He opened his eyes and saw that he was being carried through a quiet courtyard where he could hear the footsteps of the men who bore him and see by the light of a smoking lantern the façade of a church. Then he heard the same quavering voice say— "Take him up to the salamlik, my brother," and then there was a jerk and a jolt and he lost consciousness again. He was lying on a bed in a dimly lighted room when memory returned and the events of the day unrolled themselves before him. He made an effort to raise himself on his elbows, but in his weakness he fell back, and after a while he dropped into a delirious sleep. In this sleep he saw first his mother and then Helena, and then Helena and again his mother—everything and everybody else being quite blotted out. *CHAPTER III* Soon after sunset Lady Nuneham had taken her last dose of medicine, and had got into bed, when the Consul-General came into her room. He had the worn and jaded look by which she knew that the day had gone heavily with him, and she waited for him to tell her how and why. With a face full of the majesty of suffering he told her what had happened, describing the scene in the General’s office, and all the circumstances whereby matters had been brought to such a tragic pass. "It was pitiful," he said. "The General went too far—much too far—and the sight of Gordon’s white face and trembling lips was more than I could bear." His voice thickened as he spoke, and it seemed to the mother at that moment as if the pride of the father in his son, which he had hidden so many years in the sealed chamber of his iron soul, had only come up at length that she might see it die. "It’s all over with him now, I suppose, and we must make the best of it. He promised so well, though! Always did—ever since he was a boy. If one’s children could only remain children! The pity of it! Good-night! Good-night, Janet!" She had listened to him without speaking and without a tear coming into her eyes, and she answered his "Good-night" in a low but steady voice. Soon afterwards the gong sounded in the hall, and, as she lay in her bed, she knew that he would be dining alone—one of the great men of the world, and one of the loneliest. Meantime Fatimah, tidying up the room for the night and sniffling audibly, was talking as much to herself as to her mistress. At one moment she was excusing the Consul-General, at the next she was excusing Gordon. Lady Nuneham let her talk on, and gave no sign until darkness fell and the moment came for the Egyptian woman also to get into bed. Then the old lady said— "Open the door of this room, Fatimah," pointing to a room on her right. Fatimah did so, without saying a word, and then she lay down, blowing her nose demonstratively as if trying to drown other noises.