"Dr. Anstice"—Iris' voice was very low—"shall I disturb you if I come and sit beside you for a little while? I—I feel rather—lonely—sitting over there."

Anstice had turned round sharply as she began to speak and his heart yearned over her pitifully as he noted the pallor of her cheeks, the forlorn look in her grey eyes.

"Of course you won't disturb me." He dared not speak so emphatically as he wished. "I shall be only too glad if you will come and sit here"—he arranged the pile of rugs by him as he spoke—"only, if danger arises, you will keep out of harm's way, won't you?"

"Yes." She said no more for a moment; but her assent satisfied him, and he turned back to the window with a sudden feeling of joy at her proximity which would not be repressed.

Presently he heard her low voice once more.

"Dr. Anstice, when you told me your story—long ago—why didn't you tell me the name of the man to whom that poor girl was engaged? Didn't you want me to know she was to have married—Bruce?" Her voice sank on the last word.

For an instant Anstice kept silence, uncertain how to answer her. Then, seeing she was waiting for his reply, he made an effort and spoke.

"Mrs. Cheniston, to be honest, I don't know why I did not tell you. But"—he seized the opportunity for a question on his own account—"will you tell me how you know, now? Did—did your husband tell you?"

"No." Her eyes met his frankly and he knew she was speaking the truth. "I learned the fact for certain by accident three days ago, when Bruce was delirious. Of course I had wondered—sometimes"—said Iris honestly—"but I never liked to ask. And after all it made no difference."

"No." He sighed. "It made no difference. But I am glad you know—now."

Again a silence fell between them; and then a sudden impulse drove Anstice into speech.

"Mrs. Cheniston," he said, very quietly, "may I tell you something else—something I have long wanted you to know?"

Startled, she assented; and he continued slowly.

"You remember that night—the night before your wedding day"—he saw her wince, and went on more quickly—"the night, I mean, when Cherry Carstairs set herself on fire and you came for me to my house——"

"Yes." Her eyes were sad. "I remember. I don't think I shall ever be able to forget that night."

"Ah, don't say that!" His voice was eager. "Mrs. Cheniston, don't, please, believe I gave in without a struggle. I didn't. God knows I fought the horrible thing—for your sake, because you had been good enough, kind enough—to ask me to give up trying that way out. I did try. Oh, I know you can hardly believe me—you who saw me in the very hour of my failure—but it's true. Although I gave in at the last, beaten by the twin enemies of bodily pain and mental suffering——"

"You were—in pain—that day?"

"Yes. I had endured torture—oh, I don't want to excuse myself, but please understand I was really ill, really suffering, and morphia, as you know, does bring a blessed relief. And I was wretched, too—it seemed to me that life was over for me that day——"

He stopped short, biting his lips at his self-betrayal; but Iris' grey eyes did not turn away from his face.

"And so, thinking I could endure no more agony of body and mind, I had recourse to the one relief I knew; but before God, if I had known that you would be a witness to my failure——"

"Dr. Anstice"—the gentleness in her voice fell like balm upon his sore spirit—"please don't say any more. We are only human, you and I; and one failure does not minimize a long-continued success."

"You mean——"

"I mean that I know—I can't tell you how, but I do know it—you have never again tried that way out of your troubles. I think," said Iris, "you have found the real way out—at last."

Her words perplexed, even while they relieved him; and he sought the meaning of them.

"The real way, Mrs. Cheniston? I wonder what you mean by that?"

"I mean," she said very softly, "you must have found the way out of your own troubles by the very act of pointing out the way to others. You have brought Chloe Carstairs back to life—oh, I know it was through you that the mystery was cleared up at last—and that alone must make you feel that whatever mistake you may once have made you have atoned for it a hundredfold. And"—for an instant Iris' voice shook—"what are you doing now but atoning for that mistake—if further atonement were necessary?"

"You mean——"

"I mean that you are here, waiting for the Bedouins to attack us at any moment, waiting to fight for us women, ready, if need be, to die on our behalf." The words fell very softly on the quiet air. "And though I pray that God will send us help so that no life may be sacrificed I know"—Iris' eyes shone, and her voice rang suddenly like a clarion call—"I know that I—that we are safer with you than with any other man in the world...."

Carried away by her trust in him Anstice turned to her impulsively.

"Mrs. Cheniston, I can't thank you enough for those words. God knows I would willingly, gladly die to shield you from any harm; and if help should not come in time, and I should lose my life, well, please believe two things—firstly, that since that dreadful night I have never—failed—in that way again; and secondly, that to die in your service"—so much he might surely say in this poignant hour—"would be a death which any man might envy me."

She did not reply in words; but her eyes answered for her and for a moment there was silence between them. Then, as though half afraid he might have angered her by his last impetuous speech, Anstice spoke abruptly in another tone.

"Odd, isn't it, how an action carried through in a moment may have such tremendous consequences? I mean if I had stayed my hand long ago in that Indian hut you and I would not be here now, faced with this rather—difficult—situation. It makes one realize that one should never act too hastily—without looking all round the subject, so to speak."

"Yes. And yet—sometimes—if one stopped to think of the consequences one would be afraid to act, and let the vital moment slip," she said rather dreamily. "Of course there is always the afterwards——"

"Do you know of what that reminds me?" He spoke quickly. "Once, long ago when I was a student, I picked up a book of old plays at a bookstall in the Charing Cross Road. And in one of the plays I came across this sentence: 'The deed itself may be the work of a moment; but there is always the long, long afterwards with which to reckon.'"

His voice died away; but she said nothing, though her eyes betokened her interest; and presently he resumed.

"Well, that sentence has haunted me pretty frequently of late—it has run through the years like the saying of some avenging angel. I have known what the reckoning with the afterwards may be—sometimes, indeed, I have feared that reckoning will never be paid."

"Dr. Anstice," she said quietly, "you are wrong. The reckoning is paid; the atonement is made; and I am quite sure that the future—for you—will be rid for ever of the haunting shadow of the past. And"—her cheeks blanched suddenly as a clamour arose in the courtyard outside—"I think the future is beginning—with trouble and danger—now."

"I believe you are right." Turning impetuously to the window, which for a moment he had neglected, he found Hassan, his eyeballs rolling horribly in his dusky face, leaning out excitedly; and as he too craned into the lifting darkness Anstice saw that the moment of attack was at hand.

Without warning save that given by their exultant shouts the Bedouins were swarming over the wall, clambering over like great cats, dropping with sundry thuds on to the sandy ground beneath; and in another moment Anstice saw that they carried roughly fashioned scaling ladders, with which they evidently intended to force an entrance, should that be possible in the face of the defenders' fire.

"See here, Mrs. Cheniston." Anstice spoke almost curtly. "Will you go into the other room now? You are safer there, and out of harm's way for the time, at least."

"No, Dr. Anstice." She spoke determinedly. "I am going to stay here. You have spare revolvers, haven't you? Then I can load for you and for Hassan, at any rate, even if I can't be of other use."

"You know how?" He was surprised.

"Yes. My father taught me long ago. And"—for a second her voice faltered—"I—I feel safer here. Please let me stay."

"Very well." He could not bear to send her away. "But you must promise to keep as far as possible out of range. We can't afford any casualties, you know."

"I promise," she said very quietly; and he knew she would obey his injunctions implicitly.

The next moment Garnett rushed into the room, his blue eyes alight with a most warrior-like flame.

"See what's up, Anstice? Good—I guessed you'd not be caught napping. I'll get back now—there's going to be a gorgeous scrap in a minute. Mrs. Cheniston, are you all right there?"

"Quite, thanks." Her calm voice reassured him; and he dashed out of the room without further parley, while Anstice and Hassan waited, tensely, their revolvers in readiness, for the moment to open their defence.

It was not yet day; and in the grey gloom it was difficult to distinguish the nature of any object which was not close at hand; but Anstice made out that the approaching Bedouins intended to scramble up to the windows by use of their scaling ladders; and his face wore an unusually grim expression as the flying moments passed.

Ah! The first tribesman to reach the level of the window gave an exultant yell, as though he saw his foe already within his grasp; and on that shout of triumph his desert-born soul was sped to whatever haven awaited it. For Anstice's revolver had spoken; and the swarthy Bedouin fell headlong to the earth, shot, unerringly, through the heart.

Anstice heard Iris give a faint gasp at his side; but now his blood was up and he had no time to reassure even the one beloved woman. Something strange, unexpected, had happened to him. Suddenly he too was primitive man, even as these desert men were magnificently primitive. Gone was all the veneer of civilization, the humanity which bids a man respect a fellow-creature's life. He was no longer the educated, travelled man of the world, who earned his living in honourable and decorous ways. He was the cave-dweller, the man of another and more barbaric age, who defended his stronghold because it held his woman, the woman for whom he would fight to the very end, and count his life well spent if it were yielded up in her service. But he did not mean to die. He meant to live—and since that implied the death of these savages who clamoured without, then let red death stalk between them, and decide to whom he would award the blood-dripping sword of the victor.

Another fierce face at the window—a pair of hawk-like eyes flashing haughty challenge, a sinewy hand raising a revolver in deliberate aim—and Hassan's shot rang out, so swiftly that this man too fell back, disabled, his face disappearing from the window as one runs a film off a reel of pictures.

But there were others—many others—to take his place. Up and up they came till there was a whole phalanx of enemy faces, eyes flashing, white teeth gleaming in horrid snarls ... shot after shot rang out, but by marvellous luck none touched the defenders, who on their side emptied their revolvers as fast as Iris' fingers could make them ready.

Suddenly a gigantic man half sprang over the sill and without attempting to fire seized Anstice by the wrist in a grip of iron, whose marks disfigured him for weeks to come. His intention was obvious—by holding Anstice a prisoner he hoped to make opportunity for others to force an entrance; and as Anstice had involuntarily dropped the revolver as the steel-like fingers crushed his wrist, the fate of the little garrison hung, for a second, in the balance.

"Iris—shoot—quick!" Quite unconscious of the name he used Anstice raised his voice in a desperate shout; and the girl heard and obeyed in the same breath.

Lifting the revolver she had just loaded she fired once, twice, with fingers which did not even tremble; and the next moment with a loud gurgle the Bedouin released his hold and fell back through the window, dislodging the men who were clambering up the ladder behind him, so that they fell together in a confused mass into the courtyard below.

For a second there was a breathing-space; and Anstice turned to Iris with gleaming eyes.

"My God, you have a nerve!" His breath was coming in quick pants. "Mrs. Cheniston, I can't thank you—I never dreamed that even you would be so plucky."

"It wasn't pluck—it was just—obedience," she said, and though her face was very pale she smiled bravely up at him. "Dr. Anstice, are there—many more to come? You have disabled a good many, haven't you?"

"Between us, yes." He was cool again now, and picked up his revolver as he spoke. "They seem to be hanging back a bit—and to judge by the row Garnett's making I should say he's doing pretty well too."

Bang! A bullet whizzed suddenly by Iris' head; and Anstice pulled her hastily into a safer place.

"Here they come back again!" His tone was almost boyishly gleeful. "Well, we're ready for 'em—eh, Hassan?"

The Arab, who was firing as steadily as though at a pigeon-shooting match, nodded, his white teeth flashing out in a merry grin; and as the Bedouins, taking heart, recommenced their attack, the two men, native and Englishman, turned back to their task with renewed vigour.

Neither Iris nor Anstice ever had a very clear recollection of the next ten minutes. It was an inferno, a babel, a confusion of shots and yells and angry clamour; but beyond a slight, flesh wound sustained by Hassan neither of the defenders sustained any casualties; and had their ammunition been as plentiful as their courage was high there would have been no doubt as to the ultimate issue.

Suddenly Anstice turned to Iris with a question on his lips; and her face paled as she replied:

"Not much, now. I think—only enough for three more rounds." She spoke steadily.

"I see. And then——" He broke off, handing her the empty revolver he held.

"And then?" She breathed the question softly; but there was no fear in her face.

"And then—I am not quite clear what happens then." He looked at her more searchingly. "Mrs. Cheniston, what do you say—then? I'm ready, as you know, to die for you, but"—he paused, then resumed in a rather hoarse tone—"if I die what will become of you? I suppose"—he faltered, and his lips were dry, but some inward impulse drove him on—"I suppose you would not wish me to—save—a last cartridge...."

"For me?" Her smile, as she faced him, was splendid. "No, Dr. Anstice, I'm not afraid to die, if I must, at the hands of our enemies. But I will not accept death—from you."

He knew—irrevocably—what she meant. She was determined at least to spare him a recurrence of the tragedy which had ruined so many of what should have been the best years of his life; and although he knew he could have faced even that risk courageously in her service, none the less did he rejoice that he was not called upon to do this thing a second time.

"Then—if the worst should happen—if we are not relieved in time——"

"We can all die—together," she said very simply; and in her face he read something which, told him that for all her youth this girl would know how to die.

But further speech was suddenly cut short The Bedouins, who had been hanging back for a moment's parley, had evidently rallied their forces for another effort; for with a yell destined to strike terror into the hearts of their foes they literally swarmed up the ladder until the whole window-space was filled with a horrid nightmare of bearded, swarthy faces, of sinewy, grasping hands, of tossing spears and flourished fire-arms.

Suddenly, with an exclamation of pain, Hassan dropped his revolver and clapped his hand to his side; and Anstice felt, with a wild thrill of dismay in all his veins, that the fight was practically over for them now. The odds were too great—one well-directed bullet and he too would be disabled, powerless to protect the girl for whose sake he longed so ardently to win the day.

"My God, Iris, we're beaten!" Even as he spoke he was firing into the midst of the mass of packed faces at the window; and he heard her words, spoken in a passionate whisper as one hears strange, whispered sentences in a dream:

"No—no!" Iris had been listening to another sound—the sound of hope, of renewed life—and now, in the moment of his discouragement, she whispered the glorious truth. "Listen—they're here—the men have come in time—oh, don't you hear them shouting to us to hold on—for a minute——"

The next moment a wild cry from Hassan rent the air; and as the crowd of fierce faces seemed, suddenly, to recede as a wave washes backwards on the shore, Anstice knew, with a great uplifting of his spirit, that help had indeed come—miraculously—in time to save the day....

Answering shouts from the desert, the drumming of horses' hoofs, the clamour of voices upraised in cries of encouragement—these were the sounds which Anstice, almost unbelieving, heard at last; and as the desert men began to retreat, tumbling over themselves and each other in their haste to flee before this new enemy was upon them, Anstice turned to Iris with a laugh of purest happiness.

"They have come—you're safe now, thank God!"

"We're all safe, thanks to you," she answered him with shining eyes; and as he threw his empty revolver aside she held out both her hands to him and he clasped them joyfully.

"They have come—and so soon! I never dared to hope they would be here before to-night at earliest!"

"Nor I—but they are here!" He released her hands and turned to greet the rest of the little garrison, who, having heard the clamour, had realized they were saved, and came pouring in to hear the story of the night's encounter.

At the same moment a fierce hubbub arose in the courtyard as the Bedouins realized that they were verily in a trap. Some of them, gathering their robes about them in undignified haste, managed to scramble over the wall in the confusion and so make good their escape, for the time at least; but the majority were neatly cornered; and though they fought magnificently, as was their wont, they realized only too soon that they were outnumbered; and in a comparatively short space of time the fight was over.

Just as the rising sun flooded the desert with superb pink brilliance the whole party, rescuers and besieged, met in the courtyard.

Both Anstice and Garnett had been in the thick of the last affray; and the soldier who was apparently in command of the expedition took advantage of the breathing-space to congratulate the defenders on the splendid defiance they had offered to their foes.

"We heard the row quite a long way off," he said, "and hurried for all we were worth, thinking we'd be too late if we didn't hustle. But from the vigour of your defence it seems to me we might have taken it easy."

"Good job for us you didn't," returned Anstice rather grimly. "We'd got down to our last round—another five minutes and we'd have been wiped out."

"Whew!" The other man whistled. "Pretty close call, what? Lucky for you we did hustle, I see."

"Yes—but can you explain how it is you're here so soon? We hadn't dared to look for you till to-night or to-morrow morning."

"Oh, that's easily explained. We fell in with your messenger—Sir Richard Wayne, isn't it?—on our way back to Cairo. We were returning from a little punitive expedition"—he smiled pleasantly—"and were only too glad to set out on another jaunt. We get fed-up lounging about barracks, and these affairs come as quite a God-send in the wilderness."

"By the way, where is Sir Richard?" Anstice had been scanning the company, but could catch no glimpse of his friend. "His daughter, Mrs. Cheniston, is here, you know, and she will be anxious——"

"Ah, yes—I have a message for her. Is she here—can you take me to her?"

"She is here," said Anstice quietly, as Iris, hearing her name, approached. "Mrs. Cheniston, this gentleman has a message for you—from your father——"

"I'm Lane—Captain Lane, Mrs. Cheniston." He saluted her hastily. "And your father asked me to tell you he was quite well, only a little tired with his double journey. He wanted very much to return with us, but he really was not fit to turn back immediately; and knowing how a lame duck"—he coughed and looked suddenly embarrassed—"I mean—how one man may delay a squadron, so to speak, he very sensibly agreed to stay at our camp for a few hours' rest. We shall pick him up as we go back," he added, and Iris smiled rather wearily as she answered:

"Thank you very much, Captain Lane. You are sure my father is all right?"

"Certain—only a bit fagged, and no wonder, for he'd ridden hard. Ah—and he told me to say you were to ask Dr. Anston—Anstice, is it?—to help you in any matter in which you wanted a little help."

"I will certainly do that," said Iris quietly; and as the other men pressed round the little group, eagerly questioning the defenders of the besieged Fort, Iris slipped away from the excited crowd so unobtrusively that no eyes save those of Anstice witnessed her departure.

Three minutes later Anstice, leaving the rest planning the return journey over the desert, went quietly in search of Iris.

He found her, as he had half expected, standing by the window of the room in which Bruce Cheniston had died; and in her eyes was a forlorn look which showed him the measure of her desolation in this sunrise hour.

Quietly as he had entered she had heard him come, and turned to face him with a rather tremulous smile.

"Mrs. Cheniston, I came to look for you." He approached as he spoke; and in spite of herself she felt comforted by the mere fact of his presence. "You are not worrying because your father very wisely let those fellows come on ahead of him?"

"N-no," she said, with a queer little catch in her breath. "Only—I had so wanted—so hoped—to see my father—soon."

"I know," he said quietly, "and you will see him—very soon. We shall start this afternoon, when the horses are rested; and then it will not be many hours before you and your father meet again."

"Yes." She looked at him with something of appeal in her eyes. "Dr. Anstice, my father said you would help me ... you will, won't you? You know," said Iris simply, "you are the only person I can turn to—now."

More moved by her words than he cared to show, Anstice answered her, not impetuously, but with something in his manner which would have inspired confidence in any woman.

"Mrs. Cheniston, I will do all I can—and God knows I am grateful to Him for allowing me the chance of helping you—now. If you will trust yourself to me I will not relinquish my trust until I give you safely into your father's keeping. You will trust me?"

"Yes, Dr. Anstice." She held out her hands to him as she spoke in token of sincerity. "I would trust you—to the end of the world!"

And as he took her hands in his and vowed himself afresh to her service Anstice knew, with a great lightening of his spirit, that during the night march over the desert, that which he had almost dared to hope might happen, had indeed come to pass; that the chains with which his own action had shackled his soul had fallen from him for ever, and that full atonement for Hilda Ryder's death had been made at last.