any vertigo or attacks of giddiness when exploring some dizzy height or negotiating some mountain ledge, and he swung down the rope which was his only support as coolly as though he were practising in a gymnasium, with no risk, did he fall, of being dashed to death against the unfriendly rocks below.

In an incredibly short space of time he reached the ground, and after giving three gentle tugs upon the rope—the preconceived signal that all was well with him—he looked cautiously round him to take his bearings before proceeding on his journey.

He stood now in a kind of rocky valley, ringed round with caves—whether tombs or not he could not pretend to judge—but beyond the valley lay the desert over which he must pass, and he lost no time in clambering over the rooks and setting foot on the firm brown sand without.

By the aid of his small compass he located the direction in which the well lay, and then, restoring it to his pocket and making certain that the goat-skin water-bottle was firmly slung over his shoulder, he set off at a brisk pace which should, if possible, shorten the time of his absence from the Fort by a few precious moments at least.

He had never before been alone in the desert at night, and the strangeness of it gripped him by the throat as he strode steadily onwards. He could not believe, at first, that he was really alone. It seemed incredible that in all that huge expanse of sand he should be the only moving, living being, yet, though he knew that there were living creatures in the desert—jackals and other prowling things, and a whole host of bats and tiny insects—they gave no sign of their presence, and it seemed to him that he was the only live thing in a dead world....

Yet the air, as it blew gently round him, was soft and sweet. A group of palm trees rustled deliciously as he passed by; and above his head the big silver stars seemed to look down on him with a friendly, benignant gaze as though they knew and approved the errand which brought him out there, alone in the moonlit desert.

When once he had conquered the instinctive feeling of something like nervousness which made him look now and again half fearfully over his shoulder as he walked, he began to enjoy this uncommon pilgrimage.

His spirits rose, he felt a wild inclination to sing and shout with glee—an inclination hastily checked by the remembrance that after all the Bedouin village was not far away, though hidden for the moment by the merciful palm trees—and he told himself exultantly that the devilish revenge of the Bedouins who had poisoned the well in the courtyard of the Fort was only an empty menace after all.

Only when he thought of Bruce Cheniston, dying in that barely-furnished room, far away from any of the luxuries and ease-bringing contrivances with which civilization smooths the path of her children to the grave, did his leaping exultation die down in his heart, and he walked more soberly as he told himself that it was probable he would not see Bruce Cheniston alive again.

It was in the moment in which he realized this fact that another thought struck Anstice for the first time, and the sheer blinding radiance of that thought made him catch his breath and stand still in the desert, absolutely oblivious to any risks which he might run from Bedouins or other prowling marauders were he to be observed.

He had suddenly realized that were Cheniston to die Iris would once more be free—free to marry another man did she so desire; and the very idea of that freedom set his heart knocking against his ribs in a positive fury of wild and tumultuous feeling.

Never—he was thankful to remember it now—never had the thought so much as crossed his mind as he ministered to Cheniston, doing all in his power to defeat the grim foe who held the young man so firmly in his clutches. He had spared no pains, had given himself up body and soul to the task of saving Bruce Cheniston's life, were it possible for that life to be saved, and he was glad to know, looking back, that he had never for one second contemplated the possibility of any benefit accruing to himself through the other man's death. Even should he find, on his return, that Cheniston had indeed slipped into another world during his absence, he could always assure himself that he had not sullied the last strenuous hours in which he had fought for his patient's life with all his might by so much as one underhand or dishonourable thought.

And then, by a natural corollary, his thoughts reverted to Hilda Ryder; and for the first time since her death he began to feel that now, after all these years, he might surely be considered to have atoned for his too hasty carrying-out of the promise he had made her in that rose-coloured dawn of a bygone Indian morning.

Never had man regretted an impulsive deed more than he had regretted the thing which had been done that day. The years which had elapsed since then had been indeed years of penance—a penance more cruel and far more hard to bear than any penalty inflicted by man could possibly have been.

He had been a prisoner indeed, bound fast in the captivity of his own remorse; but now it seemed to him as though the long black night of his imprisonment were breaking, as though a light, as yet very far off and faint, showed upon some distant horizon with a promise of another and more radiant day which should surely dawn ere long.

Whence came this blessed lightening of his gloom? He could not say. Was it perhaps due to the fact that even now he was risking his life in the service of another woman—it is to be feared he forgot all but Iris in this strangely exalted moment—that to him her life had been confided by the father who adored her, and that to him and to him alone could she look for comfort and for help in the bitter hour which he foresaw was even now at hand for the girl who loved Bruce Cheniston—and must see him die....

And as his thoughts played, lightning-wise, round the figure of the beloved woman, his footsteps led him on, more and more blithely as his spirit rose, ph[oe]nix-like, above the ashes of his burnt-out tragedy, and in an incredibly short space of time he approached the well whence he might draw the precious water for lack of which the little garrison he had left must perish and die.

It was a peaceful spot, this well. Just such a place as that to which Rachel and the daughters of Jacob must, long ago, have come to fill their pitchers—a quiet, palm-guarded spot where doubtless, in days gone by, the village women had congregated in search of water and of news—the chattered gossip of the East, punctuated by the tinkling of native bangles as the beautifully-moulded arms raised the pitchers to the finely-carried heads.

The well was deserted now, but the water was as clear and pure as ever, and with a sigh of relief Anstice set about filling his goat-skin water-bottle, and then, anxious to lose no time, he retraced his steps over the moonlit desert without delay.

He marched blithely on and on, ever companioned by that new and thrice welcome sense of freedom which had come to him, as though at each step he took the fetters with which a great regret had for so long shackled his soul grew looser and less binding, until it seemed that they might presently fall off altogether, and allow him once more to face the world as a free man, and not the captive of a cruel and unjust fate.

He had reached the outskirts of the village before the necessity for caution reasserted itself; but just as he was passing, as softly as possible, the little group of palm trees which he had noted earlier, he caught a glimpse of a man prowling, as it seemed, round the trunks of those same trees; and in another second he knew that by an unlucky chance the man was between him and the only place in which he might have taken cover.

There was no time to be lost. At any moment the Bedouin might look up and see him—an unfortunately conspicuous figure in the moonlight; and although the Fort was not more than a quarter of a mile away, should it come to a race the odds might well be in favour of the desert-bred man.

True, he was armed—for in spite of his protests Garnett had insisted on him carrying one of the few revolvers owned by the little defending force; but he did not wish to fire, save in the last extremity, since a shot would certainly rouse the village and cut off his one chance of regaining the shelter of the Fort.

There was just a possibility that the man might not see him, so intent was he at the moment in his scrutiny of the village; and in a second Anstice had taken his resolve—a desperate resolve enough, but the only one he could formulate at the moment.

He began, instantly, to run, and so noiseless was his progress that no sound reached the ears of the prowling Bedouin; and had the native's other senses been less keen, it is possible Anstice would have escaped notice altogether.

Unfortunately the man turned himself about, and saw the flying figure, which stood out only too plainly in that empty expanse of moonlit sand; and after a second's hesitation, as though he could barely believe the evidence of his eyes, the native left his hiding-place and began to run with quick, loping gait after the fugitive, calling out something in a high, piercing voice as he ran.

In his college days Anstice had been somewhat of an athlete; and although he had long since relinquished any sporting ambitions which he might once have cherished, he had reason to bless his own turn of speed, which, being a natural and not an acquired gift, did not fail him now.

But never in his life had he run as he was running to-night. Apart from any consideration of his own personal safety he was running for the safety of others—of one in particular; for he knew only too well how pitifully small was the force which held the beleaguered Fort; and though in itself his life might be of little value, as a bulwark between Iris Cheniston and her enemies it had a value all its own; and must not be relinquished without a fierce and determined struggle.

On and on he ran, the blood drumming in his ears, the goat-skin pounding maddeningly about his shoulders. But even could he have brought himself to fling away the precious water for which he had cheerfully risked his life, he could not spare time to unfasten the skin slung across his back; and he raced swiftly onward, cursing the loose sand which now and again threatened to trip him up, not daring to look back until he had lessened the distance to the Fort by a considerable amount.

Then, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder, he saw that the Bedouin was gaining upon him, his long, tireless stride, which resembled that of a greyhound, swallowing the ground with little apparent effort; and Anstice's quick mind realized that, fine runner as he knew himself to be, he was outclassed by this native athlete.

"All right, Dorando," he muttered grimly, half-aloud, as he checked himself for a second in his race. "I can't outrun you, but I'm damned if I don't put a bullet through you all the same."

And pulling out his revolver he whisked about, so quickly that the other had no time to realize his intention; and taking definite aim at the man's thigh he fired once, twice—with satisfactory results, inasmuch as the other uttered a sharp cry, spun round once or twice and fell in a heap on the sand, incapable of further movement.

For a second Anstice paused, innate humanity forbidding him to leave the man alone in his agony; but the thought of Iris drove away such weakness, and realizing that the noise of the shots must incite his foes to immediate investigation, he hastily restored his revolver to its place and ran, faster than ever, in the direction of the Fort.

Suddenly the air behind him was rent with shrill clamour, and he knew the village was aroused at last; but he cared little now, for he was close to his desired haven; and a last spurt over the rocks at the entrance to the valley landed him, spent and breathless, at the foot of the Fort, beneath the window from which dangled the precious rope which should carry him to safety.

Regardless now of precaution, he lifted such voice as remained to him in a would-be lusty hail; and as an answering shout came from above he wasted no further time, but seized the rope and began—painfully now, for he was exhausted—to haul himself slowly up, cheered on by Garnett's hearty congratulations from above.

"By Jove, that was a close call!" Once safely inside the building, the dangling rope pulled through the window after him, Anstice collapsed on the rough stone floor and mopped his brow feebly.

"I should say so!" The resourceful Australian had already produced a tiny flask of brandy. "Here, take a pull at this, and you'll feel better in a second. And when you've recovered, if you'll explain the meaning of the shooting-match, I'll be thankful to you."

Between his gasps Anstice described the chase and its subsequent ending; and Garnett's eyes shone with an unholy lust for battle as he listened.

"Good on you!" He clapped the other man on the shoulder with a heartiness which was almost painful. "Well, we'll have the hornet's nest about our ears in no time now; but at least we've got you back safe and sound, and with a bit of luck we'll hold out grandly till the reinforcements come!"

"How is Cheniston?" Anstice rose as he spoke and slipped the goat-skin from off his shoulders. "Anything happened since I've been away?"

"Not that I know of—but I believe he was pretty bad a while ago." Garnett's face clouded. "Jolly rough luck on his wife, isn't it? She's so young, and so plucky, and I see you expect the poor chap to peg out."

"I think I'll go and see him," said Anstice slowly, the exhilaration dying from his manner; and as Garnett pulled aside the rough curtain which covered the doorway he stepped on to the uneven stone floor without.

And then he came to a pause; for Iris was coming towards him; and her face wore a curiously stricken look which made his heart miss a beat.

"Mrs. Cheniston—you want me? Is your husband worse?"

For a moment she did not reply. Then:

"He is dead, Dr. Anstice," she said quietly. "He died ten minutes ago—just after I heard those two shots——"

"Dead?" Although he had half expected the news, Anstice found it hard to believe. "Mrs. Cheniston, are you sure? May I come and see? You might—possibly—be mistaken."

"I am not mistaken," she said, and for a second a pitiful little smile touched her white lips. "Bruce is dead—but come and see for yourself. I ... I am glad you are safely back, Dr. Anstice."

"Thank you," he said quietly; and then without more ado they moved side by side towards the room in which Bruce Cheniston had yielded up his life.

Mrs. Wood rose from her seat as they entered, and glided softly away, beckoning to her husband, who stood by the window, to join her; and when they were alone Anstice and the girl so lately widowed moved forward until they stood beside the bed on which Bruce Cheniston lay in all the white majesty of Death.

A very brief examination satisfied Anstice that Iris had not been mistaken. Cheniston was dead; and as he stood looking down on the quiet face, which, by virtue of Death's magic alchemy, had regained in the last hour something of its former youth, Anstice knew a sincere and unfeigned pity for the young life so ruthlessly cut short by a cruel disease.

"Yes, Mrs. Cheniston." He covered the dead white face gently. "I am sorry to say you are right. Were you with him when he died?"

"Yes. We were alone," she said, and again that oddly stricken look made his heart yearn pitifully over her.

"He was conscious before the end?"

"I—I think so—at least, partly." Her tone was indefinable, desolation and a strange, half-hurt wonder sounding in its low note. "He did not speak much—only a few words—at the end I don't think he knew me...."

"I am sorry you were left alone," he said, and he ventured to lay his hand for a second gently on her arm. "I wish I could have been back earlier. I am afraid it has been a shock to you."

"Death is always a shock," she said quietly, and again a wintry little smile touched her lips. "But—don't think me unkind, Dr. Anstice—I am glad I was alone with him—at the end."

In spite of himself a great amazement shook him at her words. Although her meaning was a mystery to him, there was no doubt she had spoken in perfect sincerity; and in the midst of his inward turmoil Anstice found time to wonder exactly what she meant by this curious speech. Somehow he could not help connecting the odd look which her face still held with the strange words she had used; and he wondered what had been the manner of Cheniston's passing.

"Mrs. Cheniston"—Iris started as his voice fell on her ears—"you will come away—now? There is nothing for you to do here. And you should try to sleep——"

"Sleep?" She glanced up at him with an indescribably dreary look in her eyes. "I could not sleep, Dr. Anstice. If you will let me stay with you"—her voice shook a little—"I should be glad. I—I don't want to be alone—just yet."

"Of course you don't." He spoke promptly. "And you shall certainly stay with me, if you will. But—will it trouble you to make me a cup of coffee, Mrs. Cheniston? I'm awfully sorry to bother you, but I've had nothing to eat for some time——"

At another moment she might have seen through his subterfuge; but now, her wits dulled, her mind clouded by the scene through which she had lately passed, she accepted his petition as genuine.

"Of course I will get you some coffee—at once." She moved towards the door as she spoke. "I—I am so sorry I did not think of it before."

When she had gone he went quickly in search of Garnett, and explained what service he required of the stalwart Australian.

"Of course—we'll carry him, bed and all, into another room," said Garnett readily. "That window must be guarded, and we can't ask the poor girl to enter the room with her husband lying dead there. Let's hustle, while she's busy—the little room 'way across there will do."

Accordingly when Iris re-entered the room, rather shrinkingly, to acquaint Anstice with the fact that a meal awaited him, she found an empty space where the bed had stood; and although her eyes widened she said nothing on the subject—an omission for which Anstice was thankful, for the night's work had been a strain on him also; and he was in no humour for further discussion at the moment.

He found the rest of the little garrison even more subdued than usual. The death of one of their number had naturally cast a general gloom; and when he had made a pretence of despatching his supper Anstice easily persuaded Mrs. Wood to take a few hours' rest by the side of her little girl, who was now, fortunately, well on the way to recovery from her sudden illness.

The incapable Rosa was also dismissed to seek what slumber was possible; and then the four men took up their positions as before—Mr. Wood and Garnett keeping watch from the window of the room in which Cheniston had died, while Anstice and Hassan stationed themselves at the second window; Iris leaning against the wall, very pale, but apparently quite composed, on a pile of rugs which Anstice had arranged for her well out of range of a possible stray shot.

She had promised him to try to rest; but as the hours of the short night wore away and the critical moment of dawn approached, he knew that although she sat in silence with closed eyes she did not sleep; and again he wondered, vainly, insistently, what had passed between husband and wife before Death cut short their mutual life.

He felt he would have given much to know what reason Iris had to be thankful that she and her husband had been alone in the hour of his death; and although he had no intention of pursuing the subject he could not quite stifle his curiosity as to her meaning.

But Sir Richard Wayne's daughter was the soul of loyalty; and although a day was to come in which she and Anstice had few secrets from one another, he was destined never to know that Bruce Cheniston had died with Hilda Ryder's name upon his lips.

And so the short night passed; and with the dawn the long-expected attack came at last.