"Too early to give an opinion," was the cautious answer. But the caution and the man's whole manner told Roy the incredible, unbearable truth.

Something inside him seemed to snap. In that moment of bewildered agony, he felt like a murderer....

Looking back afterwards, Roy marvelled how he had lived through the waking nightmare of those two days--while the doctor did all that was humanly possible, and Lance pitted all the clean strength of his manhood against the swift deadly progress of the poison in his veins. It was simply a question of hours; of fighting the devil to the last on principle, rather than from any likelihood of victory. With heart and hope broken, superhumanly they struggled on.

For Roy, the world outside that dim whitewashed bedroom ceased to exist.

The loss of his mother had been anguish unalloyed; but he had not _seen_ her go....

Now, he saw--and heard, which was worse than all.

For Lance, towards the end, was constantly delirious; and, in delirium, he raved of Rose--always of Rose. He, the soul of reserve, poured out incontinently his pa.s.sion, his worship, his fury of jealousy--till Roy grew almost to hate the sound of her name.

Worse--he was constrained to tell the Colonel the meaning of it all: to see anger flash through the haunting pain in his eyes.

Only twice, during the final struggle, the real Lance emerged; and on the second occasion they happened to be alone. Their eyes met in the old intimate understanding. Lance flung out his undamaged hand, and grasped Roy's with all the force still left him.

"Don't fret your heart out, Roy ... if I can't pull through," he said in his normal voice. "Carry on. And--_don't_ blame Rose. It'll hurt her--a bit. Don't hurt her more--because of me. And--look here, stand by Paul for a time. He'll need you."

Roy's "Trust me, dear old man," applied, mentally, to the last. Even at that supreme moment he was dimly thankful it came last.

Then the Colonel returned; and they could say no more; nor could Roy find it in his heart to grudge him a moment of that brief blessed interlude of real contact with the man they loved....

There could be no question of going to Lah.o.r.e station on Sunday evening.

He was ill himself, though he did not know it; and his soul was centred on Lance--the gallant spirit inwoven with almost every act and thought and inspiration of his life. By comparison, Rose was nothing to him; less than nothing; a mushroom growth--sudden and violent--with no deep roots; only fibres.

So he sent her, by an orderly, a few hurried lines of explanation and farewell.

"MY DEAR,--

"I'm sorry, but I _can't_ come to-night. We are all in dreadful grief. Lance down with acute blood-poisoning. Collins evidently fears the worst. I can't write of it. I do trust you get up safely.

I'll write again, when it's possible.

"Yours, ROY."

Yes, he was still hers--so far. More than that he could not honestly add. Beyond this awful hour he could not look. It was as if one stood on the edge of a precipice, and the next step would be a drop into black darkness....

By Monday night it was over. After forty-eight hours of fever and struggle and pain, Lance Desmond lay at rest--serene and n.o.ble in death, as he had been in life. And Roy--having achieved one long, slow climb out of the depths--was flung back again, deeper than ever....

It was near midnight when the end came. Utterly weary and broken, he had sunk into Lance's chair, leaning forward, his face hidden, his frame shaken all through with hard dry sobs that would not be stilled.

Through the fog of his misery, he felt the Colonel's hand on his shoulder; heard the familiar voice, deep and kindly: "My dear Roy, get to bed. We can't have you on the sick-list. There's work to do; a great gap to be filled--somehow. I'll stay--with him."

At that, he pulled himself together and stood up. "I'll do my best, Colonel," was all he could say. The face he had so rarely seen perturbed was haggard with grief. They looked straight at one another; and the thought flashed on Roy, 'I must tell him.' Not easy; but it had to be done.

"There's something, sir," he began, "I feel you ought to know. By rights, it--it should have been _me_. That brute with the _lathi_ was right on me; and he--Lance--dashed in between ... rode him off--and got the knock intended for me. It--it haunts me."

Paul Desmond was silent a moment. Pain and exaltation contended strangely in his tired eyes. Then: "I--don't wonder," he said slowly.

"It--was like him. Thank you for telling me. It will be--some small comfort ... to all of them. Now--try and get a little sleep."

Roy shook his head. "Impossible.--Good-night, Colonel. It's a relief to feel you know. For G.o.d's sake, let me do any mortal thing I can for any of you."

There was another moment of silence, of palpable hesitation; then once again Paul Desmond put his hand on Roy's shoulder.

"Look here, Roy," he said. "Drop calling me Colonel. You two--were like brothers. And--as Thea's included, why should I be out of it. Let me--be 'Paul.'"

It was hard to do. It was inimitably done. It gave Roy the very lift he needed in that hour when he felt as if they must almost hate him, and never wish to set eyes on him again.

"I--I shall be proud," he said; and, turning away to hide his emotion, went back to the bed that drew him like a magnet.

There he knelt a long while, in a torment of mute, pa.s.sionate protest against the power of so trivial an injury to rob the world of so much gallantry and charm. Resignation was far from him. With all the vehemence that was in him, he raged against his loss....

Next morning, they awoke, as from a prolonged and terrible dream, to find Lah.o.r.e practically isolated; all wires down, but one; the _hartal_ continuing in defiance of orders and exhortations; more stations demolished; more trains derailed and looted; all available British troops recalled from the Hills. But for five sets of wireless plant, urgently asked for, isolation would have been complete.

By the fourteenth, the position was desperate. Civil authority flatly defied; the police--lacking reserves--fairly played out; the temperature chart of rebellion at its highest point. The inference was plain.

Organised revolt is amenable only to the ultimate argument of force.

Nothing, now, would serve but strong action, and the compelling power of Martial Law.

Happily for India, the men who had striven their utmost to avoid both did not falter in that critical hour.

At Amritsar strong action had already been taken; and the sobering effect of it spread, in widening circles, bringing relief to thousands of both races; not least to men whose nerve and resource had been strained almost to the limit of endurance.

In Lah.o.r.e, notices of Martial Law were issued. The suspended life of the city tentatively revived. Law-abiding men of all ranks breathed more freely; and for the moment it seemed the worst was over....

Roy, having slept off a measure of his utter fatigue, took up the dead weight of life again, with the old sick sensation, of three years ago, that nothing mattered in earth or heaven. But then, there had been Lance to uphold and cheer him. Now there was only the hard unfailing mercy of work to be pulled through somehow.

There was also Rose--and the problem of letting her know that he knew.

And--their marriage? All that seemed to have suffered shipwreck with the rest of him. He was still too dazed and blinded with grief to see an inch ahead. He only knew he could not bear to see her, who had made Lance suffer so, till the first anguish had been dulled a little--on the surface at least.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 35: It is an order.]

CHAPTER XI

"Why did'st thou promise such a beauteous day,