Then the Colonel returned; and they could say no more; nor could Roy find it in his heart to grudge him a moment of that brief blessed interlude of real contact with the man they loved....

There could be no question of going to Lahore station on Sunday evening.  He was ill himself, though he did not know it; and his soul was centred on Lance—­the gallant spirit inwoven with almost every act and thought and inspiration of his life.  By comparison, Rose was nothing to him; less than nothing; a mushroom growth—­sudden and violent—­with no deep roots; only fibres.

So he sent her, by an orderly, a few hurried lines of explanation and farewell.

“MY DEAR,—­

“I’m sorry, but I can’t come to-night.  We are all in dreadful grief.  Lance down with acute blood-poisoning.  Collins evidently fears the worst.  I can’t write of it.  I do trust you get up safely.  I’ll write again, when it’s possible.

                                     “Yours,
                                        ROY.”

Yes, he was still hers—­so far.  More than that he could not honestly add.  Beyond this awful hour he could not look.  It was as if one stood on the edge of a precipice, and the next step would be a drop into black darkness....

* * * * *

By Monday night it was over.  After forty-eight hours of fever and struggle and pain, Lance Desmond lay at rest—­serene and noble in death, as he had been in life.  And Roy—­having achieved one long, slow climb out of the depths—­was flung back again, deeper than ever....

It was near midnight when the end came.  Utterly weary and broken, he had sunk into Lance’s chair, leaning forward, his face hidden, his frame shaken all through with hard dry sobs that would not be stilled.

Through the fog of his misery, he felt the Colonel’s hand on his shoulder; heard the familiar voice, deep and kindly:  “My dear Roy, get to bed.  We can’t have you on the sick-list.  There’s work to do; a great gap to be filled—­somehow.  I’ll stay—­with him.”

At that, he pulled himself together and stood up.  “I’ll do my best, Colonel,” was all he could say.  The face he had so rarely seen perturbed was haggard with grief.  They looked straight at one another; and the thought flashed on Roy, ‘I must tell him.’  Not easy; but it had to be done.

“There’s something, sir,” he began, “I feel you ought to know.  By rights, it—­it should have been me.  That brute with the lathi was right on me; and he—­Lance—­dashed in between ... rode him off—­and got the knock intended for me.  It—­it haunts me.”

Paul Desmond was silent a moment.  Pain and exaltation contended strangely in his tired eyes.  Then:  “I—­don’t wonder,” he said slowly.  “It—­was like him.  Thank you for telling me.  It will be—­some small comfort ... to all of them.  Now—­try and get a little sleep.”