"And this is the only man I ever loved; yet through me, or my sister's cause--through _us_--has death, perhaps, come untimely upon him!" Rose would say, wildly and passionately, and in a low, concentrated voice, as she flung herself at the foot of Denzil's bed; while all the horror of anticipated loneliness, if he should be taken away, and she left, came upon her. How bitterly now she felt punished for all the little follies of the past! His ailment was, certainly, one under which a patient may linger a long time--nay, may seem to get well, and then again be worse than ever, but which, in the end, too often slays. Hence, it is no wonder that the humble Hakeem, Abu Malec--who believed that a verse of the Koran written, washed off, and swallowed with reverence, must form a sovereign remedy, even for an obstinate and benighted infidel--should stroke his beard in sore perplexity and great wonder, and mutter-- "Thus it is that Allah seals the hearts of those who are steeped in ignorance! Their doctrines are as a worthless tree, the roots of which run on the surface of the ground, and hath no stability, and the blast of heaven will overturn." "A tiresome old pump! For Heaven's sake, keep him away, Rose!" would be the comment of the sick subaltern. And the latter had at times a secret presentiment that he would never leave the fort of Shireen Khan alive; yet the conviction was sweet that Rose had loved him, ere he passed away. She would never forget him now: he felt sure of that. She might love _another_ in time; but would that matter to him? To die, ere she was restored to the society and protection of Europeans, was to leave her most lonely and widowed in heart, and was his keenest affliction; yet he kept it to himself, having no desire to distress her unnecessarily, though his ravings sometimes indicated the prevailing thought, and the fear he saw was in her. "I don't think I shall die this bout, Rose darling. I cannot have a very deadly fever! I rode only forty miles--twenty to Loghur, and twenty back--on Shireen's old brute of a Tartar horse, and smoked about ten cheroots; but they were execrable--picked up among the lost baggage; and--and you know, dear mother, they are thorough disinfectants any way. Oh, no--I can't have a deadly fever. I shall soon be better, dear, dear mother!" Thus, Rose would learn that his wandering thoughts had flashed far, far from her, till the clouds that oppressed his brain would pass away, and, all ignorant of past delirium, he would welcome her presence with loving jet forced smiles, and seek to assure her, in a voice that grew more husky and more weak daily, "that he was better--oh, so very much better;" adding, "Ah, if we had but Sybil here--or, rather, if we did but know what has become of her!" "Sybil--ah, would that I could but know of her! But she shall be my sister, Denzil; for too surely, I fear, we shall never see Mabel more!"