s manhood
against the swift deadly progress of the poison in his veins. It was
simply a question of hours; of fighting the devil to the last on
principle, rather than from any likelihood of victory. With heart and
hope broken, superhumanly they struggled on.

For Roy, the world outside that dim whitewashed bedroom ceased to exist.
The loss of his mother had been anguish unalloyed; but he had not _seen_
her go....

Now, he saw--and heard, which was worse than all.

For Lance, towards the end, was constantly delirious; and, in delirium,
he raved of Rose--always of Rose. He, the soul of reserve, poured out
incontinently his passion, his worship, his fury of jealousy--till Roy
grew almost to hate the sound of her name.

Worse--he was constrained to tell the Colonel the meaning of it all: to
see anger flash through the haunting pain in his eyes.

Only twice, during the final struggle, the real Lance emerged; and on
the second occasion they happened to be alone. Their eyes met in the old
intimate understanding. Lance flung out his undamaged hand, and grasped
Roy's with all the force still left him.

"Don't fret your heart out, Roy ... if I can't pull through," he said in
his normal voice. "Carry on. And--_don't_ blame Rose. It'll hurt her--a
bit. Don't hurt her more--because of me. And--look here, stand by Paul
for a time. He'll need you."

Roy's "Trust me, dear old man," applied, mentally, to the last. Even at
that supreme moment he was dimly thankful it came last.

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.

"Y