The torment of his tightly lashed limbs, the irk of the gag between his teeth, want of air, hunger, thirst—these had all done their work upon Aylmer and, as the hours went by, produced a partial unconsciousness. It was not sleep which overpowered him; it was a thing less merciful than that. A numbness had seized both his limbs and his brain. He no longer felt the cutting pressure of his bonds; he scarcely realized where his powerlessness lay. Effort was paralyzed, that was all he understood. It was a nightmare; his brain refused to confront reasons; he was sensitive only to effects. Thus it was with a shock as if sensibility itself was only then returning that he heard the grating sound of hinges, was conscious of a gleam of light in the hitherto persistent darkness, felt fingers busy at his lips. The gag fell from between them.

With the powers of speech his own again, his senses used them instinctively for primitive needs.

"Water!" he muttered hoarsely. "Water!"

"With pleasure, my dear cousin!" said a familiar voice. "Water, food, and even, under restrictions, a little liberty. Has that programme attractions? Surely—after what, I fear, has been a monotonous night."

It was Landon who held a guttering lamp in his hand and looked down at them complacently—Landon, debonair, smiling, triumphant.

Aylmer's eyes searched past him after the first glance of surprise. Touching his feet lay Miss Van Arlen, bound as he had been bound, the mark of the gag still grooving her lips and cheek. Beyond her, propped against a bulkhead at the end of the narrow oblong lazaret in which they all lay, was another figure. Aylmer blinked and frowned in his surprise. The face was unfamiliarly pale; the usually apathetic eyes dark with repressed emotion. But they both undoubtedly belonged to—Mr. Miller.

This, then, was the meaning of the opening of their prison door for the second time the previous evening; this was the addition to their cargo which darkness had concealed from him.

Landon gave a pleasant little laugh.

"An unexpected reunion, is it not?" he suggested. "I have unavoidably deprived you of a few luxuries, my dear Miller, but have supplied what is far more important—true friends."

For a moment the other was silent; his glance reviewed his surroundings with careful intensity; he seemed to prime himself with all available information before he dealt with a situation which found him moved, indeed, but not by useless loss of temper.

"You will probably pay for this—highly," he said in his usual level tones. "I do not know precisely what you expect to gain, my dear Landon, but believe me the price of this exploit will be more than you can afford."

Landon made a gesture of protest.

"There will be a price; you are quick to jump to these conclusions," he agreed. "But I, dear friend, am the payee."

He nodded, favoring each of them with a glance in turn.

"Yes," he said. "That is the situation; please understand it. I am dictating terms, I. I am no longer the hunted, but the hunter. I have many debits in my mental ledger. I propose to collect them once and for all, in full."

The three regarded him without speaking, and he laughed again, amiably.

"Sister-in-law," he said, "your sex requires my first apologies. You must blame the wind, not me, for the discomforts of the night. While we remained within earshot of the land or of passing ships, your silence was overwhelmingly desirable. This applied to all three of you, and the contumacious wind forbore to rise. But the breeze of the last hour has given us an offing which frees you of all disabilities. Your bonds, to commence with."

He stooped and rapidly unlashed her wrists and ankles. He put out a hand to draw her to her feet.

With an uncontrollable gesture of repulsion, she waved it away and rose unsteadily, clinging to the bulkhead. She faced him.

"Have you never asked yourself what the end will be, the end of all this?" she said suddenly, fiercely. "You win a trick here and there; you reckon up the points; you mock your adversaries. Do you never give a thought to what the price, the ultimate price, must be?"

He looked at her—a look that held some curiosity—a tinge, indeed, of admiration.

"You are a little unexpected, my dear Claire," he answered. "Does not the more material question of food and drink engross you? Do you really wish to discuss abstractions?"

She gave a hopeless little shrug of her shoulder.

"It is because you are wholly evil, wholly, that you puzzle me. And yet you are not unintelligent; you must know, mere experience must teach you, there is a price to be paid!"

"Certainly." Landon laughed again, a mocking laugh. "I sketched it in outline to your—your lover—may I have the felicity of calling him that?—when I enjoyed his company in the silo on the road to El Dibh."

The color flamed to her cheek.

"You are insolent!" she said, and again Landon laughed.

"Or merely premature?" he asked gaily. "After all, for the moment hospitality must engross me and nothing else." He turned and beckoned to some one unseen. He received a basket.

"Bread, cheese, wine," he explained. "Will you help yourself while I assist my other guests? Or, if they choose, they may assist themselves. But I must have your words, my friends, that you will not attempt violence or escape if I release your hands."

The two prisoners exchanged glances. Then Miller held out his fettered wrists.

"As you will," he said quietly. "Temporarily I give you my parole. I retain the right to withdraw it."

Landon nodded and looked at his cousin.

"And you?" he asked.

Aylmer met the look squarely.

"No, to you I will be beholden for nothing," he answered. "I give no word; I keep my independence."

Landon shrugged his shoulders.

"You only inconvenience yourself," he said indifferently. "Well, my Quixote, stay here then, in the dark, shackled, and alone."

He held back the door, motioning the others into the outer cabin. Miss Van Arlen stood still, leaning against the bulkhead.

Landon made another gesture towards the door. "Ladies first," he smiled. "While we play at pirates, let us maintain the high standard of piratical courtesy."

She shook her head.

"I prefer to stay," she said quietly.

Landon's surprise escaped in an exclamation. And then he laughed—an evil, sneering laugh, which brimmed with insolence and suggestion.

"You—prefer—to stay?" he repeated, and looked from her to the man who lay at his feet. "Was my chance shot so far from the target?" he asked. "You will stay with—whom? Not a lover?"

Her eyes were stormy, but her voice was restrained.

"Even your insolence does not turn me from my duty," she answered. "Captain Aylmer has served, and is suffering for, me and mine."

She turned her eyes from his as she spoke and, as if some power outside herself compelled her, let them meet the glance which Aylmer flung at her from the level of the floor. Through a pregnant moment she read its message—surprise, incredulity, and then hope. These lit fires in it one by one, but the last eclipsed all other gleams, and remained.

He spoke.

"Thank you," he said simply. "But I am not here to add to your hardships. I cannot accept the sacrifice."

"The decision is with me," she said quietly, but with determination. "It is settled. I remain here, with Captain Aylmer."

Landon was still smiling.

"It has its unconventional side, this decision of yours," he said. "I must remind you of that."

"You need remind me of nothing," she answered. "I stay; that is all."

He shook his head.

"Not quite all," he objected. "I must, of course, have a promise from you that you will not interfere with Captain Aylmer's bonds in any way."

She nodded.

"Very well," she said laconically. "I promise."

Still Landon hesitated, his hand upon the door.

"And you?" he said suddenly, looking at his cousin. "You shall give me your word not to let her touch you."

Aylmer's eyes sparkled with rage.

"Have you not got her word, you dog!" he answered, and there was an intonation on the last syllable which seemed to sting even Landon's imperturbability. For he made a threatening step forward.

"By God, I'll show you where you are!" he cried. "You dare to give me your impudence, here?"

He stood looking down, his breath coming pantingly. His cheeks had become curiously patched; he gasped.

Miller's even voice broke across the tension.

"Captain Aylmer refuses any relaxations," he said urbanely. "Why not accept the fact?"

Landon swung round.

"Do you think I daren't?" he cried menacingly. "Do you think I daren't go the whole hog? If I swing him overboard, who's to tell? By the Lord, I've a mind for it—and to make myself safe with the rest of you, too. I've a mind, a very good mind, to rid myself of the lot of you!"

"And live afterwards—on what?" replied Miller very quietly.

There was silence, more than a moment of it. Landon's fingers sought and found purchase upon the wood partition. His glance dwelled upon Miller, debatingly. Slowly the flush died from his cheek.

And then he laughed again, harshly, unmirthfully, even apologetically, so it seemed, but as if the apology were to himself. He motioned Miller to the door. He laid the basket upon the floor.

"Make the most of it," he said. He hesitated. "And don't count on my—my good-humor—again." Without a backward look, he placed the lantern on the table and banged the door.

Claire made no comment; her whole desire was to dull all sense of emotion from the situation. She laid her hand upon the basket; she drew out a bottle of wine; she found a tin cup and filled it. She did it all with matter-of-factness; she did not spare a glance towards the floor.

And then she knelt beside him, put her arm behind his back, helped him to shuffle into an uneasy leaning posture against the bulkhead. She brought him the cup.

He shook his head in protest.

"After you," he said determinedly.

Her lips moved to speech, and then she stayed herself. After all was not stolid acquiescence best; did not that kill sentiment, and was not sentiment the one thing to be dreaded in this situation? She lifted her shoulders in an indifferent little shrug and then she drank. He watched her quietly. She refilled the cup and held it to his lips. He moved his chin in a queer, cramped little nod of acknowledgment and drank in his turn. And there was a hint of reluctance in the little sigh with which he relinquished the emptied cup.

She refilled it and held it for him again, anticipating his protests with the declaration that she herself would have no more, disliked it, wished, rather, for food. And so she watched him drink for the second time, slowly, swallowing tiny mouthfuls, dwelling on it. A queer sense of unreality gripped her as she did so. It was as if she waited on and tolerated the foibles of a child. A hundred times she had done as much or more for her small nephew, but without this protective sense in the doing of it. She realized the fact with a sort of self-inquisition. It pleased her to see this man where her help was essential to him. Some instinct of the same kind had been awake in her as she nursed and watched over him at the silo, but it had died or slept in the intervening weeks of ordinary converse at Gibraltar and on the yacht. It woke again now; and it had grown unwatched. Why, she asked herself. Why?

And then came the question of food. The basket contained no accessories, merely the bare essentials. She had to break the bread and divide the cheese with her fingers, bit by bit. And bit by bit she had to place each portion between his teeth. She shrank, or she told herself that it was shrinking, as her hand brushed his moustache, but was there anything truly repellent in this suddenly intimate action? Again self-inquisition denied it. Pleasure was in the sensation, not pain.

She rose, at last, when the contents of the basket were finished, and placed it on the table. Returning she flicked the crumbs from his shoulder and then, with a little sigh, sat down. He looked at her gravely, but with a gravity which tells of emotion restrained.

"Thank you again," he said. "Thank you for everything, but—why?"

She gave a little start. Was not this the question that her inner self had been dinning in her ears for half an hour? She was humbling herself, sacrificing herself even, in the eyes of such as Landon, lowering herself to serve this man. Why?

And as she debated she avoided his gaze lest he should read indecision in her glance. And yet the answer should have been glib on her lips; she had, indeed, already given it to Landon. Duty to a servant suffering in her service. But was that all?

"Did you expect me to choose the company of your cousin?" she asked slowly. "The very sight of him revolts me. I cannot stand it!"

"You spared me a little of that distaste, at our first meeting," he said, and there was the glint of a queer smile beneath his moustache. "Have I lived that down?"

"I know now that you are a gentleman," she said simply. "I realize, too, that Landon is—is monstrous, wickedness incarnate, beyond the reach of human feeling, completely vile. I think," she hesitated, "I think he must have concentrated within himself every evil influence that has fallen upon his family, to leave you—" again she faltered, as if she struggled with a compelling power, not as if a word or phrase escaped her—"to leave you—stainless," she sighed with an inflection that seemed to tell of something reluctant in the effort.

For a moment he was silent. Then the color flamed to his face; the light of incredulity woke in his eyes.

"Then I start now with every handicap cleared away?" he asked quickly. "You see me—as other men?"

She turned and looked at him. She smiled a little wearily.

"No," she said quietly. "Not as other men."

He drew a deep breath.

"Claire," he said very quietly, "a month ago I came first into your life. Fate brought me to you, to earn, and then to resent, your unexplained hatred. When I understood it, I swore to myself that I would make you—just. That, then, is a task accomplished."

Was this sudden intimate use of her Christian name unconscious or was it premeditated? She made no comment; she only bowed her assent.

"That was no personal decision," went on Aylmer. "I did it as a duty—to all who bore my name. The personal factor came afterwards, but so soon afterwards that I can scarcely tell you when the one merged in the other. I loved you; did you understand that?"

And now it was her turn to flush and wince. But was it wincing? The pulse which throbbed through her—was it truly resentment? A sense of sudden bewilderment came over her—a bewilderment which sought refuge, at first, in silence.

"You—you almost threatened me," she allowed at last, with the ghost of a tiny smile. "And I am not accustomed to threats. They—they made me angry."

"Yes, but you understood!" he cried. "You understood what I sought and for what reward?"

There was something masterful, triumphant in his tone which grated on her instincts, a reaction to the days when all he said and did grated upon her. And it helped her to regain command of herself, to snatch herself from the brink to which she was drifting.

"I hoped I misunderstood," she said coolly. "For it was a liberty. At the time I considered it an insult."

She did not look at him, but she heard the quick intake of his breath. And the sudden pain in his voice smote her with remorse.

"As an insult it is atoned?" he asked. "Does it remain a liberty still?"

She turned her eyes to his, and he looked up to know his opportunity there, and could not grasp it. He lay a prisoner at her feet. If he had been free, if his arms had been about her, if he had used his man's strength and mastery to take and hold her, if opportunity had not mocked him, would he have won? Fate knows, but fate was smiling then. And the history of man and maid from all ages is with us. Yes, he would have won; he would have won.

She gave a tiny gasp, and then the fugitive instinct, the primeval resort to flight, was upon her. She sent opportunity packing with her reply.

"I am here, by my own choice, with you—alone," she reminded him. "A liberty may become a question of—circumstance."

He flushed hotly, and again remorse gripped her as she saw the haggard lines draw in about his eyes.

"I can only ask your pardon," he answered. "I ask it, humbly and contritely." He gave a wry little smile. "And perhaps circumstance is to blame, after all."

Opportunity halted in her flight, hesitated, gave a returning step towards beckoning remorse. There was a shuffling sound at the door of the lazaret, and opportunity wheeled and fled.

"Let me in!" said a childish voice impatiently. "It's me! It's me! Let me in!"

The girl started forward.

"John!" she cried. "Little John! Find the bolt! It's your side of the door!"

The shuffling, scrabbling sound continued. An impatient foot kicked the panel. And then suddenly, creakingly, the door flew back. The child pranced gaily over the threshold.

"I just kicked, so!" he explained, "and it flew in! I did not know there was a cupboard here." He gave a shrill little shout of amazement and capered towards Aylmer. "It's the pig man!" he cried. "The pig man!"

Claire's arms closed about him and snatched him to her.

"Oh, John—Little John!" she whispered fiercely. "Aren't you glad to see me, me?"

He held his face back from her for an instant and looked at her appraisingly.

"Yes," he said meditatively. "But you aren't come to make me wear clean things again? Muhammed doesn't."

And then he wriggled energetically, his eyes on Aylmer.

"Is he hurted?" he asked anxiously. "He was hurted once, last time I saw him. Why have they wrapped up his hands?"

A sudden gleam shone on Aylmer's face. He held out the pinioned wrists.

"Could you unknot them, old boy?" he asked quickly. "Would you like to try?"

She gave him a glance of comprehension and let the child go. He leaned down over Aylmer and his little fingers picked at the cords. He pulled at first unavailingly. Aylmer gave low-voiced suggestions, showed which knot should be dealt with first. Claire, as she watched, put out a hand instinctively to help.

He smiled, but snatched his wrists away.

"You forget," he said quietly.

She drew back.

"Yes," she said. "I forgot," and a flame of unreasoning anger burned in her. Landon fought with any weapon he chose to forge—a lie had ever been the easiest to his hand. And they? They must not touch the fringe of disloyalty; even with him they had to keep perfect faith. Her feminine perceptions revolted; this was too rigid for her woman's mind. If she had forgotten, for a moment, her promise, why should he not avail himself of the slip, which was hers alone? And then she smiled. Had he not gone up in her estimation another step? Yes, and she smiled again; how long ago was it since she, who now looked up at him, had from so very great a height of condescension and dislike, looked down?

Suddenly the child gave a little squeal of triumph.

"There!" he cried. "You pull your hands—so! Then I pull so!" And shouted again, for the lashings which lay upon the parted wrists lay now loosely, in loops which dangled on the floor.

And then, as anger had seized upon her, so did fear. She looked at him with suddenly apprehensive eyes.

"You will do—what?" she asked tremulously. Her imagination pictured half a dozen dangers in as many seconds, all lurking to overwhelm a too reckless freedom.

He smiled.

"For the moment I dissemble, and wait," he said, and sat down quietly to loop anew the cords about his arms, but in running loops, this time—knots which would give before one well-directed pull.