Mr. Harland’s sharp eyes flashed with a sudden menace.

“If I thought—­” he began—­then he broke off.  Presently he resumed—­ “You are not aware of the true state of affairs, Santoris.  Wizard and scientist as you are, you cannot know everything!  I need constant medical attendance—­and my disease is incurable—­”

“No!”—­said Santoris, quietly—­“Not incurable.”

A sudden hope illumined Harland’s worn and haggard face.

“Not incurable!  But—­my good fellow, you don’t even know what it is!”

“I do.  I also know how it began, and when,—­how it has progressed, and how it will end.  I know, too, how it can be checked—­cut off in its development, and utterly destroyed,—­but the cure would depend on yourself more than on Dr. Brayle or any other physician.  At present no good is being done and much harm.  For instance, you are in pain now?”

“I am—­but how can you tell?”

“By the small, almost imperceptible lines on your face which contract quite unconsciously to yourself.  I can stop that dreary suffering at once for you, if you will let me.”

“Oh, I will ‘let’ you, certainly!” and Mr. Harland smiled incredulously,—­“But I think you over-estimate your abilities.”

“I was never a boaster,”—­replied Santoris, cheerfully—­“But you shall keep whatever opinion you like of me.”  And he drew from his pocket a tiny crystal phial set in a sheath of gold.  “A touch of this in your glass of wine will make you feel a new man.”

We watched him with strained attention as he carefully allowed two small drops of liquid, bright and clear as dew to fall one after the other into Mr. Harland’s glass.

“Now,”—­he continued—­“drink without fear, and say good-bye to all pain for at least forty-eight hours.”

With a docility quite unusual to him Mr. Harland obeyed.

“May I go on smoking?” he asked.

“You may.”

A minute passed, and Mr. Harland’s face expressed a sudden surprise and relief.

“Well!  What now?” asked Santoris—­“How is the pain?”

“Gone!” he answered—­“I can hardly believe it—­but I’m bound to admit it!”

“That’s right!  And it will not come back—­not to-day, at any rate, nor to-morrow.  Shall we go on deck now?”

We assented.  As we left the saloon he said: 

“You must see the glow of the sunset over Loch Coruisk.  It’s always a fine sight and it promises to be specially fine this evening,—­ there are so many picturesque clouds floating about.  We are turning back to Loch Scavaig,—­and when we get there we can land and do the rest of the excursion on foot.  It’s not much of a climb; will you feel equal to it?”

This question he put to me personally.

I smiled.

“Of course!  I feel equal to anything!  Besides, I’ve been very lazy on board the ‘Diana,’ taking no real exercise.  A walk will do me good.”

Mr. Harland seated himself in one of the long reclining chairs which were placed temptingly under an awning on deck.  His eyes were clearer and his face more composed than I had ever seen it.