grew hard and
quivering, like the body of a greyhound about to be let loose on a
hare. He heard nothing except a sound of music from the darkness, and
the gentle rustle of the wind.

"I hear nothing," he said. "What was it--a cry?"

"No, no!"

"What then?"

"Oh, Desmond--hush!"

He was obedient, and strained his ears, wondering what Claire had heard.
The fire was at last beginning to die down, for the flames had devoured
the masses of dry twigs, and had now nothing to feed upon except the
heavy logs. So the darkness drew a little closer round the camp, as if
the night expanded noiselessly. One of the porters, or, perhaps, one of
the soldiers, was playing a queer little air upon a pipe over and over
again. It was plaintive and very soft. But the tone of the instrument
was strangely penetrating, and the wind carried it along over the plain,
as if anxious to bear it to the sea, that the cave men might hear it,
and the sailors bearing up for the Spanish coast. Was Claire listening
to this odd little tune? Renfrew wondered. There seemed no other sound.
She was moving uneasily now, as if an intense restlessness had taken
hold of her. And she turned her head away from him and gazed into the
night.

Presently she put her hand on Renfrew's arm, which was still round her
waist, and tried to remove it. But he would not yield to her desire. He
only held her closer, and again--he could not tell why--the smouldering
jealousy began to flare up in his heart.

"No, Claire," he said, in answer to her movement, "you are mine. You
have given yourself to me. I alone have the right to keep you, to hold
you close--close to my heart."

"Can you keep me always, Desmond?" she said, suddenly turning on him
with a sort of fierce excitement.

She looked into his eyes as if she would search the very depths of his
soul for strength, for power.

"You have the right. Yes; but that is nothing--nothing."

"Nothing, Claire?"

"You must have the strength, Desmond. That is everything."

There was a look almost of despair in her face. She threw herself
against him as if moved by a sudden yearning for protection, and put her
arms round his shoulders.

The hidden Moor was still playing the same monotonous little tune, an
African aria, as wild as a bird that flies over the desert, or a cloud
that is driven across the sky above a dangerous sea. It was imaginative,
and, as all tunes seem to have a shape, this melody was misshapen and
yet deli