Gradually the attack upon the Consulates died away. The waving light from the blaze of torches in the ring of streets about that quarter diminished, and darkness came again to the watchers upon the roof top. They sat huddled together in silence. Marguerite’s broken sobbing had ceased. Above them the bright stars wheeled in a sky of velvet. Only away to the north, where the beleaguered post still held out at the Bab-el-Mahroud, was there now any sound of firing, or any faint clamour of voices. The troubled city rested, waiting for daylight. Paul became conscious that Marguerite was stirring out of the abandonment of grief in which she had lain. He felt her supple body stiffen in his arms. Some idea, some plan perhaps, had occurred to her of which he must beware; all the more because she did not speak of it. He was pondering what that plan might be, when above their heads, in their very ears it seemed, the first mueddin on the balcony of his minaret launched over the city his vibrant call to prayer.
The sound startled them both so that they clung together.
“Don’t move,” whispered Paul.
“The Companions of the Sick!” said Marguerite, in a low voice. “My dear, we shall need them to-night as much as any two in Fez.”
They waited for a few moments. Then they crept swiftly and silently to the hatchway and closed it above their heads. In Marguerite’s room Paul lighted the candles. Marguerite was wearing the little frock of white and silver in which she had dressed the night before, and she let the dark cloak slip from her shoulders and fall about her feet.
“Paul,” she said, joining her hands together upon her breast in appeal. “I want you to do something—for me. You can walk safely through the streets. Dressed as you are, no one will know you. No one will suspect you. If you are spoken to, you can answer. You are Ben Sedira the Meknasi. I want you to go at once to the Protected quarter.”
“Why, Marguerite?”
“You can rejoin your battalion.”
“No.”
“Oh, you can, Paul! You can make yourself known. They will let you through their barricades.”
“It is too late,” said Paul.
Marguerite would not accept the quiet statement.
“No,” she pleaded, her eyes eager, her mouth trembling. “I have been thinking it out, my dear, up there on the roof. You can make an excuse. You were seized yesterday night after you had visited the Headquarters. You were pulled from your horse. You were kept imprisoned and escaped to-night.”
Paul shook his head.
“No one would believe that story, Marguerite. The people of Fez are making no prisoners.”
“Then you took refuge in the house of a friend! You have many friends in Fez, Paul. A word from you and any one of them will back you up and say he gave you shelter. It’ll be so easy, Paul, if you’ll only listen.”
“And meanwhile, Marguerite, what of you?”
She was waiting for that question with her answer ready upon her lips.
“Yes. I have thought of that too, Paul. I shall be quite safe here now by myself. They have searched this house already. They went away satisfied with your story. They will not come here again.”
Paul smiled at her tenderly. She stood before him with so eager a flush upon her face, a light so appealing in her eyes. Only this morning—was it so short a time ago as this morning?—yes, only this morning she had been terrified, even with him at her side, because they were shut in within this house without windows, because they could see nothing, know nothing, and must wait and wait with their hearts fluttering at a cry, at the crack of a rifle, at the sound of a step. Now her one thought was to send him forth, to endure alone the dreadful hours of ignorance and expectation, to meet, if needs must, the loneliest of deaths, so that his honour might be saved and his high career retained.
“You are thinking too much of me, Marguerite,” he said, gently.
Marguerite shook her head.
“I am thinking of myself, my dear, just as much as I am thinking of you. I am thinking of your love for me. What am I without it?”
“Nothing will change that,” protested Paul.
Marguerite smiled wistfully.
“My dear, how many lovers have used and listened to those words? Is there one pair that hasn’t? I am looking forward, Paul, to when this trouble is over—to the best that is possible for us two if we are alive when it is over. Your way! Flight, concealment for the rest of our lives and a bond of disgrace to hold us together instead of a bond of love which has done no harm to any one and has given a world of happiness to both of us. Paul, my way is the better way! Oh, believe it and leave me! Paul, I am pleading for myself—I am!—and”—the light went out of her eyes, her head and her body drooped a little; he had never seen anything so forlorn as Marguerite suddenly looked—“and, oh, ever so much more than you imagine!” she added, wistfully.
Paul took her by the arm which hung listlessly at her side.
“My dear, I can invent no story which would save me. The first shot was fired at noon to-day, not yesterday. Nothing can alter that. And even if it could be altered, I won’t leave you to face these horrors alone. I brought you to Fez—don’t let us forget that! I hid you in this house. My place is here with you.”
But whilst he was speaking Ravenel had a feeling that he had not reached to the heart of the plan which she had formed upon the roof. The sudden change in her aspect, the quick drop from eager pleading to a forlorn hopelessness, the wistful cry, “I am pleading for myself ever so much more than you imagine!”—No, he had not the whole of her intention. There was more in her mind than the effort to persuade him to leave her. There was a provision, a remedy, if persuasion failed.
Paul let her arm go and drew back a step or two until he leaned against a table of walnut wood set against the wall. Marguerite turned to the dressing-table and stood playing absently with her little ornaments, her brushes, and her combs. Then she surprised him by another change of mood. The eager, tender appeal, the sudden hopelessness were followed now by a tripping flippancy.
“Fancy your caring so much for me, Paul!” she cried, and she tittered like a schoolgirl. “A little dancing thing from the Villa Iris! I am not worth it. Am I, Paul?”
She turned to him, soliciting “Yes” for an answer, smiling with her lips though she could not with her eyes, and keeping these latter lowered so that he should not see them. “Well, since your silence tells me so politely that I am, I’ll give up trying to persuade you to leave me.” She yawned. “I am tired to death, Paul. I shall sleep to-night. And you?”
She cocked her head on one side with a coquettish gaiety, false to her at any time, and never so false to her as now. To Paul, whose memory had warned him for the second time that day, it was quite dreadful to see.
“I shall watch in the court below,” he said, and he moved a step or two away from the little table against the wall.
“Then go, or I shall fall asleep where I stand,” said Marguerite, and she led him to the wide doors opening on to the landing. “I shall leave the doors open, so that you will be within call.”
She gave him a little push which was more of a caress than a push, and suddenly caught him back to her. Her eyes were raised now, her arms were about his neck.
“Paul,” she whispered, and both eyes and lips were smiling gravely, “whatever happens to me, my dear, I shall owe you some wonderful months of happiness. Months which I had dreamed of, and which proved more wonderful than any dreams. Thank you, dear one! Thank you a thousand times!”
She kissed him upon the lips and laid her hand upon his cheek and stood apart from him.
“Good-night, Paul.”
Paul Ravenel answered her with a curious smile.
“You might be saying good-bye to me, Marguerite.”
Marguerite shook her head with determination.
“I shall never say good-bye to you, Paul, not even if this very second w............