"Duke," she said, for at least the twentieth time, "I keep wondering how it came about."

He spent all his spare time now--it was not much--in the vine pergola, and he was picking out the ripe grapes from a bunch as he answered her.

"I don't. I had been thinking about you a lot; and then I was tired--really done!"

"What an excuse for falling in love," she protested half-vexedly; "but I should like to know."

He came over to her and put his arm round her waist.

"How can I tell, sweetest? I had been thinking, as I said, a lot about you--and missing a lot--stockings, and all that"--his smile was charm itself; "then, when I saw your dear old head bob up all shaven and shorn!" he kissed it deliberately, and she laughed.

"For all that," she persisted, "I should like to understand."

"My dearest dear," he replied, "you are such a beggar for wanting to know and understand. Now I, my dear Marmie--I'm too happy to want to know anything! I'm content with what I have--and you are content, too, you know you are!"

There was no denying the fact. Content, indeed, was no word for the feeling that you were rapt away from the very possibility of care. There, in the very shadow of the grave, overlooking the Lake of Death, those two lovers found their joy enhanced by the uncertainty of life.

"I was chief mourner at six funerals this morning," Marmaduke would say sadly. "As fine fellows as ever stepped. Sometimes I wonder, darlingest, if I ought to come to you----"

"You can bring no more harm to me than I am in already," she would reply. "I am in the thick of it here. Indeed, I was wondering if I ought to let you come."

"Let me!" he would echo derisively. "As if you could stop me."

And in truth there was no gainsaying him, for Marmaduke, easy-going as a friend, was an imperious lover.

After he left her in the dawnings Marrion would take out the pocket Shakespeare she had brought with her and, sitting out under the purpling vines, read how the immortal lovers parted.

"I am content so thou wouldst have it so."

She had never before realised that so lay the very essence of love. No plannings, no cuttings, no contrivings. All things simplified, clarified.

It was a wonderful fortnight. The fire, after a brief recrudescence, died down, leaving the slums of the city in ruins, but purified. So cholera, most mysterious of diseases, abated, disappeared from the town; and even in the camps, exposed to the miasma of the Lake of Death, was shorn of half its terrors. And there was a stir as of coming life in the military backwaters. Marmaduke, his face alight, would say that the one thing needful to perfect happiness must be close at hand; for that was the curious thing about finding yourself in love--you wanted to be up and doing all the time.

And so one day when, instead of Marmaduke, Andrew Fraser--long since let into the secret of Maryam Effendi--appeared with a note, Marrion tried to echo Romeo's words without any reservations, and to be content if he would have it so. For the note ran as follows:

"Heart's Delight,

"The news has come! We are off to the Crimea. I feel that for the first time in my life I am going to have my chance--or, rather, we are going to have our chance, for I shall take you with me, never fear. I wish, dear, your real body were, small enough to go into my knapsack, but the heart that beats under this uniform coat is large enough to hold your love. I must be very busy, but I will find time in a day or two for perfect happiness.

"Yours ever,

"Marmaduke.

"P.S.--I must get you to box my ears before I go. It will keep me straight and make me what England expects.--M. M.

"P.P.S.--Andrew says he is taking my stockings for you to mend. Forgive us poor men bodies.--M."

So she sat darning the stockings and trying to prevent a sinking at the heart.

From her verandah she could see the bustle and stir in the camp. The next day one of the meadow stretches lay bare of tents. So the work of embarkation must be close at hand. Aye, the bay was thronged with transports! There was a sound of drums and fifes in the air. What room for love and peace when war and strife were afoot? But any moment now might bring Marmaduke, and that was enough for the present.

It was on the fourth day, when she was beginning to wonder if possibly he had not found time, that an orderly appeared with a note. It was not from Duke; it was from Andrew.

"Dear Madam,

"Please come. I have sent the Colonel's charger. He will carry a lady. He is very ill."

She turned soul-sick as she read.

"Is he--is the Colonel very ill?" she asked.

"Verra ill indeed, m'm. It's the co-lira, and they're sayin' he's like to dee--God forbid it!"

"Like to die!"

Well, it was best to know the truth. She put on her European dress and started, remembering as she rode through the flower-set meadows how they had planned this visit to his hut. How she should spend the day there and be introduced to his friends. For though they never spoke of the future or the past, living only in the present heaven, Marmaduke had evidently never considered the possibility of separation and she had been content to let such possibilities slide.

And now? She bit her lip to keep it from quivering as Andrew met her.

"He's lying in the arbour, m'm. And he's no worse, anyway."

Yes, there he was, lying--such a long length--on his camp-bed covered with his plaid. Lying under the arbour of Jonah's gourd, about which he had chattered so gaily as being a laughing-stock to the other officers, though they dearly loved to sit in its shade. The ripe fruit hung scarlet amid the yellowing leaves. It seemed to throw the blue pallor of his face into louder warning that Death was in grips with Life.

She knelt beside the bed and took his hand without one word. She had seen too many cholera cases to hope for speech, but the eyelids quivered and the fingers closed on hers.

"How long?" she asked.

"Since yesterday morning. He would not give in--we were to move to-night, ye see----"

"Why didn't you----?" Words failed her for reproach.

"He wouldna let me send. I'm thinking he was afraid for ye."

There was a long pause. Her heart was full of regret, of bitterness. Afraid for her--oh, Duke, Duke!

"And he has everything?"

"Aye, everything! The doctor will be here again the now."

He came and found his patient better. He opened his eyes and smiled. Collapse had gone, the following fever had laid hold on him. Would his heart stand it? All that day he lay in something like sleep--quiet, so long as his hand could find that other hand. Once or twice she caught a whispered word of command and once, urgent, came a call for reinforcements. His mind was at battle--far, far from her. About an hour before sunset he turned his head and looked at her.

"I've done it," he said faintly; "I've done it!"

The doctor came in many a time and oft. The orderlies were always doing something; but her part was to hold his hand until the last. She saw it coming clearly; she knew that it must be so.

Someone in the arbour suggested a clergyman, and they sent to fetch one.

"He will be too late," half-whispered a voice.

Was it hers? Too late! As if it mattered? As if He who made----

Hark! A bird singing. It had come in after the fruit--perhaps he had fed it, for he loved God's creatures--and now not five yards from where he lay it was giving its heart out in full-throated song.

Hush! Listen! Listen!--it seemed to say.

The still figure was growing more still.

The slow breathing grew slower.

The touch of these cold fingers on hers grew colder.

Then their feeble clasp had gone, but the bird sang on.

She rose unsteadily, drew the plaid over his face, and left the tent. She did not seem to realise the presence of others.

Andrew ran after her.

"Marrion, Marrion, whaur are ye gaun? Ye poor, poor thing!" he whispered hoarsely in the extremity of his bewildered grief. "Bide a wee, and I'll see ye haim."

"I am going to walk home," she said dully. "It will do me good. I must--I must do something--and I must be alone."

So she walked over the meadows, crushing the drifts of purple colchicum under her feet. What had he called the flower of death? Ah, the iris! That would come in the spring. It would flower on his grave perhaps. And all the time she felt his cold hand on hers, she heard the bird's full song. How he would have loved to hear it! Perhaps he had.

It was dark ere she reached the vine pergola where they had been so happy, and she started when a tall officer in Highland costume came towards her. Was it all a bad dream? Was she waking to find him still her own? But he was only the bearer of a kindly message from the regiment to say that the colonel was to be buried at dawn, and that if Mrs. Marsden----

"Who told you I was Mrs. Marsden?" she asked sharply. "Andrew Fraser?"

The officer bowed and went on.

"As one of the colonel's oldest friends, would care----"

She shook her head. She was grateful. It was a kind thought. But Colonel Muir was Colonel Muir and everybody loved him--he would have enough friends.

"Madam," said the young officer, with a break in his voice, "when we lower him into his solitary grave--he is to be buried on the hill above his tent where he sat so often--we shall all know that the finest fellow in the regiment, nay, in the whole army, has gone from us."

She lay that night, her face crushed into the pillow without a sob. Only once or twice she whispered to herself.

"Ah, Duke, Duke, I'm glad I made you happy--so glad--so glad!"

She was up betimes to take her stand on a neighbouring hill, where, unobserved, she could watch him laid to his rest. Not a tent was to be seen; the battalion had shifted quarters during the night; the forward march to which he had looked with such longing had begun, and he----

Close by the belt of forest trees she could see his dismantled hut; a heap of packed baggage piled close by with a sentry on guard beside it. But the arbour hid what it held. So, as the sun rose, the leaden beat of the Dead March rose, as the regiment, followed by detachments from all and every regiment in Varna, drew up in a lane to let the artillery with a gun-carriage draped with the colours pass up.

Just his coat, his plaid, his sword, his bonnet, that was all. And after him his grey Arab--the one she had ridden--fully dressed. That was Andrew on the one side, and the other three? Generals, she supposed, by their uniforms.

What a crowd of officers! And the men, marching so slowly to the muffled beat! Would they never reach the grave?

At last. Now there were some words of command--heard vaguely as inarticulate cries--the long procession formed up, massed itself into a hollow square.

They must be reading the service now.

"Being dead yet liveth--yet liveth--yet liveth----"

She held fast to that, as her eyes travelled where his had so often rested in content--thank God for that--in sheer content.

So, as she looked at the wide expanse of hill and valley, lake and sea, those half-heard words of his came back to memory--"I've done it--I have done it!"

What had he done?

The sharp rattle of musketry roused her. Again, again! The Last Post had been set. The last honour paid.

A minute's pause. Then the bands struck up their regimental marches, orders followed sharp and incisive. So with a swing the men stepped out, only a little knot of officers remaining to see the grave filled in. She must wait till they had gone. Shifting her position to one of greater ease, she rested her aching head upon a tussock of sweet thyme that was shaded by a rugged scarp of rock.

And so, wearied out with her sleepless night, with utter despair and misery she dozed off, sinking deeper and deeper into slumber, all grief forgotten, peaceful as a child. The long hours passed, yet still she slept.

When she awoke it was almost sun-setting. Over the far sea, shadowy outlines and still more shadowy trails of smoke told that the argosy of an army had started for the Crimea. Not a tent was to be seen. They had folded their white wings and gone. Already the populace had cleared away all that had been left behind. The hill-sides showed bare without a trace of humanity. His very hut had disappeared, the arbour was broken down, its scarlet fruits rifled. Only on the mossy plateau below the scarp at her feet lay a heap of stones.

Her heart gave a great throb. She had not thought of that, but a cairn was meet and fitting. And how many men of his regiment had gone there, even amid their busy-ness, to throw one stone for the sake of their love and respect!

She must throw one, too; at least, she could do that!

Her composure was almost terrible. She picked up a little moss-grown quartz pebble, and, going down, laid it where she judged those folded hands of his must rest.

"That's my heart, Duke!" she said. "It's cold--cold as a stone."

Steps behind her made her turn. It was Andrew Fraser, his lean face all blistered with the tears he had shed.

"My puir lammie!" he said. "I thocht I might find you here when you werna at the hoose, and the woman was wae to know what had become o' you."

The very warmth of his sympathy roused antagonism.

"I was just going back. Do you want me?"

He looked at her almost pitifully.

"It'll be no comfort tae you to ken that I'm as fu o' grief as you, Marrion. But I had tae see ye before we left. I got leave till the last. Oh, my lassie, is there naethin' I can do for you?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing, Andrew, except hold your tongue. The past is gone for ever!"

And as she walked down the hill with him her clasped hands bit into each other with bitter strength. Was it for this she had planned and protected? But, thank God, she had made him happy at the last!