rted the
desert. So, hey for Mexico, a hilly place for a rolling stone!"

He gasped, held his hand to his shoulder and brought it away covered
with red. But that Saint-Prosper knelt swiftly, sustaining and
supporting him, he would have slid to the ground. He smiled--sweetly
enough--on the stern soldier and placed his moist and stained hand
caressingly on that of his companion. Seeing them thus, it was not
difficult to trace a family likeness--a similarity in their very
dissimilarity. The older was younger; the younger, older. The gunner's
hair was light, his face wild as a gerfalcon beneath; the other's
dark, with a countenance, habitually repressed, but now, at the touch
of that dishonored hand, grown cold and harsh; yet despite the total
difference of expression, the hereditary resemblance could not be
stamped out. Even the smile of the wounded man was singularly like
that of his brother--a rare transformation that seldom failed to
charm.

"That's my story," he said, smiling now, as though all the problems of
life and death could be thus dismissed. "As the prophet said: 'I have
urged my camel through every desert!' You see I know my Koran well.
But how came you here, Ernest? I thought you were in Africa,
colonizing--us!"

"It was impossible to stay there long," replied Saint-Prosper,
slowly.

"There's that cloud of smoke again," muttered the wounded man,
apparently oblivious to the other's response. As he spoke he withdrew
his hand from that of his brother. At that moment the tropic sun was
bathing him in its light and the white walls shone with luster. "No;
it's like the desert; the dark hour before the sand-storm." Upon his
brow the perspiration gathered, but his lip curled half-scornfully,
half-defiantly. "Turn me toward the valley, Ernest. There's more
space; more light!"

The soldier, an automaton in passive compliance, placed him where he
commanded the outlook cityward; the open plain, protected by the
breast-works of mountains; the distant spires trembling on the
horizon; the lakes which once marked the Western Venice, a city of
perfume and song. Striking a body of water, the sun converted it into
a glowing shield, a silver escutcheon of the land of silver, and, in
contrast with this polished splendor, the shadows, trailing on the
far-away mountains, were soft, deep and velvety. But the freedom of
the outlook afforded the wounded man little comfort.

"The storm!" he said.

A change passed over his fa