ou now, lest you should think I'm trading on your
friendship, but I, too, am one of those unlucky beggars that want to
marry you. You needn't trouble to refuse me, dear. I'll take it all for
granted. Only, when the lean years do come to you, as they will, as they
must, will you remember that I'm still wanting you, and give me the
chance of making you happy?"

"Oh, don't!" sobbed Betty. "Don't! You hurt me so!"

"Hurt you, Betty! I!"

She turned impulsively and leaned her head against him.

"Major Herne, you--you are awfully good to me, do you know? I shall
never forget it. And if--if I were not quite sure in my heart that Bobby
is still alive and wanting me, I would come to you, if you really cared
to have me. But--but--"

"Do you mean that, Betty?" he said. His arm was round her, but he did
not seek to draw her nearer, did not so much as try to see her face.

But she showed it to him instantly, lifting clear eyes, in which the
tears still shone, to his.

"Oh, yes, I mean it. But, Major Herne, but----"

He met her look, faintly smiling.

"Yes," he said. "It's a pretty big 'but,' I know, but I'm going to
tackle it. I'm going to find out if the boy is alive or dead. If he
lives, you shall see him again; if he is dead--and this is the more
probable, for it is no country for white men--I shall claim you for
myself, Betty. You won't refuse me then?"

"Only find out for certain," she said.

"I will do that," he promised.

"But how? How? You won't go there yourself?"

"Why not?" he said.

Something like panic showed in the girl's eyes. She laid her hands on
his shoulders.

"Monty, I don't want you to go."

"You would rather I stayed?" he said. He was looking closely into her
eyes.

She endured the look for a little, then suddenly the tears welled up
again.

"I can't bear you to go," she whispered. "I mean--I mean--I couldn't
bear it if--if----"

He took her hands gently, and held them.

"I shall come back to you, Betty," he said.

"Oh, you will!" she said very earnestly. "You will!"

"I shall," said Montague Herne; and he said it as a man whose resolution
no power on earth might turn.

III

No country for white men indeed! Herne grimly puffed a cloud of smoke
into a whirl of flies, and rose from the packing-case off which he had
dined.

Near by were the multitudinous sounds of the camp, the voices of Arabs,
the grunting of camels, the occasional squeal of a mule. Beyond lay the
wildern