She sprang up, and turned out the light.

* * * * *

The next day the Loulia tied up under the garden of the Villa Androud, just beyond the stone promontory that diverted the strong current of the river.  Nigel, too weak to walk up the bank to the house, was carefully carried by the Nubians.  The surprised servants of the villa, who had had no notice of their master’s arrival, hastened to throw back the shutters, to open the windows, letting in light and air.  And Ibrahim once more began to look authoritative, for it seemed that Hamza’s reign was over.  From henceforth only Meyer Isaacson gave food and drink and “sick-food” to “my Lord Arminigel.”

The change from dahabeeyah life to life on shore seemed at once to make a difference to the patient.  When he was put carefully down in the white and yellow drawing-room, and, looking out through the French windows across the terrace, saw the roses blowing in the sandy garden, he heaved a sigh that was like a deep breathing of relief.

“I’m thankful to be out of the Loulia, Ruby,” he said to his wife, who was standing beside the sofa on which he was resting.

“Are you, Nigel.  Why?”

“I don’t know.  It seemed to oppress me.  And you know that writing?”

“What writing?”

“Over the door as you went in.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I used to think of it in the night when I felt so awful, and it was like a weight coming down to crush me.”

“That was fanciful of you,” she said.

But she sent him a strange look of half-frightened suspicion.

He did not see it.  He was looking out to the garden.  From the Nile rose the voices of the sailors singing their song.  He listened to it for a moment.

“What a strange time it’s been since we first heard that song together, Ruby,” he said.

“Yes.”

“When we first heard it, I was so strong, so happy—­strong to protect you, happy to have you to protect, and—­and it’s ended in your having to protect and take care of me.”

She moved.

“Yes,” she said again, in a dry voice.

“I—­I think I’m glad we can’t look into the future.  One wants a lot of courage in life.”

She said nothing.

“But I feel a little courage now.  I never quite told you how it was with me on the Loulia.  If I had stayed on her much longer, as we were, I should have died.  I should have died very soon.”

“No, no, Nigel.”

“Yes, I should.  But here”—­he moved, stretched out his arms, sighed—­“I feel that I shall get better, perhaps get well, even.  How—­how splendid if I do!”

“Well, I must go and look after things,” she said.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

“No.  Why should you think so?”

“Your voice sounds tired.”

“It isn’t that.”

“What is it?”

“You know that for your sake I am enduring a companionship that is odious to me,” she said, in a low voice.