"If Allah has written it that you are to die by the weapon of thine own obstinacy, oh, Sidi, He has written it. This is thy shirt." With an accustomedness which spoke of previous practice, he presided over his master's toilet. He fetched water, honed a razor, shaved Aylmer with deftness and despatch, produced trousers from a press, handed coat and waistcoat brushed and folded to the last pinnacle of neatness. It was as he laced the boots that he looked up inquiringly and put a question which had been obviously hanging upon his lips since the moment of his master's rising. "And what, oh, Sidi, are your intentions now?" "First, to see my host. Afterwards," he made a vague gesture, "afterwards, my friend, I shall act as is directed by your perpetual gossip--Fate!" "May Allah direct our councils!" aspired Daoud, piously. "Lean upon me, Sidi! There is no need to overtax thy returning strength!" But Aylmer leaned upon nothing. Slowly, but walking erect, he paced across the wide entrance hall, and then halted, indeterminate. The hangings across a door opposite him were drawn aside. Claire Van Arlen stood confronting him, her lips parted in amazement. "You!" she protested breathlessly. "You!" He answered with a little bow. "Myself," he said quietly. "I must present my excuses for an ... intrusion which it was not within my power to prevent." She held up her hand in protest. "When you were wounded in our service!" she cried. "When you were doing your best for us!" He shook his head. "No," he said. "I am working, I shall go on working, for myself. I should like that to be clear." She half turned away with a little startled motion and the ghost of a frown. Words trembled on her lips and were thrust back. She understood, and would have sought, at any other time, this opportunity to make things clear indeed, but ... the man was wounded ... serving her and hers. No, for the moment the opportunity must go by. She held up the cord hangings and pointed into the room behind her. "At any rate you must not stand, and I am extremely culpable to permit your mutiny against your doctor's orders. Why have you got up?" He strode slowly after her into the shadowed room. He sat down upon the wicker chair which she indicated. His eyes sought hers, keenly and very directly. "You have no news?" he asked. "Nothing out of Spain, or from the coast?" Her eyes clouded. "None, or next to none. The signal station at Spartel saw a lateen working her sweeps in the distance at dawn. There was a glassy calm inshore, but occasional and uncertain breezes out of the shelter of the land. She was making as if for Cadiz, but half an hour later, just as the haze covered her, a strong wind rose from the northwest and it is doubtful if she could have beaten up against it. In which case she probably stood down the coast." Her voice was apathetic and a little weary. Her glance avoided his. He gave a little nod as she finished.