When the launch touched the bank, he sprang out and walked swiftly up to their usual meeting-place:  the deserted mud enclosure of a deserted hut—­an unlovely meeting-place enough—­but filled with the sweet air of the desert night and the royal light of the stars.

“My lord looks weary to-night,” said Merla softly, after they had greeted each other, and had sat down side by side with their backs to the low wall.

“Yes, I am tired with thinking.  What is to be the end of this, Merla?  Where is our love drifting us to?”

“Why does my lord concern himself with that?  We are in the hands of Fate.”

Stanhope moved impatiently.

“Our fate is what we make it.”

“It is not wise to enquire about our fate,” replied Merla, and he saw her face grow grave with resolution in the dim light.  “But I can tell you, if you like, what it will be:  when you are ready, you will go back to your own people, your own life, and you will be very happy.”

“And you—?” asked Stanhope in a whisper.

“I shall then have lived my life.  I shall die and be buried out there,” and she motioned to the desert.  “I shall have given my lord happiness for a time:  think what delight, what honour!”

Stanhope shuddered.

“Don’t, don’t, I can’t bear to hear you; do you ask nothing for yourself from life?”

“Life has given me all now,” returned Merla, with a proud smile on her face.

“Why should we not go home to my land together?” said Stanhope passionately, in that sudden revolt against the laws of custom that stirs all humanity at times.  “Why should I not take you to live with me for always to be my wife? who would forbid me?”

Merla shook her head, and pressed hard on his hand lying beside her on the sand.

“The sun cannot lift the black rock from the desert and take it to dwell in the blue spaces; neither can the sun stay with the rock.  You are grieving for me; do not.  I am quite happy.  I accept what must be.  My life ends when you go.”

For a wild moment it seemed to Stanhope that he must dare everything and take her.  After all, she was intelligent:  she could be educated.  She was beautiful, youthful; and what a love she poured out at his feet!—­different in calibre, in nature, different, from its root up, from any love he could hope to find again—­a love that asked absolutely nothing for itself, not even the right to live, and yet would give its all unquestioningly, unsparingly.  It is not a toy to be thrown away lightly, and Stanhope realised this.

“The blue spaces are cold and empty, Merla,” he said, suddenly catching her to his breast.  “You must come with me.”

“No, lord, it is impossible; you speak only for me,” whispered Merla, though she clasped his neck tightly.  “You must go and live happy, and I shall die happy; even in my grave I shall remember your kisses.”

* * * * *