The varnish, too, of normality, so laboriously laid on him by Stara, began to wear off; sleeplessness returned, and his real nature reasserted itself. Through the long night hours he would lie thinking, strange, monstrous thoughts, gradually weaving themselves into a fabric upon which he saw himself depicted as great as those others were great, and, like them, solitary in their greatness, for she whom he loved was dead. Stara had left him, and yet in some dim way stood near, a radiant vision, beloved as never on earth, guiding him on his lonely way. In a rapture of adoration he would be there talking to her, telling her of his undying love, till, torn with remorse for his cruelty and neglect to her when living, his eyes would fill and ecstatic grief wring his heart. And when the day came, Stara would greet him, her eyes dark with a love to which his own felt no response.
Nevertheless, strangely enough, in his dreams there was never a sign of Ruby, for she lay buried in his heart; the other only lived as a fantasy of fevered imagination. At last the day came when he knew he must return to a man's life once more, leaving her, the living and neglected, to dream of her dead and beloved, and of this necessity he told her one morning as they lay in the shadow of a lonely kopje.
"Stara, I must go," he said suddenly, "your brother's sick of me, and my regiment wants me back."
The girl looked up with startled eyes, her face grew suddenly pale and scared.
"Hector, you can't—not—not yet. Send them a wire."
"What's the use? I must go some time."
"Why?"
"Why? ... Because it's my life, Stara. I can't remain on leave, idling here for ever. Remember, I've got a name to make, and as yet I've not begun."
"You're a Colonel, isn't that enough, why do you want to make a name for yourself, Hector, aren't you happy here?"
"Of course I am, but——"