It was on the afternoon of the following day that a new and serious complication arose.
The night had passed without incident of any kind; and shortly after sunrise the little party met to compare notes of their respective vigils.
All through the night Anstice had come and gone by Cheniston's bedside; but although there was no improvement in his patient's condition, neither did he seem to have progressed any further into the grim Valley of the Shadow; and although this extreme weakness and prostration were ominous enough, Anstice still cherished that very faint, very timid hope which had been born on the previous night.
He had never wished so fervently for the power to save a life as in this particular case. Gone was all remembrance of the former ill-feeling between them, of the unfair and cruel bargain which this man had forced upon him to the utter destruction of his life's happiness. He forgot that Bruce Cheniston had been unjust, callous, a very Shylock in his eager grasping of his pound of flesh; and he remembered only that this man had won Iris' love, and thereby established his claim to any service which the man who had also loved Iris might reasonably bestow.
The fact that Iris must needs be adversely affected by her husband's death was sufficient in itself to rouse his wish to save Cheniston's life if that life could be saved; and during the day, when the vigil of the little garrison might be relaxed, he was assiduous in his care of the man who lay so desperately ill in the quiet room overlooking the sun-baked desert.
Only once Cheniston roused himself sufficiently to hold a few minutes' laboured conversation with Anstice; and afterwards the latter was not perfectly certain of Bruce's complete understanding of the words he used.
"Iris--how is she?" His voice was so weak that Anstice could barely hear it; but he guessed what it was that the other man wished to ask; and answered at once: "Mrs. Cheniston is quite well--only a little tired. She is lying down for an hour, but if you want her I'll go and call her."
"No. Don't disturb her," said Bruce feebly; and then, after a pause, he uttered the words which, later, seemed to Anstice a reflection on his perfect mental poise at the moment. "Poor little Iris--it wasn't fair to marry her--I wish to God I'd left her--to you."
For a minute Anstice sat silent, absolutely stunned by this extraordinary statement; and before he could speak the weak voice began again.
"You loved her--so did I--in a way--but I've never really loved anyone--but--Hilda Ryder." The unconscious pathos in his tone robbed the words of all offence. "But she's a dear little soul--Iris--and I only wish I'd not been beast enough--to marry her--to spite you----" The thin voice trailed away into a whisper and Anstice spoke resolutely.