“Don’t mind me--until the doctor comes--but start my stuff going.... By the way, in a couple of hours, if it goes steadily, break in on my stuff and give Bingley a head-line in the _Thames_ to-morrow. He only meant to get my horse--I see that. A man takes liberty in shooting a horse from under another--but never mind. There’s always room for two at the top!” * * * * * “He was shot from behind--a bad wound, but not necessarily a fatal one.... It hit him under the right-shoulder-blade,” the doctor was saying. Routledge felt choky and very tired. His consciousness wavered back and forth like the throw of wind under a punkah when the coolies are fresh.... There was a light running step outside.... He was to go down close to the Gates with a lock on his lips.... His lips were tightened. First of all, there was a sweet breath of wind, like one of the best memories of early life.... He wanted to rub his eyes, but the surgeon held his hands.... Noreen’s voice was quick and tragic. The word “die” was uttered. “No,” the doctor repeated; “not necessarily a fatal wound. I’ve ordered a carriage. We’ll take him to the Rest House.” * * * * * Noreen--the Leper Valley--the Russian music--the Shanghai Bund--Charing Cross--the carriage--the hovel in Rydamphur--the night in Bookstalls--Noreen--that he must be silent in delirium--these were the waves of consciousness.... He felt her hand, her lips, upon his brow. Even if it were just a vision, he wanted to welcome her with a smile, but his lips were locked. “Oh, you martyr--you blessed martyr!... Don’t you know me, Routledge-san?” “Is it true, Noreen? Are you here?” “With you always, beloved.” A frown fell upon his face. “I just came in from Liaoyang for the cable. It isn’t good for you to be with me.” “My Master--don’t you know Father is dead, and that he was sane to confess at the last?... Feeney and Finacune were there.” The eyes of Routledge found her. “Just a minute, doctor,--I must say this.... Noreen, don’t speak of it again--the others need not know! Your father was the best and bravest of our breed----” “Strongheart!... London knows; Tokyo knows; every British correspondent cabled it to his paper that night, months ago; there are crowns of vine-leaves for you in the heart of every friend of yours; the Secret Service knows----” “But your good name, Noreen----” he faltered. “My name is Routledge for eternity,” she answered, and the famous eyes bent to lull him.... “Sleep, my lover, sleep.... I shall always be with you now!” TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER THE GREAT FRIEZE COAT AND THE WOMAN JOURNEY DOWN THE COAST OF CHINA TOGETHER, AND CROSS INDIA TO THE LEPER VALLEY