He waited dumfounded, and a muscular hand gripped his shoulder, holding him motionless.

“You’ll be all right,” a quiet voice said, “if you don’t make a confounded fool of yourself.”

Phil gave a great start, and the hand that gripped him tightened.  Through the gloom he made out the outline of a grim, bearded face.

“Control yourself!” the quiet voice ordered.  “Do you think I’ve done this for nothing?  We are alone—­it may be for five minutes, it may be for less.  Get out of your things—­sharp, and let me have them.”

“Great Jupiter—­Tudor!” gasped Phil.

“Yes—­Tudor!” came the curt response.  “Don’t stop to jaw.  Do as I tell you.”

He took his hand from Phil’s shoulder and stood up, backing into the shadows.

Phil stood up, too, straightening himself with an effort.  The suddenness of this thing had thrown him momentarily off his balance.

“Quick!” commanded Tudor in a fierce whisper.  “Take off your clothes.  There isn’t a second to lose.”

But Phil stood uncertain.

“What’s the game, Major?” he asked.

Tudor’s hand gripped him again and violently.

“You fool!” he whispered savagely.  “Don’t stand gaping there!  Can’t you see it’s a matter of life and death?  Do you want to be killed?”

“No, but—­”

Phil broke off.  Tudor in that frame of mind was a stranger to him, but he was none the less one who must be obeyed.  Mechanically almost he yielded to the man’s insistence and began to strip off his clothes.

Tudor helped him with an energy that neither fumed nor faltered.  Mute obedience was all he required.  But when he dropped the garment he wore from his own shoulders, Phil paused to protest.

“I am not going to wear that!” he said.  “What about you?”

“I can look after myself,” Tudor answered curtly.  “Get into it—­quick!  There is no time for arguing.  You’re going to wear these, too.”

He pulled the ragged, black beard from his face and the chuddah from his head.

But Phil’s eyes were opened, and he resisted.

“Heavens above, sir!” he said.  “Do you think I’m going to do a thing like that?”

“You must!” Tudor answered.

He spoke quietly, but there was deadly determination behind his quietude.  They faced one another in the gloom, and suddenly there ran between them a passion of feeling that blazed unseen like the hidden current in an electric wire.

For a few seconds it burnt fiercely, silently; then Tudor laid a firm hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“You must,” he said again.  “The choice does not rest with you.  It is made already.  It only remains for you to yield—­whatever it may cost you—­as I am doing.”

Phil started as if he had struck him.

“You are wrong, sir,” he exclaimed.  “On my oath, you are wrong.  You don’t understand.  You never have understood.  I—­I—­”