"You--you almost threatened me," she allowed at last, with the ghost of a tiny smile. "And I am not accustomed to threats. They--they made me angry." "Yes, but you understood!" he cried. "You understood what I sought and for what reward?" There was something masterful, triumphant in his tone which grated on her instincts, a reaction to the days when all he said and did grated upon her. And it helped her to regain command of herself, to snatch herself from the brink to which she was drifting. "I hoped I misunderstood," she said coolly. "For it was a liberty. At the time I considered it an insult." She did not look at him, but she heard the quick intake of his breath. And the sudden pain in his voice smote her with remorse. "As an insult it is atoned?" he asked. "Does it remain a liberty still?" She turned her eyes to his, and he looked up to know his opportunity there, and could not grasp it. He lay a prisoner at her feet. If he had been free, if his arms had been about her, if he had used his man's strength and mastery to take and hold her, if opportunity had not mocked him, would he have won? Fate knows, but fate was smiling then. And the history of man and maid from all ages is with us. Yes, he would have won; he would have won. She gave a tiny gasp, and then the fugitive instinct, the primeval resort to flight, was upon her. She sent opportunity packing with her reply. "I am here, by my own choice, with you--alone," she reminded him. "A liberty may become a question of--circumstance." He flushed hotly, and again remorse gripped her as she saw the haggard lines draw in about his eyes. "I can only ask your pardon," he answered. "I ask it, humbly and contritely." He gave a wry little smile. "And perhaps circumstance is to blame, after all." Opportunity halted in her flight, hesitated, gave a returning step towards beckoning remorse. There was a shuffling sound at the door of the lazaret, and opportunity wheeled and fled. "Let me in!" said a childish voice impatiently. "It's me! It's me! Let me in!" The girl started forward. "John!" she cried. "Little John! Find the bolt! It's your side of the door!" The shuffling, scrabbling sound continued. An impatient foot kicked the panel. And then suddenly, creakingly, the door flew back. The child pranced gaily over the threshold. "I just kicked, so!" he explained, "and it flew in! I did not know there was a cupboard here." He gave a shrill little shout of amazement and capered towards Aylmer. "It's the pig man!" he cried. "The pig man!" Claire's arms closed about him and snatched him to her. "Oh, John--Little John!" she whispered fiercely. "Aren't you glad to see me, _me_?" He held his face back from her for an instant and looked at her appraisingly. "Yes," he said meditatively. "But you aren't come to make me wear clean things again? Muhammed doesn't." And then he wriggled energetically, his eyes on Aylmer.