“It’s no time to leave Mr. Blandhorn—a day like this,” Willard continued, moistening his dry lips. Spink shrugged, and sounded a faint whistle. “Queer—!” “What’s queer?” “He said just the same thing to me about _you_—wanted to get you out of Eloued on account of the goings on today. He said you’d been rather worked up lately about religious matters, and might do something rash that would get you both into trouble.” “Ah—” Willard murmured. “And I believe you might, you know—you look sorter funny.” Willard laughed. “Oh, come along,” his friend urged, disappointed. “I’m sorry—I can’t. I had to come this far so that he wouldn’t know. But now I’ve got to go back. Of course what he told you was just a joke—but I must be there today to see that nobody bothers him.” Spink scanned his companion’s face with friendly flippant eyes. “Well, I give up—. What’s the _use_, when he don’t want you?—Say,” he broke off, “what’s the truth of that story about the old man’s having insulted a marabout in a mosque night before last? It was all over the bazaar—” Willard felt himself turn pale. “Not a marabout. It was—where did you hear it?” he stammered. “All over—the way you hear stories in these places.” “Well—it’s not true.” Willard lifted his bundle from the motor and tucked it under his arm. “I’m sorry, Harry—I’ve got to go back,” he repeated. “What? The Call, eh?” The sneer died on Spink’s lips, and he held out his hand. “Well, I’m sorry too. So long.” He turned the crank, scrambled into his seat, and cried back over his shoulder: “What’s the _use_, when he don’t want you?” Willard was already labouring home across the plain. After struggling along for half an hour in the sand he crawled under the shade of an abandoned well and sat down to ponder. Two courses were open to him, and he had not yet been able to decide between them. His first impulse was to go straight to the Mission, and present himself to Mr. Blandhorn. He felt sure, from what Spink had told him, that the old missionary had sent him away purposely, and the fact seemed to confirm his apprehensions. If Mr. Blandhorn wanted him away, it was not through any fear of his imprudence, but to be free from his restraining influence. But what act did the old man contemplate, in which he feared to involve his disciple? And if he were really resolved on some rash measure, might not Willard’s unauthorized return merely serve to exasperate this resolve, and hasten whatever action he had planned? The other step the young man had in mind was to go secretly to the French Administration, and there drop a hint of what he feared. It was the course his sober judgment commended. The echo of Spink’s “What’s the use?” was in his ears: it was the expression of his own secret doubt. What _was_ the use? If dying could bring any of these darkened souls to the light ... well, that would have been different. But what least sign was there that it would do anything but rouse their sleeping blood-lust?