He did not speak in answer to her exclamation, merely stood there looking at her, almost as if he had never seen her before.  His eyes were keen with a sort of icy fierceness.  She thought she had never before realized the cruelty of his mouth.

It was she who spoke first.  The silence seemed so impossible.  “Burke!” she said.  “What-is the matter?”

He came forward to her with an abruptness that was like the breaking of bonds.  He stopped in front of her, looking closely into her face.  “What are you doing here?” he said.

In spite of herself she shrank, so terrible was his look.  But she was swift to master her weakness.  She stood up to her full height, facing him.  “I have come to find Guy,” she said.

He threw a glance around; it was like the sweep of a rapier.  “You are waiting for him-here?”

Again for a moment she was disconcerted.  She felt the quick blood rise to her forehead.  “They told me he would come here,” she said.

He passed on, almost as if she had not spoken, but his eyes were mercilessly upon her, marking her confusion.  “What do you want with him?”

His words were like the snap of a steel rope.  They made her flinch by their very ruthlessness.  She had sprung from sleep with bewildered senses.  She was not-prepared to do battle in her own defence.

She hesitated, and immediately his hand closed upon her shoulder.  It seemed to her that she had never known what anger could be like before this moment.  All the force of the man seemed to be gathered together in one tremendous wave, menacing her.

“Tell me what you want with him!” he said.

She shuddered from head to foot as if she had been struck with a scourge.  “Burke!  What do you mean?” she cried out desperately.  “You-you must be mad!”

“Answer me!” he said.

His hold was a grip.  The ice in his eyes had turned to flame.  Her heart leapt and quivered within her like a wild thing fighting to escape.

“I-don’t know what you mean,” she panted.  “I have done nothing wrong.  I came after him to-to try and bring him back.”

“Then why did you come secretly?” he said,

She shrank from the intolerable inquisition of his eyes.  “I wanted to see him-alone,” she said.

“Why?” Again it was like the merciless cut of a scourge.  She caught her breath with a sharp sound that was almost a cry.

“Why?” he reiterated.  “Answer me!  Answer me!”

She did not answer him.  She could not.  And in the silence that followed, it seemed to her that something within her-something that had been Vitally wounded-struggled and died.

“Look at me!” he said.

She lifted an ashen face.  His eyes held hers, and the torture of his hell encompassed her also.

“Tell me the truth!” he said.  “I shall know if you lie.  When did you see him last?”

She shook her head.  “A long while ago.  Ages ago.  Before you left the farm.”

The memory of his going, his touch, his smile went through her with the words.  She had a sickening sensation as of having been struck over the heart.

“Where did you spend last night?” he said.

“At Ritzen.”  Her white lips seemed to speak mechanically.  She herself stood apart as it were, stunned beyond feeling.

“You came here by rail –­alone?”

The voice of the inquisitor pierced her numbed sensibilities, compelling-almost dictating-her answer.

“Yes-alone.”

“You had arranged to meet here then?”

Still the scourging continued, and she marvelled at herself, that she felt so little.  But feeling was coming back.  She was waiting for it, dreading it.

She answered without conscious effort.  “No-I came after him.  He doesn’t know I am here.”

“And yet you are posing as his wife?”

She felt that.  It cut through her apathy irresistibly.  A sharp tremor went through her.  “That,” she said rather breathlessly, “was a mistake.”

“It was.” said Burke.  “The greatest mistake of your life.  It is a pity you took the trouble to lie to me.  The truth would have served you better.”  He turned from her contemptuously with the words, setting her free.

For a moment the relief of his going was such that the intention that lay behind it did not so much as occur to her.  Then suddenly it flashed upon her.  He was going in search of Guy.

In an instant her passivity was gone.  The necessity for action drove her forward.  With a cry she sprang to the door before him, and set herself against it.  She could not let him go with that look of the murderer in his eyes.

“Burke!” she gasped.  “Burke!  What-are you going to do?”

His lips parted a little, and she saw his teeth.  “You shall hear what I have done-afterwards,” he said.  “Let me pass!”

But she barred his way.  Her numbed senses were all awake now and quivering.  The very fact of physical effort seemed to have restored to her the power to suffer.  She stood before him, her bosom heaving with great sobs that brought no tears or relief of any sort to the anguish that tore her.

“You-you can’t pass,” she said.  “Not-not-like this!  Burke, listen!  I swear to you-I swear-

“You needn’t,” he broke in.  “A woman’s oath, when it is her last resource, is quite valueless.  I will deal with you afterwards.  Let me pass!”

The command was curt as a blow.  But still she withstood him, striving to still her agitation, striving with all her desperate courage to face him and endure.

“I will not!” she said, and with the words she stood up to her full, slim height, thwarting him, making her last stand.

His expression changed as he realized her defiance.  She was panting still, but there was no sign of yielding in her attitude.  She was girt for resistance to the utmost.

There fell an awful pause-a silence which only her rapid breathing disturbed.  Her eyes were fixed on his.  She must have seen the change, but she dared it unflinching.  There was no turning back for her now.

The man spoke at last, and his voice was absolutely quiet, dead level.  “You had better let me go,” he said.

She made a sharp movement, for there was that in the steel-cold voice that sent terror to her heart.  Was this Burke-the man upon whose goodness she had leaned ever since she had come to this land of strangers?  Surely she had never met him before that moment!

“Open that door!” he said.

A great tremor went through her.  She turned, the instinct to obey urging her.  But in the same instant the thought of Guy-Guy in mortal danger-flashed across her.  She paused for a second, making a supreme effort, while every impulse fought in mad tumult within her, crying to her to yield.  Then, with a lightning twist of the hand she turned the key and pulled it from the lock.  For an instant she held it in her hand, then with a half-strangled sound she thrust it deep into her bosom.

Her eyes shone like flames in her white face as she turned back to him.  “Perhaps you will believe me-now!” she said.

He took a single step forward and caught, her by the wrists.  “Woman!” he said.  “Do you know what you are doing?”

The passion that blazed in his look appalled her.  Yet some strange force within her awoke as it were in answer to her need.  She flung fear aside.  She had done the only thing possible, and she would not look back.

“You must believe me-now!” she panted.  “You do believe me!”

His hold became a grip, merciless, fierce, tightening upon her like a dosing trap.  “Why should I believe you?” he said, and there was that in his voice that was harder to bear than his look.  “Have I any special reason for believing you?  Have you ever given me one?”

“You know me,” she said, with a sinking heart.

He uttered a scoffing sound too bitter to be called a laugh.  “Do I know you?  Have I ever been as near to you as this devil who has made himself notorious with Kaffir women for as long as he has been out here?”

She flinched momentarily from the stark cruelty of his words.  But she faced him still, faced him though every instinct of her womanhood shrank with a dread unspeakable.

“You know me,” she said again.  “You may not know me very well, but you know me well enough for that.”

It was bravely spoken, but as she ceased to speak she felt her strength begin to fail her.  Her throat worked spasmodically, convulsively, and a terrible tremor went through her.  She saw him as through a haze that blotted out all beside.

There fell a silence between them-a dreadful, interminable silence that seemed to stretch into eternities.  And through it very strangely she heard the wild beating of her own heart, like the hoofs of a galloping horse, that seemed to die away. . . .

She did not know whether she fell, or whether he lifted her, but when the blinding mist cleared away again, she was lying in the wicker-chair by the window, and he was walking up and down the room with the ceaseless motion of a prowling animal.  She sat up slowly and looked at him.  She was shivering all over, as if stricken with cold.

At her movement he came and stood before her, but he did not speak.  He seemed to be watching her.  Or was he waiting for something?

She could not tell; neither, as he stood there, could she look up at him to see.  Only, after a moment, she leaned forward.  She found and held his hand.

“Burke!” she said.

His fingers closed as if they would crush her own.  He did not utter a word.

She waited for a space, gathering her strength.  Then, speaking almost under her breath, she went on.  “I have-something to say to you.  Please will you listen-till I have finished?”

“Go on!” he said.

Her head was bent.  She went on tremulously.  “You are quite right-when you say-that you don’t know me-that I have given you no reason-no good reason-to believe in me.  I have taken-a great deal from you.  And I have given-nothing in return.  I see that now.  That is why you distrust me.  I-have only myself to thank.”

She paused a moment, but he waited in absolute silence, neither helping nor hindering.

With a painful effort she continued.  “People make mistaken-sometimes-without knowing it.  It comes to them afterwards-perhaps too late.  But-it isn’t too late with me, Burke.  I am your partner-your wife.  And-I never meant to-defraud you.  All I have-is yours.  I-am yours.”

She stopped.  Her head was bowed against his hand.  That dreadful sobbing threatened to overwhelm her again, but she fought it down.  She waited quivering for his answer.

But for many seconds Burke neither moved nor spoke.  The grasp of his hand was vicelike in its rigidity.  She had no key whatever to what was passing in his mind.

Not till she had mastered herself and was sitting in absolute stillness, did he stir.  Then, very quietly, with a decision that brooked no resistance, he took her by the chin with his free hand and turned her face up to his own.  He looked deep into her eyes.  His own were no longer ablaze, but a fitful light came and went in them like the flare of a torch in the desert wind.

“So,” he said, and his voice was curiously unsteady also; it vibrated as if he were not wholly sure of himself, “you have made your choice-and counted the cost?”

“Yes,” she said.

He looked with greater intentness into her eyes, searching without mercy, as if he would force his way to her very soul.  “And for whose sake this-sacrifice?” he said.

She shrank a little; for there was something intolerable in his words.  Had she really counted the cost?  Her eyelids fluttered under that unsparing look, fluttered and sank.  “You will know-some day,” she whispered.

“Ah!  Some day!” he said.

Again his voice vibrated.  It was as if some door that led to his innermost being had opened suddenly, releasing a savage, primitive force which till then he had held restrained.

And in that moment it came to her that the thing she valued most in life had been rudely torn from her.  She saw that new, most precious gift of hers that had sprung to life in the wilderness and which she had striven so desperately to shield from harm-that holy thing which had become dearer to her than life itself-desecrated, broken, and lying in the dust.  And it was Burke who had flung it there, Burke who now ruthlessly trampled it underfoot.

Her throat worked again painfully for a moment or two; and then with a great effort of the will she stilled it.  This thing was beyond tears-a cataclysm wrecking the whole structure of existence.  Neither tears nor laughter could ever be hers again.  In silence she took the cup of bitterness, and drank it to the dregs.