Bernard shook his head slightly.  “You’re wrong, old fellow.  You’re making a mistake.  You are choosing the hardest course for her as well as yourself.”

Everard’s jaw hardened.  “I shall find a way out for myself,” he said.  “She shall be left in peace.”

“What do you mean?” Bernard said.  Then as he made no reply, he took him firmly by the shoulders.  “No—­no!  You won’t.  You won’t,” he said.  “That’s not you, my boy—­not when you’ve sanely thought it out.”

Everard suffered his hold; but his face remained set in grim lines.  “There is no other way,” he said.  “Honestly, I see no other way.”

“There is another way.”  Very steadily, with the utmost confidence, Bernard made the assertion.  “There always is.  God sees to that.  You’ll find it presently.”

Everard smiled very wearily at the words.  “I’ve given up expecting any light from that quarter,” he said.  “It seems to me that He hasn’t much use for the wanderers once they get off the beaten track.”

“Oh, my dear chap!” Bernard’s hands pressed upon him suddenly.  “Do you really believe He has no care for that which is lost?  Have you blundered along all this time and never yet seen the lamp in the desert?  You will see it—­like every other wanderer—­sooner or later, if you only have the pluck to keep on.”

“You seem mighty sure of that.”  Everard looked at him with a species of dull curiosity.  “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure.”  Bernard spoke vigorously.  “And so are you in your heart.  You know very well that if you only push on you won’t be left to die in the wilderness.  Have you never thought to yourself after a particularly dark spell that there has always been a speck of light somewhere—­never total darkness for any length of time?  That’s the lamp in the desert, old chap.  And—­whether you realize it or not—­God put it there.”

He ceased to speak, and rose quietly to his feet; then, as Everard stretched a hand to him, gave him a steady pull upwards.  They stood face to face.

“And that,” Bernard added, after a few moments, “is all I’ve got to say.  You turn in now and get a rest!  If you want me, well, you know where to find me—­just any time.”

“Thanks!” Everard said.  His hand held his brother’s hard.  “But—­before you go—­there’s one thing I want to say—­no, two.”  A shadowy smile touched his grim lips and vanished.  His eyes were still and wholly remote, sheltering his soul.

“Go ahead!” said Bernard gently.

Everard paused for a second.  “You have asked no promise of me,” he said then; “but—­I’ll make you one.  And I want one from you in return.”

Again he paused, as if he had some difficulty in finding words.

“You can rely on me,” Bernard said.

“Yes, old fellow.”  For an instant his eyes smiled also.  “I know it.  It’s by that fact alone that you’ve gained your point.  And so I’ll hang on somehow for the present—­find another way—­anyhow hang on, just because you are what you are—­and because—­” his voice sank a little—­“you care.”