"Is there none that thou lovest so--" Of what use had been all his
struggle and his pain since that last day in Hamley--his dark fighting
days in the desert with Lacey and Mahommed, and his handful of faithful
followers, hemmed in by dangers, the sands swarming with Arabs who
feathered now to his safety, now to his doom, and his heart had hungered
for what he had denied it with a will that would not be conquered? Wasted
by toil and fever and the tension of danger and the care of others
dependent on him, he had also fought a foe which was ever at his elbow,
ever whispered its comfort and seduction in his ear, the insidious and
peace-giving, exalting opiate that had tided him over some black places,
and then had sought for mastery of him when he was back again in the
world of normal business and duty, where it appealed not as a medicine,
but as a perilous luxury. And fighting this foe, which had a voice so
soothing, and words like the sound of murmuring waters, and a cool and
comforting hand that sought to lead him into gardens of stillness and
passive being, where he could no more hear the clangour and vexing noises
of a world that angered and agonised, there had also been the lure of
another passion of the heart, which was too perilously dear to
contemplate.
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