There was a pause.  No one was prepared to deny, however much he might doubt, what Wyley said.

Wyley continued: 

“At some point of time before this duel Knightley’s recollections break off.  At what precise point we are not aware, nor is it of any great importance.  The sure thing is he does not know of the dispute between Lieutenant Scrope and himself, and it is of more importance for us to consider whether he cannot after all be kept from knowing.  Could he not be sent home to England?  Mrs. Knightley, I take it, is no longer in Tangier?”

Major Shackleton stood up, took Wyley by the arm and led him out on to the balcony.  The town beneath them had gone to sleep; the streets were quiet; the white roofs of the houses in the star-shine descended to the water’s edge like flights of marble steps; only here and there did a light burn.  To one of the lights close by the city wall the Major directed Wyley’s attention.  The house in which it burned lay so nearly beneath them that they could command a corner of the square open patio in the middle of it; and the light shone in a window set in that corner and giving on to the patio.

“You see that house?” said the Major.

“Yes,” said Wyley.  “It is Scrope’s.  I have seen him enter and come out.”

“No doubt,” said the Major; “but it is Knightley’s house.”

“Knightley’s!  Then the light burning in the window is—­”

The Major nodded.  “She is still in Tangier.  And never a care for him has troubled her for two years, not so much as would bring a pucker to her pretty forehead—­all my arrears of pay to a guinea-piece.”

Wyley leaned across the rail of the balcony, watching the light, and as he watched he was aware that his feelings and his thoughts changed.  The interest which he had felt in Scrope died clean away, or rather was transferred to Knightley; and with this new interest there sprang up a new sympathy, a new pity.  The change was entirely due to that one yellow light burning in the window and the homely suggestions which it provoked.  It brought before him very clearly the bitter contrast:  so that light had burned any night these last two years, and Scrope had gone in and out at his will, while up in the barbarous inlands of Morocco the husband had had his daily portion of the bastinado and the whip.  It was her fault, too, and she made her profit of it.  Wyley became sensible of an overwhelming irony in the disposition of the world.

“You spoke a true word to-night, Major,” he said bitterly.  “That light down there might turn any man to a moralist, and send him preaching in the market-places.”

“Well,” returned the Major, as though he must make what defence he could for Scrope, “the story is not the politest in the world.  But, then, you know Tangier—­it is only a tiny outpost on the edges of the world where we starve behind broken walls forgotten of our friends.  We have the Moors ever swarming at our gates and the wolf ever snarling at our heels, and so the niceties of conduct are lost.  We have so little time wherein to live, and that little time is filled with the noise of battle.  Passion has its way with us in the end, and honour comes to mean no more than bravery and a gallant death.”