Sanda's cheeks, which had been pale, brightened to carnation as she

read; but the dancer held all eyes. The girl crumpled up the letter and

palmed it again, wondering how to show it to Ourïeda, for they had not

once been allowed a moment alone in each other's company since the scene

with _la hennena_. Not that Sanda was suspected of a hand in that

affair, but she might have a hand in another plot. The thing was,

politely and kindly, to keep her a prisoner until after Ourïeda had gone

to her husband. Then Tahar could protect his property; and once an Arab

girl is married, she is seldom asked to elope, even by the bravest and

most enterprising of lovers. Some pretext must be thought of for the

giving of Manöel's letter. But what--what?

The answer was not long in coming. After the dance all the women, with

the exception of the throned, bejewelled bride, sprang or scrambled up

from their cushions to congratulate the celebrity. Some of them

testified their admiration by offering her rings, anklets, or little

gilded bottles of attar-of-rose which they had been holding in their

handkerchiefs; and even Aunt Mabrouka's sharp eyes did not see Sanda

slip the ball of paper into Ourïeda's hand when passing the throne to

give a gold brooch to the favourite.

The bride herself was forgotten for a few minutes. Every one was

caressing the dancer, patting her much-ringed hands, or touching her

bracelets and counting the almost countless gold coins of her head

ornaments and necklace. When Sanda dared glance across the crowd toward

Ourïeda she saw by the look in her eyes that the girl had read the

letter.

CHAPTER XXII

THE HEART OF MAX

Max had resigned himself days ago to Juan Garcia's desertion from the

Legion, since the girl must be saved. But he was far from happy about

his own position. The danger was that the day when he was due to report

himself at Sidi-bel-Abbés would come and he would be absent. His letter

of explanation ought to have arrived by that time, but it might be

considered the trick of a deserter. And even when he appeared, the news

of Garcia's desertion from his caravan must be told. The loss of a man

would be a black mark against him, and he would probably forfeit the

stripe on which he had been congratulated by the colonel.

There was consolation in the thought of seeing Sanda again, and the

certainty that she would "stand up" for him; but he did not realize just

how much that consolation would mean, until, after the delay of a day

and a half, word came that Mademoiselle DeLisle was ready to leave her

friend. The caravan had been assembled and waiting for the last hour,

and Max knew that the bride must have gone to her husband's tent. The

music had been wilder than before, the women's cries of joy louder and

more triumphant; and while he had been examining the trappings of

Sanda's camel a procession had gone by carrying aloft several big boxes

draped with brocade and cloth-of-gold: the bride's luggage on its way to

her new home. The feasting in the _tente sultane_ would continue all

that night, as on other nights; but Ourïeda and Tahar would be left

quietly in the tent of the bridegroom, alone until after dawn, when

Tahar would steal away and the girl's women friends would rush in to

wish her joy. That would be the hour, Max told himself, when all would

be found out, and the chase would begin. He had seen Manöel once since

the last details of the plot to rescue Ourïeda had been settled. He knew

that Manöel had sent a letter to her through Sanda, to whom it had been

given; but he was not sure if Sanda had been warned of the part she

would have to play.

It was of this, more than the personality of Sanda herself, that he

thought, as he waited, expecting her to come out from the Agha's tent.

But instead, she came from another direction, and he did not recognize

the slim figure in Arab dress until the well-remembered voice spoke

through the white veil:

"It is--my Soldier St. George!" Sanda cried in English, and a thrill ran

through the young man's blood. He forgot all about himself, his risks

and his perplexities, and nothing seemed to matter except that Sanda

DeLisle had come back into his life--the girl whose long, soft hair

brushed his face in dreams, the girl who had saved his belief in

womanhood and raised up for him, in his black need, a new ideal.

A tall negro woman, whose forehead was a strip of ebony, whose eyes were

beads of jet above her snowy veil, accompanied Mademoiselle DeLisle, and

the two had arrived from the bridegroom's tent, where doubtless Sanda

had been bidding the bride good-bye. Max realized that her attendant

would be shocked if he should offer to shake hands with the girl, so he

only bowed, and answered hastily in English that he was glad--glad to

see her again--glad to have the honour of being her guide. Khadra was

brought forward, and Sanda spoke a few words to her in Arabic. Then the

girl was helped into her bassourah, luggage being brought out by eunuchs

from the Agha's tent and packed in to balance the other side. Only when

the Roumia had retired behind the blue and red and purple curtains did

Ben Râana appear to wish his friend's daughter and messenger the

blessing of Allah on their journey. The caravan started, and it was not

until after the _douar_, with its green _daya_ and background of trees,

was dim in the distance that Sanda's curtains parted. Max, riding the

only horse in the party, saw the trembling of the rainbow-coloured

stuff, and glanced up, expectant. He found that his heart and all his

pulses were hammering, and as the girl's gold-brown head appeared, her

veil thrown off, something seemed to leap in his breast, something that

gave a bound like that of a great fish on a hook. She looked down and

smiled at him rather sadly, yet more sweetly it seemed to Max than any

other woman had ever smiled. He had not realized or remembered how

beautiful she was. Why, it was the most exquisite face in the world! An

angel's face, yet the face of a human girl. He adored it as a man may

adore an angel, and he loved it as a man loves a woman. A great and

irresistible tide of love rushed over him. What a fool, what a young,

simple fool he had been to think that he had ever loved Billie

Brookton! That seemed hundreds of years ago, in another incarnation,

when he had been undeveloped, when his soul had been asleep. His soul

was awake now! Something had awakened it; life in the Legion, perhaps,

for that had begun to show him his own capabilities; or else love

itself, which had been waiting to say: "I am here, now and forever."

Max was almost afraid to look at Sanda lest she should read through his

eyes the words written on his heart. But then he remembered in a flash

her love for Stanton, which would blind her to such feelings in other

men. He felt sick for an instant in his hopelessness. Wherever he

turned, whatever he did, happiness seemed never to be for him.

"You don't know how glad I am to see you!" the girl explained. "I've

thought of you so often and--" she was going to add impulsively--"and

dreamed about you, too!" but she remembered the Arab saying which

Ourïeda had told her: that when a woman dreams of a man, that is the man

she loves. It was a silly saying, and untrue; yet she kept back the

words in a queer sort of loyalty to Stanton--Stanton, who neither

thought nor dreamed of her.

"I was so thankful when I heard my father had sent for me," she quickly

went on. "I heard about it only through _that letter_--you know the one

I mean."

"Yes, I know," said Max. "I felt they didn't mean to tell you till the

last minute, though I could see no reason why. I--I was more than glad

and proud to be the one to come."

He was not hoping unselfishly that Colonel DeLisle mightn't have told in

his letter how the great march and the expected fight had been

sacrificed for her sake. He was not hoping this, because in his sudden

awakening to love he had forgotten the march. He was thinking of Sanda

and the wild happiness that would turn to pain in memory of being with

her for days in the desert. If, when he reached Sidi-bel-Abbés, he were

blamed for the delay, and punished by losing his stripe, or even by

prison, it would be nothing, or almost a joy, because he would be

suffering for her.

"It was only to-day they gave me father's letter, which you brought,"

Sanda was saying. "It was short, written in a hurry, in answer to one I

sent begging him to take me away. Yet he mentioned one thing: that he

didn't order you, but only asked if you were willing, to come. And he

told me what you answered. I can never thank you, but I do appreciate

it--_all_!"

"It was my selfishness," answered Max. "I said that the colonel was

giving me the Cross of the Legion of Honour. I felt that, then. I feel

it a lot more now." There was more truth in this than he wished her to

guess.

"You are the _realest_ friend!" cried Sanda. "Why, do you know, now I

come to think of it, unless I count my father, you are the only real

friend I have in the world?"

"You forget Mr. Stanton!" Max reminded her, without intending to be

cruel.

She blushed, and Max hated himself as if he had brought the colour to

her face with a blow.

"No," she answered quietly. "I never forget him. But you understand,

because I told you everything, that in my heart I can't call him my

friend. _He_ doesn't care enough, and _I_--care too much."

"Forgive me!" Max begged. "All the same I know he must care. He wouldn't

be human not to."

"He isn't human! He's superhuman!" She laughed, to cover her pain of

humiliation. "I suppose--long ago--he has started out on his wonderful

mission. I keep thinking of him travelling on and on through the desert,

and I pray he may be safe, and succeed in finding the Lost Oasis he

believes in. He told me in Algiers that to find it would crown his

life."

"He hadn't started when I left Touggourt," Max said rather dryly.

"What--he was still there? Then my father must have seen him. How

strange! He didn't refer to him at all."

"You mentioned that the colonel wrote in a hurry." Max hinted at this

explanation to comfort her, but he guessed why DeLisle had not been in a

mood to speak of Stanton to his daughter. "There is a reason," he had

said, "why I don't want to ask Stanton to put off starting and go to

Djazerta." And Max, having seen the dancer, Ahmara, had known without

telling what the reason was.

"Do you think Richard may be there when we get to Touggourt?" she asked,

shamefaced, yet not able to resist putting the question.

"I think it's very likely." Max tried to keep his tone at reassuring

level, though he hoped devoutly that Stanton might be gone. He could not

bear to think of his seeing Sanda again after the Ahmara episode. With a

man of Stanton's strange, erratic nature and wild impulses, who could

be sure whether--but Max would not let the thought finish in his mind.

Sanda suddenly dropped the subject. Whether this was because she saw

that Max disliked it, or whether she had no more to say, he could not

guess.

"Tell me about yourself, now," she said. "My father has told me some

things in letters, but I long to know from you if I made a mistake in

wanting you to try the Legion."

"You made no mistake. It's one of the things I have to thank you

for--one of several very great things," said Max.

"What _other_ things? I can't think of one unless you thank me for

having a splendid father."

"That's one thing."

"Are there more?"

"Yes."

"Tell me, please. Anyway, the greatest, or I shan't believe in any."

Max was silent for an instant. Then he said in a voice so low she could

hardly hear it, bending down from her bassourah, "For giving me back my

faith in women."

"I? But you hadn't lost it."

"I was in danger of losing it, with most of my mental and moral baggage.

Through you--I've kept the lot."

"That's the most beautiful thing ever said to me. And it does me so much

good after all I've gone through and been blamed for!"

"Who's dared to blame you for anything?"

"I asked you to tell me about yourself. When you have done that I'll

tell you things that have happened here, things concerning Manöel

Valdez and Ourïeda--poor darling Ourïeda, whom I ought to be thinking of

every instant! And so I am, only I can't help being happy to get

away--with you."

There was sweet pain in hearing those last words, and the emphasis the

caressing girl-voice gave. Max hurried through a vague list of such

events as seemed fit for Sanda's ears. They were not many, since he did

not count his fights among the mentionable ones. He told her, with more

detail, about his acquaintance with Valdez, whose face she had remarked

at the railway station at Sidi-bel-Abbés; and then claimed her promise.

She must tell him, if she would (with a sudden drop from the happy way

of Max Doran with women to the humbler way of Max St. George,

Legionnaire), what she had gone through in the Agha's house.

She began by asking a question. "Didn't you think it queer that no one

but a servant came out to see me off?"

"I did a little, but I put it down to Arab manners."

"It was because I left in disgrace. Oh! no one was ever rude! They were

polite always. It was like being stuffed with too much honey. And I

don't mean Ourïeda, of course. Ourïeda's a darling. I'd do anything for

her. I've proved that! Did my father give you any idea why he had to

send for me in a hurry, though he has to leave me alone--or rather in

charge of people I don't know--at Bel-Abbés? He must have told you

something, as he asked such a sacrifice."

"He needn't have told me anything at all. But he took me into his

confidence--it was like him--far enough to say the Agha was offended

somehow, and you were anxious to leave."

"I should think the Agha _was_ offended! I tried to help Ourïeda to

escape, even though she hadn't heard from her Manöel. She had lots of

jewels, and thought she might get to France. We failed in our attempt,

and after that we were never alone together, though they--her father and

aunt--didn't want me to go till she was married. The idea at first

was--when I arrived, I mean--that my visit shouldn't end till father

came back. They meant me to stop on with Ourïeda, as she and her husband

would live at her old home at Djazerta. The last plot wasn't mine. It

was got up by an old nurse they'd sent away, and a weird woman, a kind

of Arab beauty-doctor. But all the same they were afraid of me. They

longed to have me gone, yet, for their own superstitious, secretive

reasons, they were afraid to let me go. As I _had_ to stay so long, I'd

rather have stopped a little longer, so as to know what becomes of

Ourïeda. They made me say good-bye to her in Tahar's tent, where she is

waiting, all dressed up like a doll, till the hour at night when her

husband chooses to come to her. Instead, we hope---- But I can hardly

bear it, not to know! Shall we _ever_ know?"

"It may be a long time before Manöel can send us any word," said Max.

"But we shall hear, I suppose, about Tahar."

"Oh, Manöel doesn't mean to _kill_ him, does he? Ourïeda said he

wouldn't do that! But Arab women are so strange, so different from us, I

don't believe she'd care much if he did; except that if he were a

murderer they could seize him, even in another country--Spain, where

they both hope to go when they can get out of Djazerta."

"Manöel wouldn't care much, either, except for that same reason," Max

admitted. "But he does care for that. He intends only to surprise and

stun Tahar. He doesn't want his life with Ourïeda spoiled, for he'll be

a public character, you know, if he succeeds in escaping from Algeria.

He'll be a great singer. He can take back his own name."

"Why not France?" Sanda wanted to know. "Surely France would be better

for a singer than Spain, or even Italy?"

"Perhaps, but, you see, he has had to desert from the Legion. In France

he could be brought back to Algeria to the penal battalion."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that!"

"It was--a hateful necessity, his deserting."

Sanda looked at him anxiously. "Will it make trouble for you?"

"Possibly. I hoped it needn't happen. But it had to. There was no other

way in the end."

"How he must love Ourïeda, to risk all that for her sake!"

"He risked a great deal more."

"What--but, oh, yes, you told me! The way he came into the Legion, and

all that. I wonder--I wonder if there are many men in the world who

would do as much for a woman?"

"I think so," said Max quietly. "You don't count the cost very much when

you are in love."

He was to remember that speech before many days.

"They're wonderful, men like that!" Sanda murmured. "And there's more

risk to come, for Ourïeda and himself. A little for us, too, isn't

there?"

"Not for you, please God! And very little for any of us. But I see you

know what Manöel expects to happen."

"Oh, yes, that they'll run after us, thinking that he has followed with

Ourïeda, to join our caravan. I do hope the Agha will send his men after

us, for that will make us sure those two have got away. If we hear

sounds of pursuit we'll hurry on quickly. Then the chase will have

farther to go back, and Manöel and Ourïeda will gain time. The more

ground we can cover before we're come up with by the Agha's camels,

who'll be superior to ours, the better it will be, won't it?"

"Yes, for if the Agha lets Djazerta alone, Manöel may contrive to slip

out of the town sooner than he dared hope, well disguised, in a caravan

of strangers not of Ben Râana's tribe. In that case the Agha of Djazerta

would have no right to search among the women. And Manöel's splendid at

disguise. His actor's training has taught him that."

"I feel now that he _will_ get Ourïeda out of the country. They've

suffered too much and dared too much to fail in the end."

"I hope so; I think so," Max answered. But he knew that in real life

stories did sometimes end badly. His own, for instance. He could see no

happy ending for that.

They pushed on as fast as the animals could go when a long march and not

a mere spurt of speed was before them. Through the mysterious sapphire

darkness of the desert night the padding feet of the camels strode

noiselessly over the hard sand. Sanda asked Max to offer extra pay to

the men if they would put up with an abbreviated rest. Only three hours

they paused to sleep; and then, in the dusk before dawn, when all living

things are as shadows, the camels were wakened to snarl with rage while

their burdens were ruthlessly strapped on again. As Max gave Sanda a cup

of hot coffee (which he had made for her, as Legionnaires make it,

strong and black) she said, shivering a little, "Do you think they'll

have found Tahar yet if--if----"

"Hardly yet! Not till daylight," answered Max. "Are you cold? These

desert nights can be bitter, even in summer. Won't you let me put

something more around you?"

"No, thanks. It's only excitement that makes me shiver. I'm thinking of

Ourïeda and Manöel. I've been thinking of them instead of sleeping. But

I'm not tired. I feel all keyed up; as if something wonderful were going

to happen to me, too."

Something wonderful was happening to Max. But she had no idea of that.

She would never know, he thought.

All day they journeyed on, save for a short halt at noon, and Max was

happy. He tried to recall and quote to himself a verse of Tennyson's

"Maud"--"Let come what come may; What matter if I go mad, I shall have

had my day!" He was having his day--just that one day more, because on

the next they would come to Touggourt, and if Stanton were there he

would spoil everything.

At night they went on till late, as before; but the camel-men said that

the animals must have a longer rest. Luckily it did not matter now if

they were caught. If Manöel and Ourïeda had escaped they had had a long

start. A little after midnight the vast silence of the sand-ocean was

broken with cries and shoutings of men. The Arabs, not knowing of the

expected raid, stumbled up from their beds of bagging and ran to protect

the camels; but Max, who had not undressed, walked out from the little

camp to meet a cavalcade of men.

Ben Râana himself rode in advance, mounted on a swift-running camel. In

the blue gloom where the stars were night lights Max recognized the long

black beard of the Agha flowing over his white cloak. None rode near

him. Tahar was not there. Max took that as a good sign.

"Who are you?" demanded the uniformed Legionnaire in his halting Arabic.

"In the name of France, I demand your business."

Ben Râana, recognizing him also, impatiently answered in French, "And I

demand my daughter!"

"Your daughter? Ah, I see! It is the Agha of Djazerta. But what can we

know of your daughter? We left her being married."

"I think thou knowest well," Ben Râana cut him short furiously, "that

her marriage was not consummated. I cherished a viper in my bosom when I

entertained in my house the child of George DeLisle. She has deceived

me, and helped my daughter to deceive."

"I cannot hear Mademoiselle DeLisle spoken of in that way, even by my

colonel's friend, sir," said Max. "If your daughter has run away----"

"If! Thou knowest well that she has run away with her lover, who has

half murdered the man who should by now be her husband. Thou knowest

and Mademoiselle knows!"

"You are mistaken," broke in Max, not troubling to hide his anger. "If

you think your daughter----"

"I think she is here! But thou canst not protect her from me. Try, and

thou and every man with thee shall perish."

"Search our camp," said Max.

As he spoke, Sanda appeared at the door of the mean little tent hired

for her at Touggourt. From the shelter of the bassourah, close by on the

sand, Khadra peeped out. The search was made quickly and almost without

words. If the power of France had not been behind the soldier and the

girl whom Ben Râana now hated, he would have reverted--"enlightened" man

as he was--to primitive methods. He would have killed the pair with his

own hand, while the men of his _goum_ put the Arabs to death, and all

could have been buried under the sand save the camels, which would have

been led back to Djazerta. But France was mighty and far reaching, and

he and his tribe would have to pay too high for such indulgence.

When he was sure that Ourïeda and Manöel Valdez were not concealed in

the camp, with cold apologies and farewells he turned with his men and

rode off toward the south--a band of shadows in the night. The visit had

been like a dream, the desert dream that Sanda had had of Max, Max of

Sanda. Yet dimly it seemed to both that these dreams had meant more than

this. The girl let her "Soldier St. George" warm her small, icy hands,

and comfort her with soothing words.

"You were _not_ treacherous," he said. "You did exactly right. You

deserve happiness for helping to make that girl happy. And you'll have

it! You must! You shall! I couldn't stand your not being happy."

"Already it's to-day," she half whispered, "to-day that we come to

Touggourt. The greatest thing in my father's life happened there. I

thought of that when I passed through before, and wondered what would

happen to me. Nothing happened. But--_what about to-day_?"

"May it be something very good," Max said steadily. But his heart was

heavy, as in his hands her own grew warm.

CHAPTER XXIII

"WHERE THE STRANGE ROADS GO DOWN"

Shadows of evening flowed over the desert like blue water out of whose

depths rose the golden crowns of the dunes. The caravan had still some

miles of sand billows between them and Touggourt, when suddenly a faint

thrill of sound, which might have been the waking dream of a tired

brain, or a trick of wind, a sound scarcely louder than heart-throbs,

grew definite and distinct: the distant beating of African drums, the

shriek of räitas, and the sighing of ghesbahs. The Arabs on their camels

came crowding round Max, who led the caravan, riding beside Sanda's

mehari.

"Sidi," said their leader, "this music is not of earth, for Touggourt is

too distant for us to hear aught from there. It is the devil. It comes

from under the dunes. Such music we have heard in the haunted desert

where the great caravan was buried beneath the sands, but here it is the

first time, and it is a warning of evil. Something terrible is about to

happen. What shall we do--stop here and pray, though the sunset prayer

is past, or go on?"

"Go on, of course," ordered Max. "As for the music, it must be that the

wind brings it from Touggourt."

"It is not possible, Sidi," the camel-man, husband of Khadra, persisted.

"Besides, there is no great feastday at this time, not even a wedding

or a circumcision, or we should have heard before we started away that

it was to be. Such playing, if from the hands of man, would mean some

great event."

Even as he spoke the music grew louder and wilder. Max hurried the

caravan on as fast as it could go among the sand billows, fearing that

the Arabs' superstition might cause a stampede. With every stride of the

camels' long, four-jointed legs, the music swelled; and at the crest of

a higher dune than any they had climbed, Sanda, leaning out of her

bassourah, gave a cry.

"A caravan--oh! but a huge caravan like an army," she exclaimed, "or

like a troop of ghosts. What if--what if it should be Sir Knight just

starting away?"

"I think it is he," Max answered heavily. "I think it must be Stanton

getting off."

"We shall meet him. I can wish him good-bye and Godspeed! Soldier" (this

was the name she had given Max), "it does seem as if heaven must have

timed our coming and his going for this moment."

"Or the devil," Max amended bitterly in his heart. But aloud he said

nothing. He knew that if he had spoken Sanda would not have heard him

then.

"Let's hurry on," she begged, "and meet him--and surprise him. He can't

be angry. He must be glad for father's sake, if not for mine. Oh! come,

Soldier, come, or I will go alone!"

The man whose duty it was to guide her camel had dropped behind, as had

often happened before at her wish and Max's order, for the mehari was a

well-trained and gentle beast, knowing by instinct the right thing to

do. Now Sanda leaned far out and touched him on the neck. Squatting in

the way of camels brought up among dunes, he slid down the side of a big

golden billow, sending up a spray of sand as he descended. Below lay a

valley, where the blue dusk poured in its tide; and marching through the

azure flood a train of dark forms advanced rhythmically, as if moving to

the music which they had outstripped. It was a long procession of men

and camels bearing heavy loads, so long that the end of it had not yet

come into sight behind the next sand billow; but at its head a man rode

on a horse, alone, with no one at his side. Already it was too dark to

see his face, but Max knew who it was. He _felt_ the man's identity with

an instinct as unerring as Sanda's.

Also he longed to hasten after her and catch up with the running camel,

as he could easily do, for his horse, though more delicate and not as

enduring, could go faster. But, though Sanda had cried "Come!" he held

back. She had hardly known what she said. She did not want him to be

with her when she met Stanton; and if he--Max--wished to be there, it

was a morbid wish. Whether Stanton were kind or unkind to the girl, he,

the outsider, would suffer more than he need let himself suffer, since

he was not needed and would only be in the way. Riding slowly and

keeping back the men of his own little caravan, who wished to dash

forward now their superstitious fears were put to flight, Max saw

Stanton rein up his horse as the mehari, bearing a woman's bassourah,

loped toward him; saw him stop in surprise, and then, no doubt

recognizing the face framed by the curtains, jump off his horse and

stride forward through the silky mesh of sand holding out his arms. The

next instant he had the girl in them, was lifting her down without

waiting for the camel to kneel, for she had sprung to him as if from the

crest of a breaking wave; and Max bit back an oath as he had to see

Ahmara's lover crush Sanda DeLisle against his breast.

It was only for an instant, perhaps, but for Max it was a red-hot

eternity. He forgot his resolution to efface himself, and whipped his

horse forward. By the time he had reached the two figures in the sand,

however, the big, square-shouldered man in khaki and the slim girl in

white had a little space between them. Stanton had released Sanda from

his arms and set her on her feet; but he held both the little white

hands in his brown ones; and now that Max was near he could see a look

on the square sunburnt face which might have won any woman, even if she

had not been his in heart already. Max himself was thrilled by it. He

realized as he had realized in Algiers, but a thousand times more

keenly, the vital, compelling magnetism of the man.

No need for Sanda to wonder whether "Sir Knight" would be glad to see

her! He was glad, brutally glad it seemed to Max, as the lion might be

glad after long, lonely ways to chance upon his young and willing mate.

"Curse him! How dare he look at her like that, after Ahmara!" thought

Max. His blood sang in his ears like the wicked voice of the räita

following the caravan. All that was in him of primitive man yearned to

dash between the two and snatch Sanda from Stanton. But the soldier in

him, which discipline and modern conventions had made, held him back.

Sanda was Mademoiselle DeLisle, the daughter of his colonel. He who had

been Max Doran was now nobody save Maxime St. George, a little corporal

in the Foreign Legion, with hardly enough money left to buy cigarettes.

Ahmara had been an episode. Now the episode was over, and in all

probability Sanda, like most women, would have forgiven it if she knew.

She was happy in Stanton's overmastering look. She did not feel it an

insult, or dream that the devouring flame in the blue eyes was only a

spurt of new fire in the ashes of a burnt-out passion.

She must be mistaking it for love, and her heart must be shaken to

ecstasy by the surprise and joy of the miracle. Max knew that if he

rudely rode up to them in this, Sanda's great moment, nothing he could

say or do would really part them, even if he were cad enough to speak of

Ahmara, the dancer. Sanda would not believe, or else she would not care;

and always, for the rest of her life, she would hate him. He pulled up

his horse as he thought, and sat as though he were in chains. He was,

according to his reckoning, out of earshot, but Stanton's deep baritone

had the carrying power of a 'cello. Max heard it say in a tone to reach

a woman's heart: "Child! You come to me like a white dove. God bless

you! I needed you. I don't know whether I can let you go."

Slowly Max turned his horse's head, and still more slowly rode back to

the caravan which he had halted fifty feet away. For an instant he hoped

against hope that Sanda would hear the sound of his going, that she

would look after him and call. But deep down in himself he knew that no

girl in her place, feeling as she felt, would have heard a cannon-shot.

He explained to the astonished men that this was the great explorer, the

Sidi who found new countries where no other white men had ever been,

and the young Roumia lady had known him ever since she was a child. The

Sidi was starting out on a dangerous expedition, and it was well that

chance had brought them together, for now the daughter of the explorer's

oldest friend could bid him good-bye. They must wait until the farewell

had been given, then they would go on again.

The camel-men assented politely, without comment. But Max heard Khadra

say to her husband, "It is the Sidi who loved Ahmara. One would think he

had forgotten her now. Or is it that he tries this way to forget?"

Max wished angrily that his ears were less quick, and that he had not

such a useless facility for picking up words out of every _patois_.

Half an hour passed, and the blue shadows deepened to purple. It was

night, and Touggourt miles away. Still the two were talking, and the

darkness had closed around them like the curtains of a tent. They had

halted not only the little caravan returning from the south, but the

great caravan starting for the far southeast. Nothing was of importance

to Stanton and Sanda except each other and themselves. Max hated

Stanton, yet was fascinated by the thought of him: virile, magnetic,

compelling; a man among men; greater than his fellows, as the great

stars above, flaming into life, were brighter than their dim brothers.

The music, which still throbbed and screamed its notes of passion in the

desert, seemed to be beating in Max's brain. A horrible irritation

possessed him like a devil. He could have yelled as a man might yell in

the extremity of physical torture. If only that music would stop!

When he had almost reached the limit of endurance there came a soft

padding of feet in the sand and a murmur of voices. Then he saw Stanton

walking toward him with the girl. Sanda called to him timidly, yet with

a quiver of excitement in her voice:

"Monsieur St. George, mon ami!"

Not "Soldier" now! That phase was over. Max got off his horse and walked

to meet the pair.

"You know each other," Sanda said. "I introduced you last March in

Algiers. And perhaps you met again here in Touggourt with my father, not

many days ago. I've told Mr. Stanton all about you now, mon ami; he

knows how good you have been. He knows how I--confided things to you I

never told to anybody else. Do you remember, Monsieur St. George, my

saying how, when I was small, I used to long to run away dressed like a

boy, and go on a desert journey with Richard Stanton? Well, my wish has

come true! Not about the boy's clothes, but--_I am going with him_! He

has asked me to be his wife, and I have said 'yes.'"

CHAPTER XXIV

THE MAD MUSIC

Max was struck dumb by the shock. He had expected nothing so devastating

as this. What to do he knew not, yet something he must do. If he had not

loved the girl, it would have been easier. There would have been no fear

then that he might think of himself and not of her. Yet she had been put

under his charge by Colonel DeLisle. He was responsible for her welfare

and her safety. Ought he to constitute himself her guardian and stand

between her and this man? On the other hand, could he attempt playing

out a farce of guardianship--he, almost a stranger, and a boy compared

to Stanton, who had been, according to Sanda, informally her guardian

when she was a little girl? Max stammered a few words, not knowing what

he said, or whether he were speaking sense, but Stanton paid him the

compliment of treating him like a reasonable man. Suddenly Max became

conscious that the explorer was deliberately focussing upon him all the

intense magnetism which had won adherents to the wildest schemes.

"I understand exactly what you are thinking about me," Stanton said.

"You must feel I am mad or a brute to want this child to go with me

across the desert, to share the fate all Europe is prophesying."

"It's glory to share it," broke in Sanda, in a voice like a harp. "Do I

care what happens to me if I can be with you?"

Stanton laughed a delightful laugh.

"She _is_ a child--an infatuated child! But shouldn't I be more--or

less--than a man, if I could let such a stroke of luck pass by me? You

see, she wants to go."

"_He_ knows I love you, and have loved you all my life," said Sanda. "I

told him in Algiers when I was so miserable, thinking that I should

never see you again, and that you didn't care."

"Of course I cared," Stanton contradicted her warmly; yet there was a

difference in his tone. To Max's ears, it did not ring true. "Seeing a

grown-up Sanda, when I'd always kept in my mind's eye a little girl,

bowled me over. I made excuses to get away in a hurry, didn't I? It was

the bravest thing I ever did. I knew I wasn't a marble statue. But it

was another thing keeping my head in broad daylight on the terrace of a

hotel, with a lot of dressed-up creatures coming and going, from what it

is here in the desert at night, with that mad music playing me away into

the unknown, and a girl like Sanda flashing down like a falling star."

"The star fell into your arms, and you saved it from extinction," she

finished for him, laughing a little gurgling laugh of ecstasy.

"I caught it on its way somewhere else! But how can I let it go when it

wants to shine for me? How can I be _expected_ to let it go? I ask you

that, St. George!"

Racked with an anguish of jealousy, Max felt, nevertheless, a queer

stirring of sympathy for the man; and struggling against it, he knew

Stanton's conquering fascination. He knew, also, that nothing he could

do or say would prevent Sanda from going with her hero. However, he

stammered a protest.

"But--but I don't see what's to be done," he said, "Mademoiselle

DeLisle's father, my colonel, ordered me to take her to Sidi-bel-Abbés."

"Not ordered; asked!" the girl cut in with an unfairness that hurt.

"All the blame is mine," Stanton assured him with a warm friendliness of

manner. "My shoulders are broad enough to bear it. And you know, St.

George, your colonel and I are old friends. If he were here he'd give

his consent, I think, after he'd got over his first surprise. I believe

as his proxy you'll do the same, when you've taken a little time to

reflect."

"Why, of course he will!" cried Sanda, sweet and repentant. "He knows

that this is my one chance of happiness in life. Everything looked so

gray in the future. I was going to Sidi-bel-Abbés to be with strangers

till my father came. And even at best, though he loves me, I am a burden

and a worry to him. Then, suddenly, comes this glorious joy! My Knight,

my one Sir Knight, wants me, and cares! If I knew I were going straight

to death, I'd go just the same, and just as joyously."

"We both realized what was in our hearts, and what must happen, when she

looked out between her curtains like the Blessed Damozel, and I took her

out of her bassourah and held her in my arms. That settled our fate,"

said Stanton, attractively boyish and eager in the warmth of his

passion. It was genuine passion. There was no doubting that, but lit in

an instant, like a burnt wick still warm from a flame blown out. How

long would it last? How clear and true a light would it give? Max did

not know how much of his doubt of Stanton was jealousy, how much regard

for Sanda's happiness.

"To think this should come to me at Touggourt, where my father's

happiness came to him!" Sanda murmured rapturously, as Max stood silent.

"It is Fate, indeed!"

"Listen to the music of Africa," said Stanton. "The players followed us

for 'luck.' What luck they've brought! Child, I was feeling lonely and

sad. I almost had a presentiment that my luck was out. What a fool! All

the strength and courage I've ever had you've given back to me with

yourself!"

"I could die of happiness to hear you say that!" Sanda answered. "You

see how it is, my friend, my dear, kind soldier? God has timed my coming

here to give me this wonderful gift! You wouldn't rob me of it if you

could, would you?"

"Not if it's for your happiness," Max heard something that was only half

himself answer. "But"--and he turned on Stanton--"how do you propose to

marry her--here?"

The other hesitated for an instant, then replied briskly, as if he had

calculated everything in detail. This was characteristic of him, to map

out a plan of campaign as he went along, as fast as he drew breath for

the rushing words. Often he had made his greatest impressions, his

greatest successes, in this wild way.

"Why, _you_ will pitch your camp here for the night, instead of marching

on to Touggourt," he said. "I camp here, too. My expedition is delayed

for one day more, but what does that matter after a hundred delays?

Heavens! I've had to wait for tents a beast of a Jew contracted to give

me and didn't. I've waited to test water-skins. I've waited for new

camel-men when old ones failed me. Haven't I a right to wait a few hours

for a companion--a wife? The first thing in the morning we'll have the

priest out from Touggourt. Sanda's Catholic. He'll marry us and we'll

start on together."

"Couldn't we," the girl rather timidly ventured the suggestion,

"couldn't we go to Touggourt? There must be a church there if there's a

priest, and I--I'd like to be married in a church."

"My darling child! The priest shall consecrate a tent, or a bit of the

desert," Stanton answered with decision, which, she must have realized,

would be useless to combat. "He'll do it all right! Marriage ceremonies

are performed by Catholic priests in houses, you know, if the man or the

woman is ill; deathbed marriages, and--but don't let us talk of such

things! I know I can make him do this when I show him how impossible it

would be for us to go back to Touggourt. Why, the men I've got together,

mostly blacks, would take it for a bad omen if I left the escort

stranded here in the desert the first day out! Half of them would bolt.

I'd have the whole work to do over again. You see that, don't you?"

Sanda did see; and even Max admitted to himself that the excuse was

plausible. Yet he suspected another reason behind the one alleged.

Stanton was afraid of things Sanda might hear in Touggourt; perhaps he

feared some more active peril.

"I thought," Max dared to argue, "that it took days arranging the legal

part of a marriage? You're an Englishman, Mr. Stanton, and Colonel

DeLisle's daughter's a French subject, though she is half British. You

may find difficulties."

"Damn difficulties!" exclaimed Stanton, all his savage impatience of

opposition breaking out at last. "Don't you say so, Sanda? When a man

and woman need each other's companionship in lonely places outside the

world, is the world's red tape going to make a barrier between them? My

God, no! Sanda, if your church will give you to me, and send us into the

desert with its blessing, is it, or is it not, enough for you? If not,

you're not the girl I want. You're not my woman."

"If you love me, I _am_ 'your woman,'" said Sanda.

"You hear her?" Stanton asked. "If it's enough for her, I suppose it's

enough for you, St. George?"

Through the blue dusk two blue eyes stared into Max's face. They put a

question without words. "Have you any reason of your own for wanting to

keep her from me?"

"Will it be enough for Colonel DeLisle?" Max persisted.

"I promised to shoulder all responsibility with him," repeated Stanton.

"And father would be the last man in the world to spoil two lives for a

convention," Sanda added. "Do you remember his love story that I told

you?"

Did Max remember? It was not a story to forget, that tragic tale of love

and death in the desert. Must the story of the daughter be tragic, too?

A great fear for the girl was in his heart. He believed that he could

think of her alone, now, apart from selfishness. Realizing her worship

of Stanton, had her fate lain in his hands he would have placed it in

those of the other man could he have been half sure they would be

tender. But her fate was in her own keeping. He could do no more than

beg, for DeLisle's sake, that they would wait for the wedding until

Stanton came back from his expedition. Even as he spoke, it seemed

strange and almost absurd that he should be urging legal formalities

upon any one, especially a man like Stanton, almost old enough to be his

father. What, after all, did law matter in the desert if two people

loved each other? And as Stanton said--patient and pleasant again after

his outburst--they could have all the legal business, to make things

straight in the silly eyes of the silly world, when they won through to

Egypt, under English law.

The matter settled itself exactly as it would have settled itself had

Max stormed protests for an hour. Sanda was to be married by the

Catholic priest from Touggourt, as early in the morning as he could be

fetched. The great caravan and the little caravan halted for the night.

Stanton harangued his escort in their own various dialects, for there

was no obscure lingo of Africa which he did not know, and this knowledge

gave him much of his power over the black or brown men. The news he

told, explaining the delay, was received with wild shouts of amused

approval. Stanton was allowing some of his head men to travel with their

wives, it being their concern, not his, if the women died and rotted in

the desert. It was his concern only to be popular as a leader on this

expedition for which it had been hard to get recruits. It was fair that

he, too, should have a wife if he wanted one, and the men cared as

little what became of the white girl they had not seen as Stanton cared

about the fate of their strapping females.

The mad music of the tomtoms and räitas played as Max, with his own

hands, set up Sanda's little tent. "For the last time," he said to

himself. "To-morrow night her tent will be Stanton's."

He felt physically sick as he thought of leaving her in the desert with

that man, whom they called mad, and going on alone to report at

Sidi-bel-Abbés, days after his leave had expired. Now that Sanda was

staying behind, his best excuse was taken from him. He could hear

himself making futile-sounding explanations, but keeping Mademoiselle

DeLisle's name in the background. None save a man present at the scene

he had gone through could possibly pardon him for abandoning his charge.

After all, however, what did it matter? He did not care what became of

him, even if his punishment were to be years in the African penal

battalion, the awful _Bat d'Aff_, a sentence of death in life. "Perhaps

I deserve it," he said. "I don't know!" All he did know was that he

would give his life for Sanda. Yet it seemed that he could do nothing.

When all was quiet he went to his tent and threw himself down just

inside the entrance with the flap up. Lying thus, he could see Sanda's

tent not far away, dim in the starlit night. He could not see her, nor

did he wish to. But he knew she was sitting in the doorway with Stanton

at her feet. Max did not mean to spy; but he was afraid for her, of

Stanton, while that music played. At last he heard her lover in going

call out "good night," then it was no longer necessary to play sentinel,

but though Sanda had slipped inside her tent, perhaps to dream of

to-morrow, it seemed to Max that there were no drugs in the world strong

enough to give him sleep. He supposed, vaguely, that if a priest

consented to marry the girl to Stanton, after the wedding and the start

of the explorer's caravan, he, Max, would board the first train he could

catch on the new railway, and go to "take his medicine" at

Sidi-bel-Abbés.

Before dawn, when Stanton came to tell Sanda that he was off for

Touggourt to fetch the priest, no alternative had yet presented itself

to Max's mind, and he was still indifferent to his own future. But when

Stanton had been gone for half an hour, and a faint primrose coloured

flame had begun to quiver along the billowy horizon in the east, he

heard a soft voice call his name, almost in a whisper.

"Soldier St. George!" it said.

Max sprang up, fully dressed as he was, and went out of his tent. Sanda

was standing near, a vague shape of glimmering white.

CHAPTER XXV

CORPORAL ST. GEORGE, DESERTER

"Is anything the matter?" he asked. A wild hope was in his heart that

she might wish to tell him she had changed her mind. The joy of that

hope snatched his breath away. But her first words put it to flight.

"No, nothing is the matter, except that I've been thinking about you. I

could hardly wait to ask you some things. But I _had_ to wait till

morning. It is morning now that Richard is up and has gone, even though

it isn't quite light. And it's better to talk before he comes back.

There'll be--so much happening then---- You're all dressed! You didn't

go to bed."

"No, I didn't want to sleep," said Max.

"I haven't slept, either. I didn't try to sleep! I'm so happy for

myself, but I'm not _all_ happy. I'm anxious about you. I see that I've

been horribly, hatefully selfish--a beast!"

"Don't! I won't hear you say such things."

"You mustn't try and put me off. Will you promise by--by your love for

my father--and your friendship for me, to answer truly the questions I

ask?"

"All I can answer."

"If you don't answer, I shall know what your silence means. _Mon ami_,

you made a great sacrifice for me. You gave up your march to take me

safely to Bel-Abbés. You had only eight days' leave to do it in. I know,

because my father said so in his letter. But I, thinking always of

myself, gave no thought to that. You lost time coming back from Djazerta

to the _douar_. Now I've kept you another night. Is there a train

to-morrow going out of Touggourt?"

"I think so," said Max warily, beginning to guess the trend of her

questions.

"What time does it start?"

"I don't know precisely."

"In the morning or at night?"

"I really can't tell."

"You mean you won't. But that _does_ tell me, all the same. It goes in

the morning. Soldier, I've made you late. I see now you've been very

anxious all the time about overstaying your leave, but you wouldn't

speak because it was for my sake."

"I've written to the officer in command at Sidi-bel-Abbés, explaining.

It will be all right."

"It won't! You're keeping the truth from me. I see by your face. You've

overstayed your leave already. I calculated it out last night. Even as

it is, you are a day late."

"What of it? There's nothing to worry about."

"Do you suppose I can be a soldier's daughter and not have learned

anything about army life? Soldier, much as I'd want you to stand by me

if it could be right for you, it isn't right, and you must go! Go now,

and be in time for that train this morning. One day late won't be so

bad. But there won't be another train till Monday. By _diligence_, it's

two days to Biskra. That means--oh! go, my friend! Go, and forgive me!

Let us say good-bye now!"

"Not for the world," Max answered. "Not if they'd have me shot at

Bel-Abbés, instead of putting me into _cellule_ for a few days at worst.

Nothing would induce me to leave you until"--he choked a little on the

words--"until you're married."

"_Cellule_" she echoed. "You, in _cellule_! And your corporal's stripe?

You'll lose it!"

"What if I do? I value it more for--for something Colonel DeLisle said

than for itself."

"I know you were an officer in your American army at home. To be a

corporal must seem laughable to you. And yet, the stripe is more than

just a mere stripe. It's an emblem."

"I didn't mean you to think that I don't value it! I do! But I value

other things more."

Day was quickening to life; Sanda's wedding day. In the wan light that

bleached the desert they looked at each other, their faces pale. Max

could not take his eyes from hers. She held them, and he felt her

drawing from them the truth his lips refused to speak.

"You are like a man going to his death," she sobbed. "Oh, what have I

done? It will be something worse, a thousand times worse, than

_cellule_. _Mon Dieu!_ I know what they do to men of the Legion when

they've deserted--even if they come back. I implore you to go away now.

Do you want me to beg you on my knees?"

"For God's sake, Mademoiselle DeLisle!"

"Then will you go?"

"No! I told you nothing could make me leave you till--after it's over.

What would be the use anyhow, even if I would go? If they're going to

call me a deserter, I'm that already."

"Ah!" she hid her face in her hands, shivering with sobs. "_I've_ made

you a deserter. I've ruined you! Your career my father hoped for! If he

were at Bel-Abbés he'd save you. But he's far away in the desert." The

girl lifted her face and brushed away the tears. "Soldier, _if you don't

go now, don't go at all_! Don't offer yourself up to punishment for what

is not your fault, but mine, the fault of your colonel's daughter. Stay

with me--stay with us! Keep the trust my father gave you, watching over

me. Will you do that? _Will_ you, instead of going back straight to

prison and spoiling your life? Join us and help us to find the Lost

Oasis."

The young man's blood rushed to his head. He could not speak. He could

only look at her.

"You say that already you've made yourself a deserter," she went on.

"Then desert to us, I wanted you to join the Legion, and you did join;

so I've called you '_my soldier_.' Now I want you not to go back to the

Legion. It would be a horrible injustice for you to be punished as you

would be. I couldn't be happy even with Richard, thinking of you in

prison."

"The world is a prison, if it comes to that!" laughed Max.

"For some people. Not for a man like you! Besides, some of the cells in

the world's prison are so much more terrible than others. Come with us,

and by and by, if we live, we shall reach Egypt. There you'll be free,

as Manöel Valdez will be free outside Algeria and France."

"My colonel's daughter asks me to do this?" Max muttered, half under his

breath.

"Yes, _because_ I am his daughter as well as your friend. Do you think

he'd like you to go back to Sidi-bel-Abbés under a cloud, with him far

away, not able to speak for you? I know as well as if you'd told me

that, if they tried you by court-martial at Oran, you wouldn't defend

yourself as you would if my father had _ordered_ you to give up the

march, instead of _asking_ you to go on a private errand for him with

your friend. Because he did an irregular thing and trouble has come of

it, don't I know you'd suffer rather than let details be dragged from

you which might injure my father's record as an officer?"

"His record is far above being injured."

"Is any officer's? From things I've heard, I'm afraid not! Once I told

you that you were one of those men who think too little of themselves

and sacrifice themselves for others. I only felt it then. I know it now.

I'm so much better acquainted with you, my Soldier! You promised, if you

answered my questions, to answer them truly. Would you explain in a

court-martial that my father took you off duty, and told you, whatever

happened, to look after me?"

"I have already explained in a letter to the deputy commanding officer.

Probably the colonel has explained, too--more or less, as much as

necessary."

"I don't believe father would have thought it necessary to say much

about me. He's old fashioned in his ideas of women and girls. And, you

see, he had no reason to dream that anything could go wrong. He supposed

that you would arrive on time. How much did you explain in your

letter?"

"I said I had been unavoidably delayed in finishing my official errand."

"What would you say if you were court-martialled for losing Manöel and

being five days late yourself?"

"I don't know. It would depend on the questions."

"Would you answer in any way that might do harm to my father, or would

you sacrifice yourself again for him and for me?"

"It wouldn't be a sacrifice."

"Do you think you could save yourself from prison?"

"Perhaps not, but I shouldn't care."

"_I'd_ care. It would break my happiness. Father couldn't tell you, as I

do, to join us, but I know enough about his interest in you to be sure

that in his heart he would wish it, rather than come back to

Sidi-bel-Abbés and find you in the _Bat d'Aff_. I've heard all about

that, you see."

Max was silent for a moment, thinking, and Sanda watched his face in the

growing light. It was haggard and set for a face so young, but there was

still in the eyes, which stared unseeingly across the desert, the warm,

generous light that had once convinced her of the man's heroic capacity

for self-sacrifice. "He is one who always gives," she thought. And

something within her said that Stanton was not of those. He was one born

not to give, but to take. Yet how glad every one must be, as she was, to

give to him!

Max was greatly surprised and deeply touched by Sanda's care for him at

such a time. And he was almost bewildered by the strange answer that

had come to his self-questioning. He had felt a passionate reluctance to

leave her with Stanton, not only because he himself loved and wanted

her, but because her marriage was to be only half a marriage, and

because Stanton was what he was. If the man tired of her, if he found

her too delicate for the trials she would have to endure, the girl's

life in the desert would be terribly hard. Max dared not think what it

might be. He had felt that it would tear his heart out to see her going

unprotected except by that fanatic, to be swallowed up by the merciless

mystery of the desert. But because she had decided to go, and because

she thought she had need of no one in the world except Stanton, Max had

made up his mind that he must stand by and let her go. Now, suddenly, it

was different. She wanted him as well as Stanton. True, it was only

because she wished to save him, but she would be grieved if he refused.

What if he should accept--that is, if Stanton were of the same mind as

Sanda--and let them both suppose that his motive in joining them was to

keep out of prison? He knew that his true reason would be other than

that if he went. But searching his soul, he saw there no wrong to

Stanton's wife. He would not go with that pair of lovers for his own

pleasure, and no suffering he could endure, even in the _Bat d'Aff_,

would be equal to seeing Sanda day after day, night after night, when

she had given herself to Stanton. All he wanted was to be near her if he

were needed. He could never justify himself to Colonel DeLisle or to any

one else in the world by telling the truth; but because it was the

truth, in his own eyes perhaps he might be justified.

"Have you thought long enough?" Sanda asked. "Can't you decide, and save

my happiness?"

Save her happiness!...

"I have decided," Max said. "If Mr. Stanton will let a deserter join his

caravan I will go."

CHAPTER XXVI

SANDA'S WEDDING NIGHT

What arguments the explorer used none save himself and the priest from

Touggourt would ever know. But the priest came and married Sanda to

Stanton according to the rites of the Catholic Church. In his eyes, as

in the eyes of the girl, it was enough; for was she not, in the sight of

heaven, a wife?

Stanton professed himself not only glad, but thankful, to have Max as a

recruit for his expedition. He agreed with Sanda that it would be

Quixotic, in the circumstances, to go back to Sidi-bel-Abbés.

"You'd be a damn fool, my boy," he said emphatically, "to go and offer

yourself a lamb for the sacrifice!" It did not occur to him that Max was

offering himself on the altar of another temple of sacrifice. He thought

the young man was "jolly lucky" to escape from the mess he had tumbled

into and get the chance of a glorious adventure with Richard Stanton. It

had been a blow and even a humiliation to the explorer that all the

Europeans he had asked to accompany him had refused, either on the spot,

or after deliberation. He believed in himself and his vision so

completely, and had snatched so many successes out of the jaws of

disaster, that it was galling not to be believed in by others, in this,

the crowning venture of his life. If he could find the Lost Oasis he

would be the most famous man in the world, or so he put it to himself;

and any European with him would share the glory. It had been almost

maddening to combat vainly, for once in his career, the objections and

sneers of skeptics.

People had said that if no European, not even a doctor, would join him

in his "mad mission," he would be forced to give it up. But he had found

a fierce satisfaction in disappointing them and in showing the world

that he, unaided, could carry through a project which daunted all who

heard of it. He had triumphed over immense obstacles in getting together

his caravan, for Arabs and Soudanese had been superstitiously depressed

by the fact that the mighty Stanton could persuade no man of his own

race to believe in the Lost Oasis. It was only his unique force of

character that had made the expedition possible at last; that and his

knowledge of medicine, even of "white and black" magic, his mastery of

desert dialects, his eloquence in the language of those who hesitated,

working them up to his own pitch of enthusiasm by descriptions of what

he believed the Lost Oasis to be: a land of milk and honey, with wives

and treasure enough for all, even the humblest. Napoleon, the greatest

general of the French, had wished to search for the Lost Oasis, marching

from Tripolitania to Egypt, but had abandoned the undertaking because of

other duties, not because he ceased to believe. The golden flower of the

desert had been left for Stanton and his band to pluck. Threats,

persuasion, bribes, had collected for him a formidable force. If he had

lingered at Touggourt, after getting the necessary men together, no one

had dared to suggest in his hearing that it was because a desert

dancing-woman was beautiful. He had always had weighty reasons to

allege, even to himself: the stores were not satisfactory; the oil

provided was not good; camels fell ill and substitutes had to be got; he

was obliged to wait for corn to be ground into the African substitute

for macaroni; Winchester rifles and ammunition promised for his fighting

men did not turn up till long after the date specified in his contract.

But now he was off on the great adventure; and, gloriously sure that all

credit would be his, he was sincerely glad to have Max as a follower,

humble yet congenial.

His meeting with Sanda seemed to Stanton a good omen. Since Ahmara had

deserted him in a fury, because of the humiliation put upon her during

DeLisle's visit, he had been in a black rage. Days had been lost in

searching for her, because she had disappeared. He had dreamed at night

of choking the dancer's life out, and shooting the man who had stolen

her from him, for he had no doubt of the form her revenge had taken. In

the end, he had decided to put her from his mind, persuading himself

that he was sick to death of the tigress-woman whom he had thought of

carrying with him on the long desert march. Still, he had been sad and

thwarted, and the music of the tomtoms and räitas, instead of tributes

to his triumph, had been like voices mocking at his failure. Then Sanda

had magically appeared in the desert: fair and sweet as the moon in

contrast with the parching sun. He had held out his arms on the impulse

and she had fallen into them. Her youth, her white beauty in the blue

night, lit a flame in him, and he fanned it greedily. It was good to

know that he was young enough still to light another fire so soon on

half-cold ashes. He revelled in making himself believe that he loved the

girl. He respected and admired himself for it, and he drank in eagerly

the story she told him in whispers, at the door of her tent in the

night: the story of childish, hopeless hero-worship for her "Sir

Knight." He was so confident of her adoring love that jealousy of Max

would have seemed absurd, though Max was twenty-six and Stanton twenty

years older. If it had occurred to him that Max might be romantically in

love with Sanda, the idea would not have displeased him or made him

hesitate to take the younger man as a member of his escort. There was a

cruel streak running through Stanton's nature which even Sanda dimly

realized, though it did not diminish her love. There were moods when he

enjoyed seeing pain and inflicting it; and there were stories told of

things he had done in such moods: stories told in whispers; tales of

whipping black men to death when they had been caught deserting from his

caravans; tales of striking down insubordinates and leaving them

unconscious to die in the desert. It would have amused Stanton, if the

idea had presented itself, to think of a love-sick young man helplessly

watching him teach an uninstructed young girl the art of becoming a

woman. But the idea did not present itself. He was too deeply absorbed

in himself, and in trying to think how infinitely superior was a white

dove like Sanda to a creature of the Ahmara type. He wished savagely

that Ahmara might hear--when it was too late--of his marriage within a

few days after their parting.

When the wedding ceremony was over the caravan started on at once, in

order to reach, not too late, a certain small oasis on the route where

Stanton wished to camp on his marriage night. He described the place

glowingly to Max. There was no town there, he said, only a few tents

belonging to the chief of a neighbour tribe to Ben Râana's. The men

there guarded an artesian well whose water spouted up like a fountain.

Though the oasis was small, its palms were unusually beautiful, and the

group of tall trees with their spreading branches was like a green

temple set in the midst of the desert. Altogether, Stanton remarked, it

was an ideal spot for the beginning of a honeymoon. His eyes were more

brilliant than ever as he spoke, and Max turned his head away not to see

the other man's face, because the look on it made him want to kill

Stanton. The martyrdom he knew awaited him had already begun.

Before starting into the unknown Max bought from the leader of his own

camel-men some garments which Khadra had washed for her husband at Ben

Râana's _douar_. They were to be ready for his return to Touggourt, and

were still as clean as the brackish water of the desert could make them.

Dressed as an Arab, Max made a parcel of his uniform with its treasured

red stripes of a corporal; and having addressed it for the post, paid

the camel-driver to send it off for him from Touggourt to

Sidi-bel-Abbés. The unpardonable sin of a deserting Legionnaire is to

rob France of the uniform lent him for his soldiering. But returning her

property to the Republic, Max sent no letter of regret or apology. He

was a deserter, and to excuse himself for deserting would be an insult

to the Legion. Nobody except DeLisle could possibly understand, and Max

did not mean to offer explanations, even to his colonel. If in his heart

Sanda's father could ever secretly pardon a deserter, it must be of his

own accord, not because of what that deserter had to say on his own

behalf.

Out of the little caravan Max had to discharge, Stanton kept the mehari

with the bassourah which Sanda had ridden during the journey from Ben

Râana's _douar_. It was, he said, laughing, a present direct from

Providence to his bride, since not without delay could he have provided

her with anything so comfortable for travelling. The finely bred camel

and many other animals of the escort might fail or die en route, but

there were places on the way where others could be got, as well as men

to replenish vacancies made by deaths. Stanton was too old an explorer

not to have calculated each step of the way, as far as any white man's

story or black man's rumour described it. And he talked stoically of the

depletion of his ranks. It was only his own failure or death which

appeared to be for him incredible.

Stanton rode all day at the head of the caravan, with Sanda, on her

mehari, looking down at him, "like the Blessed Damozel" as he had said,

between her curtains. Max, on a strong pony which Stanton had bought as

an "understudy" for his own horse, kept far in the rear. The desert had

been beautiful for him yesterday. It was hideous to-day. He thought it

must always be hideous after this. They saw the new moon for the first

time that afternoon. Sanda, lost in a dream of happiness, pointed it out

to Stanton, but he was vexed because they caught a glimpse of it over

the left shoulder. It was a bad sign, he said, and Sanda laughed at him

for being superstitious. As if anything could be a bad sign for them on

_that day_!

"Little White Moon," Ourïeda and the other Arab women had called her at

Djazerta. Stanton said it was just the name for her, when she told him.

The girl was perfectly happy now that Max was rescued. She had no

regrets, no cares; for, though she dearly loved her father, it would

have been long before she saw him again even if she had gone to

Sidi-bel-Abbés; and she knew he had hated the necessity for leaving her

there without him. She believed it would be a great relief to such a

keen soldier as he was not to be burdened with a girl. Often she felt it

had been wrong and selfish of her to run away from the aunts and throw

herself upon his mercy. Their few weeks together, learning to know and

love each other, had been delicious, but the future might have been

difficult if she had stayed.

Surely her father would be glad to have her married to his friend, and,

even if there were dangers to be feared in the unknown desert, why,

Colonel DeLisle was a soldier, and she was a soldier's daughter.

She wrote a letter to her father and gave it to the priest who had

married her. Some day it must reach its destination, and there were

things in it which would make Colonel DeLisle happy. Sanda believed

there would be tender romance for him, as for her, in the thought of the

marriage near Touggourt, where his love had come to him from half across

the world.

Not a rap did the girl care for the hardships in front of her. She

laughed and thought it a great adventure that she had no "trousseau,"

but only the few clothes which were wearable after her long visit to

Djazerta. And if they were never to find the Lost Oasis, or if they

themselves were to be lost, she would go forth with the same untroubled

heart.

The crescent moon had dropped behind the horizon, like a bracelet in the

sea, before they came in sight of the oasis where they were to spend the

wedding night; but the sky glittered with encrusting stars that spread a

silver background for the tall, dark palms. As the caravan descended

into a wide valley between dunes, Max heard Stanton's voice shouting to

him. He rode forward to the side of the "Chief," as the explorer was

called by his men.

"Like a good chap, gallop ahead with my fellows and see that our tent is

set up in the best place," said Stanton in his deep, pleasant voice. "I

should like Sanda to find it all ready when she gets there. Have it put

where my wife would think it prettiest; you'll know the right place;

place you'd choose yourself if it was _your_ honeymoon!"

There was no conscious malice in the words, but they cut like a lash in

a raw wound. Max had the impulse to strike his horse with the whip, but

he was ashamed of it and stroked the animal's neck instead, as with a

word he urged it on.

"I must watch myself if this isn't to turn me into a beast," he thought.

"It shan't, or I'll be worse than useless to her. She shan't fall

between two brutes."

Stanton had already selected the men who were to pitch his bridal tent,

and Max rode ahead with them and their loaded camels. He chose a spot

between a miniature palm grove separated from the main oasis and the

artesian well, far enough from the gushing water for its bubbling to be

heard through canvas walls soothingly, like the music of a fountain.

Fortunately for the comfort of the unprepared-for bride, Stanton was a

man who "did himself well" when he could, though he had always been

ready to face hardship if necessary. He had not considered it necessary

to stint himself when starting on this expedition, although, later on,

he would be quite ready to throw luxuries away as encumbrances. There

were cushions and thick rugs and fine linen and soft blankets. There was

also some folding furniture; and one object which revealed itself among

the rugs at first surprised, then unpleasantly enlightened, Max. It was

a rather large mirror with a gilded French frame, such as Arab women

admire. For himself, Stanton would have had a shaving-glass a foot

square, and the gaudy ornament made Max's blood boil. Stanton had

certainly brought it for a woman: Ahmara. Before the quarrel, then, he

had intended to take her with him! It was only by a chance that he had

gathered a fair white lily instead of a desert poppy.

Max would have liked to break the mirror, but, instead, he saw that it

was safely hung on one of the tent-hooks and supported by a brightly

painted Moorish chest.

As he stepped out of the tent when all was finished and ready for the

bride--even to a vase of orange blossoms brought by the priest from

Touggourt--the caravan, which had been moving slowly at the last, had

not yet arrived. Two elderly Arabs hovered near, however, the men who

lived in the oasis to guard the well and the date palms in season. As

Max spoke to them in his laboured Arabic he saw in the distance the

form of a woman. Standing as she did, in the open ground with no trees

between her and the far silver horizon, she was a noble and commanding

figure, slender and tall like a daughter of the palms. She was for Max

no more than a graceful silhouette, majestically poised, for he could

not see her face, or even be sure that the effect of crown and plumes on

her high-held head was not a trick of shadow. Indeed it seemed probable

that it was a mere illusion, for crowns and waving plumes were worn by

desert dancers, and it did not appear likely that a wife or daughter of

the well-guardians should be so adorned.

As he exchanged elaborate compliments with the Arabs the woman's figure

vanished and he thought no more of it, for Sanda and Stanton were

arriving. Max turned away his eyes as Stanton took the bride out of her

bassourah and half carried her toward their tent without waiting to

thank the man who had placed it. Max busied himself feverishly in

superintending the arrangements of the camp, which Stanton had asked him

as his "lieutenant" to undertake that night.

The kneeling camels were tethered in long lines. No zareba would be

raised, for there would be many a long march before the caravan reached

perilous country. Here a fire could be built, for there was no danger in

showing smoke and raising a rose-red glow against the silver. The

unveiled women, whom Stanton had diplomatically allowed to accompany

their husbands, began to cook supper for the men; couscous and coffee

and thin, ash-baked bread. It was a long time since Stanton had taken

Sanda to the tent under the little grove of palms, but he had given no

orders yet for food to be prepared. Max thought it unlikely that he

should be asked to eat with them, but if he were invited he intended to

refuse. In spite of himself, he could not help glancing now and then

toward the tent. The door-flaps had not been let down, but there was no

light inside. Turning involuntarily that way, as iron turns to a magnet,

at last he saw a man and woman come out of the tent. But the woman was

not Sanda!

Max realized this with a shock. He saw both figures for an instant

painted in blue-black against the light, khaki-coloured canvas. The

woman was very tall, as tall as Stanton, and on her head was something

high, like a crown set with plumes. Stanton led her away, walking

quickly. They went toward the low, black tents of the guardians of the

oasis.

Max stood still with a curious sensation of being dazed after a stunning

blow half forgotten. How long he remained without moving he could not

have told. His eyes had not followed the two figures very far. They

returned to the tent and focussed there in anguish. Some scene there

must have been between those three. He was not surprised when, after a

short time--or a long time, he did not know which--Sanda appeared. He

wondered if his soul had called her, and she was coming in answer to the

call.

She hesitated at first, as if not sure where to go. Then catching sight

of him at a distance, with the light of the fire ruddy on his face, she

began to run. Almost instantly, however, she stopped, paused for a

second or two, and it seemed to Max that she swayed a little as if she

might fall. He started toward her with great strides; but he had not

taken more than three or four when he saw that she was walking slowly

but steadily straight toward him. He felt then, with a mysterious but

complete certainty, that she wished him to go no farther, but to wait.

He stopped, and in a moment she was by his side. She did not speak, but

stood with her head drooping. Max could not see her face. After the

first eagerly questioning glance he turned his eyes away. She did not

wish him to look at her or break the silence. He held his tongue, but he

was afraid she might hear the pounding of his heart and his breath

coming and going. If she did she would guess that he knew something

which, perhaps, she did not mean to let him know. At last, however, he

could bear the strain no longer; besides, Stanton might come back. If

there were anything he could do for her, if she wanted him to take her

away--God! how his blood sang at the thought of it!--there was no more

time to waste.

His tone sounded flat and ineffectual in his own ears as he spoke. The

effort to keep it down to calmness made it almost absurd, as it would

have been to mention the weather in that tingling instant. He asked

simply: "Is there something--something I can do?"

"No," she said. "Nothing, thank you. Nothing any one can do."

The voice was not like the voice of Sanda, which Max had once compared

in his mind to the ripple of a brook steeped in sunshine. It was thin

and weak, almost like the voice of a little, broken old woman. But,

praise heaven, she was young, so very young that she would live this

down, and, some day, almost forget. If she would let him take her back

to Sidi-bel-Abbés after all! This marriage by a priest without sanction

of the law need not stand. She was not a wife yet, but a girl, oh! thank

God for that! It was not too late. If only he could say these things to

her. But it seemed that he must stand like a block of wood and wait for

her to point the way.

"Are you--perhaps you're homesick?" he dared to give her a cue.

"Homesick?" Her voice broke and, instead of being like an old woman's,

it was like a little child's. "Yes, that's it, I'm homesick! And--and I

think I'm not very well. I want my father, I want him so much!"

The heart of the man who was not her father yearned toward the girl.

"Shall I take you back?" he panted. "We're not far past Touggourt.

To-morrow it will be too late, but now--now----"

"Now it's already too late. Oh, Soldier! to have yesterday again!"

He did not ask her what she meant. He did not need to ask.

"It can be yesterday for you," he urged.

"No. Yesterday I was Sanda DeLisle. To-day I'm Sanda Stanton. Nothing

can change that."

"If you're unhappy your father can change it. You see, it's only the

church that----"

"_Only_ the church!"

"Forgive me. But the law would say----"

"It doesn't matter to me what the law would say. It's the thing what you

don't think matters that matters entirely to me. And even if it were

so--even if I were--unhappy instead of only homesick, and somehow ill, I

wouldn't go back if I could. I've written to my father. And that priest

from Touggourt will have told the Amaranthes. Every one knows. It would

be a disgrace to----"

"No! Not to you."

"I think it would. And to Richard. I have taken him by storm and almost

forced him to marry me. I would die and be left alone in the desert

rather than disgrace him in the world's eyes just when he's starting out

on the crowning expedition of his life."

"Who put such an idea into your head that you'd taken him by storm,

that----"

"Never mind. It is in my head, and it's true. I know it. Soldier, I'm

glad, oh, _so_ glad, that you're here! Will you help me?"

"You know I will," Max said, his heart bursting. If he had needed

payment for what he had done, he had it in full measure. She was glad he

was with her!

"Well, I've told you that I'm ill. It's my head--it aches horribly. I

hardly know what I'm doing or saying. I _can't_ be--in that tent

to-night!"

"You shall have mine," Max assured her quickly. "It's a good little

tent, got for the French doctor Stanton was telling us about, who

decided at the last minute not to come."

"Oh, thank you a thousand times. But you?"

"I shall rig up something splendid. They've got more tents than they

know what to do with. Several men fell out after Stanton had bought his

supplies."

"You _are_ good. Could I go to your tent now?"

"Of course. I'll take you there, and fetch your luggage myself. But

you're sure you won't go back while there's time?"

"Sure."

"If you're ill you can't ride on with the caravan."

"I shall be better to-morrow. God will help me, and you will help me,

too. I shall be able to go on for a while. Maybe it need not be for

long. People die in the desert. I've always thought it a beautiful

death. When you promise to marry a person it's for better or worse. And

I've never said I was not _happy_, Soldier! Only a little homesick and

tired."

"Come with me to my tent," Max said, realizing that all his persuasions

would be in vain. "Come quietly now, and I'll explain to--to Stanton."

"He knows I feel ill," she answered. "I told him. He will understand."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE ONLY FRIEND

When Stanton returned to his tent and found it empty he went out quickly

again and called for St. George.