when the poisoned flesh and the
burnt match had been flung after the dead snake that Max could glance at
the girl.

When he did turn his eyes to her, it was with scared apology. He was
afraid he had made her faint if she had seen that sight; luckily,
though, blood wasn't quite so horrid by moonlight as by day.

"I'm sorry!" he stammered. But the words died on his lips. She was
looking straight at him with a wonderful, transfiguring look. Many
fleeting expressions he had seen on that face of his adoration, but
never anything like this. He did not dare to think he could read it, and
yet--yet----

"Have you given your life for me this time?" she asked, in a strange,
deadly quiet tone.

"No, no. I shall be all right now I've got rid of the poison," he
answered. "I'll bind my hand up with this handkerchief----"

"I'll bind it," she cut him short; and taking the handkerchief from him
she tore it quickly into strips. Then with practised skill she bandaged
the wound. "That must do till we get to my tent," she told him. "There
I've lint and real bandages that I use for the men when they hurt
themselves, and I'll sponge your hand with disinfectant. But, my
Soldier, my poor Soldier, how can I bear it if you leave me? You won't,
will you?"

"Not if I can possibly help it," said Max.

"How soon can we be sure that you've cut all the poison out?"

"In a few minutes, I think."

"And if you haven't, it's--death?"

"I can't let myself die," Max exclaimed.

"It's for my sake you care like that, I know!" Sanda said. "And _I_
can't let you die--anyhow, without telling you something first. Does the
poison, if you've got it in you, kill very quickly?"

"It does, rather," Max admitted, still apologetically, because he could
not bear to have Sanda suffer for him. "But it's a painless sort of an
end, not a bad one, if it wasn't for--for----"

"For leaving me alone. I understand. And because you may have to--very
soon, though I pray not--I shall tell you what I never would have told
you except for this. Only, if you get well, you must promise not to
speak of it to me--nor even to seem to remember; and truly to forget, if
you can."

"I promise," Max said.

"It's this: I know you care for me, Max, and I care for you, too,
dearly, dearly. All the love I had ready for Richard flowed away from
him, like a river whose course had been changed in a night by a
tremendous shock of earthquake. Gradually it turned toward you. You won
i