Desmond set his lips to steady them.  “On and off—­at Mess.  Touch of the sun, perhaps.  I’ll get to bed and souse myself with quinine.”

But he was so obviously ill that Roy paid no heed.  “Well, I’m going to send for Collins instanter.”

“Don’t make an ass of yourself, Roy,” Lance flashed out:  but his hands were shaking:  his lips were shaking.  He was no longer in command of affairs....

While the message sped on its way, Roy got him to bed somehow; eased things a little with hot bottles and brandy; nameless terrors knocking at his heart....

In less than no time Collins appeared, with the Colonel; and their faces told Roy that his terror was only too well founded....

Within an hour he knew the worst—­acute blood-poisoning from the lathi wound.

“Any hope——?” he asked the genial doctor, while Paul Desmond knelt by the bed speaking to his brother in low tones.

“Too early to give an opinion,” was the cautious answer.  But the caution and the man’s whole manner told Roy the incredible, unbearable truth.

Something inside him seemed to snap.  In that moment of bewildered agony, he felt like a murderer....

* * * * *

Looking back afterwards, Roy marvelled how he had lived through the waking nightmare of those two days—­while the doctor did all that was humanly possible, and Lance pitted all the clean strength of his manhood against the swift deadly progress of the poison in his veins.  It was simply a question of hours; of fighting the devil to the last on principle, rather than from any likelihood of victory.  With heart and hope broken, superhumanly they struggled on.

For Roy, the world outside that dim whitewashed bedroom ceased to exist.  The loss of his mother had been anguish unalloyed; but he had not seen her go....

Now, he saw—­and heard, which was worse than all.

For Lance, towards the end, was constantly delirious; and, in delirium, he raved of Rose—­always of Rose.  He, the soul of reserve, poured out incontinently his passion, his worship, his fury of jealousy—­till Roy grew almost to hate the sound of her name.

Worse—­he was constrained to tell the Colonel the meaning of it all:  to see anger flash through the haunting pain in his eyes.

Only twice, during the final struggle, the real Lance emerged; and on the second occasion they happened to be alone.  Their eyes met in the old intimate understanding.  Lance flung out his undamaged hand, and grasped Roy’s with all the force still left him.

“Don’t fret your heart out, Roy ... if I can’t pull through,” he said in his normal voice.  “Carry on.  And—­don’t blame Rose.  It’ll hurt her—­a bit.  Don’t hurt her more—­because of me.  And—­look here, stand by Paul for a time.  He’ll need you.”

Roy’s “Trust me, dear old man,” applied, mentally, to the last.  Even at that supreme moment he was dimly thankful it came last.