“Marzak!” he called. “Here, thou prince of marksmen, is a butt for thee!”
From the poop deck whence with his father he too was watching the swimmer’s head, which at every moment became more faint in the failing light, Marzak looked with cold disdain upon his challenger, making no reply. A titter ran through the crew.
“Come now,” cried Sakr-el-Bahr. “Take up thy bow!”
“If thou delay much longer,” put in Asad, “he will be beyond thine aim. Already he is scarcely visible.”
“The more difficult a butt, then,” answered Sakr-el-Bahr, who was but delaying to gain time. “The keener test. A hundred philips, Marzak, that thou’lt not hit me that head in three shots, and that I’ll sink him at the first! Wilt take the wager?”
“The unbeliever is forever peeping forth from thee,” was Marzak’s dignified reply. “Games of chance are forbidden by the Prophet.”
“Make haste, man!” cried Asad. “Already I can scarce discern him. Loose thy quarrel.”
“Pooh,” was the disdainful answer. “A fair mark still for such an eye as mine. I never miss—not even in the dark.”
“Vain boaster,” said Marzak.
“Am I so?” Sakr-el-Bahr loosed his shaft at last into the gloom, and peered after it following its flight, which was wide of the direction of the swimmer’s head. “A hit!” he cried brazenly. “He’s gone!”
“I think I see him still,” said one.
“Thine eyes deceive thee in this light. No man was ever known to swim with an arrow through his brain.”
“Ay,” put in Jasper, who stood behind Sakr-el-Bahr. “He has vanished.”
“ ’Tis too dark to see,” said Vigitello.
And then Asad turned from the vessel’s side. “Well, well—shot or drowned, he’s gone,” he said, and there the matter ended.
Sakr-el-Bahr replaced the crossbow in the rack, and came slowly up to the poop.
In the gloom he found himself confronted by Rosamund’s white face between the two dusky countenances of his Nubians. She drew back before him as he approached, and he, intent upon imparting his news to her, followed her within the poop house, and bade Abiad bring lights.
When these had been kindled they faced each other, and he perceived her profound agitation and guessed the cause of it. Suddenly she broke into speech.
“You beast! You devil!” she panted. “God will punish you! I shall spend my every breath in praying Him to punish you as you deserve. You murderer! You hound! And I like a poor simpleton was heeding your false words. I was believing you sincere in your repentance of the wrong you have done me. But now you have shown me. …”
“How have I hurt you in what I have done to Lionel?” he cut in, a little amazed by so much vehemence.
“Hurt me!” she cried, and on the words grew cold and calm again with very scorn. “I thank God it is beyond your power to hurt me. And I thank you for correcting my foolish misconception of you, my belief in your pitiful pretence that it was your aim to save me. I would not accept salvation at your murderer’s hands. Though, indeed, I shall not be put to it. Rather,” she pursued, a little wildly now in her deep mortification, “are you like to sacrifice me to your own vile ends, whatever they may be. But I shall thwart you, Heaven helping me. Be sure I shall not want courage for that.” And with a shuddering moan she covered her face, and stood swaying there before him.
He looked on with a faint, bitter smile, understanding her mood just as he understood her dark threat of thwarting him.
“I came,” he said quietly, “to bring you the assurance that he has got safely away, and to tell you upon what manner of errand I have sent him.”
Something compelling in his voice, the easy assurance with which he spoke, drew her to stare at him again.
“I mean Lionel, of course,” he said, in answer to her questioning glance. “That scene between us—the blow and the swoon and the rest of it—was all make-believe. So afterwards the shooting. My challenge to Marzak was a ruse to gain time—to avoid shooting until Lionel’s head should have become so dimly visible in the dusk that none could say whether it was still there or not. My shaft went wide of him, as I intended. He is swimming round the head with my message to Sir John Killigrew. He was a strong swimmer in the old days, and should easily reach his goal. That is what I came to tell you.”
For a long spell she continued to stare at him in silence.
“You are speaking the truth?” she asked at last, in a small voice.
He shrugged. “You will have a difficulty in perceiving the object I might serve by falsehood.”
She sat down suddenly upon the divan; it was almost as if she collapsed bereft of strength; and as suddenly she fell to weeping softly.
“And … and I believed that you … that you. …”
“Just so,” he grimly interrupted. “You always did believe the best of me.”
And on that he turned and went out abruptly.
XXI
Moriturus
He departed from her presence with bitterness in his heart, leaving a profound contrition in her own. The sense of this her last injustice to him so overwhelmed her that it became the gauge by which she measured that other earlier wrong he had suffered at her hands. Perhaps her overwrought mind falsified the perspective, exaggerating it until it seemed to her that all the suffering and evil with which this chronicle has been concerned were the direct fruits of her own sin of unfaith.
Since all sincere contrition must of necessity bring forth an ardent desire to atone, so was it now with her. Had he but refrained from departing so abruptly he might have had her on her knees to him suing for pardon for all the wrongs which her thoughts had done him, proclaiming her own utter unworthiness and baseness. But since his righteous resentment had driven him from her presence she could but
