We were alone, my uncle and I. His unnatural calm seemed to be breaking up, and the look of agony on his face filled me with compassion--aye, compassion even towards him. "There is something troubling you," I said quietly. "You are thinking of Maud." He looked at me wildly. I knew that I was right. "Maud's future will be in my hands," I told him in a low tone. "She loves me, and she will be my wife." At first he seemed dazed, then, as he began to realise my words, a great sob of relief shook him from head to foot. "And Francis," I added, after a short pause, "I will remember that he is my cousin--and my brother." He stood up like one who has passed through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, yet with a look almost of peace upon his spiritualised face. "Hugh, will you take my hand?" I took it, wrung it warmly, and left him. What more could I have done? He was better alone. * * * * * Like the sands of the desert before a fierce sirocco, the followers of the false prophet were flying far and wide. It had been a fierce fight. They had come down upon us like a whirlwind, with their lances gleaming like silver in the sunlight, and wild cries of "Allah! Allah!" bursting from their lips. But the maddening enthusiasm of fanatical zeal had quickly burnt itself out. We had driven them behind their trenches, only to carry them at the point of the bayonet and drive them out into the desert. The victory was complete. With my broken sword still in my hand, and my face streaming with blood and perspiration, I kneeled with wildly beating heart by the side of my father's prostrate body. For I had found him lying white and still at the bottom of one of the trenches, and--oh, the horror of it!--with a great gaping wound in his side. "My father! My father, speak to me!" I cried. "O God! if this should be death!" He opened his eyes slowly, and, dimmed though they were, he recognised me at once. "Hugh, Hugh, my boy. Thank God!" he faltered out. "You are wounded," I sobbed. "Are you in pain? Tell me, father." A spasm of agony passed over his face, but he answered me in a while. "My side--a spear-head. 'Twill soon be over." I passed my arm around him, and gazed into his face with streaming eyes. "Father, you must live," I sobbed. "Rupert Devereux has confessed. All is known!" He nodded, and smiled faintly. "I know, Hugh. He was first over the trenches. They were murdering me. He fought like a devil. There they lie--five of them. He saved my life, and crawled here as he was dying--told me--everything. I forgave him. See." I looked around, and there, scarcely a yard away, lay my Uncle Rupert, with a calm peace in his white face, turned to heaven, which in life he had never known. * * * * *