ffect your
fate in any way, and as to him he is much too prestigious to be killed
light-heartedly. When all this is over you will walk triumphantly on his
arm out of this stockade; for there is nothing in all this to affect his
greatness, his absolute value in the eyes of those people--and indeed in
any other eyes." D'Alcacer kept his glance averted from Mrs. Travers and
as soon as he had finished speaking busied himself in dragging the bench
a little way further from the fire. When they sat down on it he kept his
distance from Mrs. Travers. She made no sign of unveiling herself and
her eyes without a face seemed to him strangely unknown and disquieting.

"The situation in a nutshell," she said. "You have arranged it all
beautifully, even to my triumphal exit. Well, and what then? No, you
needn't answer, it has no interest. I assure you I came here not with
any notion of marching out in triumph, as you call it. I came here, to
speak in the most vulgar way, to save your skin--and mine."

Her voice came muffled to d'Alcacer's ears with a changed character,
even to the very intonation. Above the white and embroidered scarf her
eyes in the firelight transfixed him, black and so steady that even the
red sparks of the reflected glare did not move in them. He concealed the
strong impression she made. He bowed his head a little.

"I believe you know perfectly well what you are doing."

"No! I don't know," she said, more quickly than he had ever heard her
speak before. "First of all, I don't think he is so safe as you imagine.
Oh, yes, he has prestige enough, I don't question that. But you are
apportioning life and death with too much assurance. . . ."

"I know my portion," murmured d'Alcacer, gently. A moment of silence
fell in which Mrs. Travers' eyes ended by intimidating d'Alcacer,
who looked away. The flame of the fire had sunk low. In the dark
agglomeration of buildings, which might have been called Belarab's
palace, there was a certain animation, a flitting of people, voices
calling and answering, the passing to and fro of lights that would
illuminate suddenly a heavy pile, the corner of a house, the eaves of a
low-pitched roof, while in the open parts of the stockade the armed men
slept by the expiring fires.

Mrs. Travers said, suddenly, "That Jorgenson is not friendly to us."

"Possibly."

With clasped hands and leaning over his knees d'Alcacer had assented
in a very low tone. Mrs. Travers, unobserved, pressed