And now he was debating if there remained strength enough for him to rise and depart. All he could say was good-bye and the lie about Wampli, that he would come again. He was not sure of his limbs. He was very tired and her hands were so near—just across the little board. His eyes lifted from them to her throat, and he felt the burn of her eyes, without really looking higher. Back to her hands again. They were never still—lovely quick hands, waiting now to fill his cup. A queer thought came to him—that he should some time bring her a yellow rose, and she would hold it in the arch of her hand, her thumb beneath.... He arose. He could stand. He turned from her to locate the door, so that he would make no mistake after he spoke. He did not know what he said—some huddled, unintelligible phrase. All that he knew well was that he took her hand, that he had to leave it almost instantly or fail, since a mist came over him—even over the single madness that he held to. It was madness to leave her, yet it was the one strong prevailing thing. His feet stumbled on the way to the door. In the bright light of the court, his camel was already kneeling. Bamban stood there ready to take his ankle. He reached the seat. The camel arose.... Voices of the pit in his ears, and now he saw her there below. She had come forth into the light. Her face was clear. He saw her hand below on the leather near his foot, her lips forming to speak. He bent to them. "Why don’t you _tell_ me?" she said softly. Romney brushed his hand across his eyes and bent again. "What did you say?" he asked. "Why don’t you tell me?" she repeated. Romney glanced about till he found Bamban. "Tell the driver to bring this camel down," he said. The beast knelt obediently. Romney stood before her in the court. He brushed his hand across his eyes again, then turned to Bamban: "Tell the drivers to put the beasts away. It’s a long journey and they had better rest for to-day." "What have I done?" she asked. "I would not delay you. Oh, no, I would not hold any one from his journey—" "Don’t make it harder," he said abruptly. "Let us go in." "But—nothing but misery comes to a woman for holding a man from his journey." "How do you know that?" he asked hoarsely. *5* The second camel sprawled out of the court. He looked elongated like a dog that stretches as he walks. The man and the woman went in and took their former places at the table. It did not occur to them to move the chairs. "I had been thinking only of myself," he said at last. She smiled faintly, as if she had met that from men for ages and ages. Then the gray cold came again to her face. "It’s a fact," he repeated, "I was thinking only of myself—I didn’t know I was like that." "It has always been man’s way to forget woman’s part in a crisis—and woman’s to turn to man. You don’t know me at all."