The cry was clearer this time and the blood left his fine old face in sudden doubt as he turned swiftly to his left. Turned, and saw a faint red glow through an arch far down the passage. That was the arch leading down into the balcony that was never lit up--that was never to be lit up because of something that had happened there long ago--because of the something which had _begun_ a tragedy. Why was it lit up? A stronger fear caught at his heart. Could Laila?--No!--impossible! He ran on, and the next moment was realizing that some tragedy had _ended_ in that balcony. But what? Who was the woman in native dress who stood with a man's arm around her--a man in a scarlet and gold mess jacket? Ah!--that was Captain Dering, undoubtedly. But the woman? The woman in scarlet and gold also--God in Heaven!--had the dead-- As he stared, the long, supple limbs, so clearly outlined under their cunningly contrived draperies, seemed to lose themselves in the colour, the glitter of rich stuff; one white arm, losing its hold on a cuff of scarlet and gold, swung back helplessly, and Vincent Dering, with a passionate entreaty to his darling not to be afraid, to look up, and tell him where she was hurt, sank to one knee the better to support what he held. And so the face, tilted backwards over his shoulder, came in view. _Laila!_ For an instant Ninian Bruce stood bewildered. Then all his youth, the pride of birth, the dash, and the fire which had made that youth what it had been, rose up in him. The blood surged back to his face in wild anger, in savage sense of insult, and desire for revenge. "How dare you!" he cried, clenching his hand on his sword. "You shall answer for this, sir! How do you come to be here, at this time of night, and why?" Vincent, who at the first word had given a hurried glance to see who the speaker was, then returned to his task with the indifference of one absolutely preoccupied, held up his hand passionately against more. "Don't--and don't preach, for God's sake, old man!" he cried recklessly. "Come and help, if you like. Some brute--Oh, curse him! curse him!" His one trembling hand, for the other was round her, supporting her, was busy with the quaint, jewelled clasps of the scented corselet, which was crimsoning deeper with another dye. "It's too late for preaching," he muttered, half to himself,--"too late! too late!" The words seemed to stun his hearer into silence. He stood bewildered. Too late for what?