n a long
time since, and the violin had taught it him. It had spoken again that
afternoon, and though with a different voice, had offered to him the
same message. The true music cannot complain.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE END

In the early summer of next year two old men sat reading their
newspapers after breakfast upon the terrace of Broad Place. The elder of
the two turned over a sheet.

"I see Osman Digna's back at Suakin," said he. "There's likely to be
some fighting."

"Oh," said the other, "he will not do much harm." And he laid down his
paper. The quiet English country-side vanished from before his eyes. He
saw only the white city by the Red Sea shimmering in the heat, the brown
plains about it with their tangle of halfa grass, and in the distance
the hills towards Khor Gwob.

"A stuffy place Suakin, eh, Sutch?" said General Feversham.

"Appallingly stuffy. I heard of an officer who went down on parade at
six o'clock of the morning there, sunstruck in the temples right through
a regulation helmet. Yes, a town of dank heat! But I was glad to be
there--very glad," he said with some feeling.

"Yes," said Feversham, briskly; "ibex, eh?"

"No," replied Sutch. "All the ibex had been shot off by the English
garrison for miles round."

"No? Something to do, then. That's it?"

"Yes, that's it, Feversham. Something to do."

And both men busied themselves again over their papers. But in a little
while a footman brought to each a small pile of letters. General
Feversham ran over his envelopes with a quick eye, selected one letter,
and gave a grunt of satisfaction. He took a pair of spectacles from a
case and placed them upon his nose.

"From Ramelton?" asked Sutch, dropping his newspaper on to the terrace.

"From Ramelton," answered Feversham. "I'll light a cigar first."

He laid the letter down on the garden table which stood between his
companion and himself, drew a cigar-case from his pocket, and in spite
of the impatience of Lieutenant Sutch, proceeded to cut and light it
with the utmost deliberation. The old man had become an epicure in this
respect. A letter from Ramelton was a luxury to be enjoyed with all the
accessories of comfort which could be obtained. He made himself
comfortable in his chair, stretched out his legs, and smoked enough of
his cigar to assure himself that it was drawing well. Then he took up
his letter again and opened it.

"From him?" asked Sutch.

"No; from her."

"Ah!"