Thereafter she sat passive, leaning against a chair, waiting, watching, as she had waited and watched for so long.  Once she leaned her head upon her hand and prayed “O dear God, let him live!” But something—­some inner voice—­seemed to check that prayer, and though her whole soul yearned for its fulfilment she did not repeat it.  Only, after a little, she stooped very low, and touched Guy’s forehead with her lips.

“God bless you!” she said softly.  “God bless you!”

And in the silence that followed, she thought there was a benediction.

CHAPTER X

THE DESIRE TO LIVE

In the last still hour before the dawn there came the tread of horses’ feet outside the bungalow and the sound of men’s voices.

Sylvia looked up as one emerging from a long, long dream, though she had not closed her eyes all night.  The lamp was burning low, and Guy’s face was in deep shadow; but she knew by the hand that she still held close between her own that he yet lived.  She even fancied that the throb of his pulse was a little stronger.

She looked at Burke with questioning, uncertain eyes as he entered.  In the dim light he seemed to her bigger, more imposing, more dominant, than he had ever seemed before.  He rolled a little as he walked as if stiff from long hours in the saddle.

Behind him came another man—­a small thin man with sleek black hair and a swarthy Jewish face, who moved with a catlike deftness, making no sound at all.

“Well, Sylvia?” Burke said.  “Is he alive?”

He took the lamp from the table, and cast its waning light full upon her.  She shrank a little involuntarily from the sudden glare.  Almost without knowing it, she pressed Guy’s inert hand to her breast.  The dream was still upon her.  It was hardly of her own volition that she answered him.

“Yes, he is alive.  He has been speaking.  I think he is asleep.”

“Permit me!” the stranger said.

He knelt beside the still form while Burke held the lamp.  He opened the shirt and exposed the blood-soaked bandage.

Then suddenly he looked at Sylvia with black eyes of a most amazing brightness.  “Madam, you cannot help here.  You had better go.”

Somehow he made her think of a raven, unscrupulous, probably wholly without pity, possibly wicked, and overwhelmingly intelligent.  She avoided his eyes instinctively.  They seemed to know too much.

“Will he—­do you think he win—­live?” she whispered.

He made a gesture of the hands that seemed to indicate infinite possibilities.  “I do not think at present.  But I must be undisturbed.  Go to your room, madam, and rest!  Your husband will come to you later and tell you what I have done—­or failed to do.”

He spoke with absolute fluency but with a foreign accent.  His hands were busy with the bandages, dexterous, clawlike hands that looked as if they were delving for treasure.