The voice died away.

Isaacson clenched his hands, and moved a step backward.  The shivering pariah dog slunk away, fearing a blow.

“What was that?” Nigel said.

“Did you hear something?”

“Yes—­a step.”

“Oh, it’s one of the men, no doubt.  Shall I play to you a little more?”

“Can you without putting on the light?  I’m afraid of the light now and—­and how I used to love it!”

“I’ll manage.”

“But you’ll have to take away your hand!  Wait a minute.  Oh, Ruby, it’s terrible!  To-night I feel like a man on the edge of an abyss, and as if, without a hand, I must fall—­I—­”

Isaacson heard a dry, horrid sound, that was checked almost at once.

“I never—­never thought I should come to this, Ruby.”

“Never mind, dearest.  Any one—­”

“Yes—­yes—­I know.  But I hate—­it isn’t like a man to—­Go and play to me again.”

“I won’t play ‘Gerontius.’  It makes you think sad things, dreadful things.”

“No, play it again.  It was on your piano that day I called—­in London.  I shall always associate it with you.”

The dress rustled.  She was getting up.

Isaacson hesitated no longer.  He went instantly up the bank.  When he had reached the top he stood still for a moment.  His breath came quickly.  Below, the piano sounded.  Bella Donna had not seen him, had not, without seeing him, divined his presence.  He might go while she played, and she would never know he had been there eavesdropping in the night.  No one would ever know.  And to-morrow, with the sun, he could come back openly, defying her request.  He could come back boldly and ask for his friend.

“Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo!”

He would come back and see the face that went with that changed voice, that voice which he had hardly recognized.

“Go forth upon thy journey, Christian soul!  Go from this world!”

He moved to go away to those far-off lights which showed where the Fatma lay, by Edfou.

“Go forth ... go from this world!”

Was it the voice of a priest?  Or was it the irreparable voice of a woman?

Suddenly Isaacson breathed quietly.  He unclenched his hands.  A wave—­it was like that—­a wave of strong self-possession seemed to inundate him.  Now, in the darkness on the bank, a great doctor stood.  And this doctor had nothing to do with the far-off lights by Edfou.  His mission lay elsewhere.

“Go forth—­go forth from this world!”

He walked along the bank, down the bank to the gangway which connected the deck of the Loulia forward with the shore.  He pushed aside the dropped canvas, and he stepped upon the deck.  A number of dark eyes gravely regarded him.  Then Hamza detached himself from the hooded crowd and came up to where Isaacson was standing.

“Give that card to your master, and ask if I can see him.”