“But how am I to know?” began Forde, and hesitated.
“Know when I’m downed? I’ve thought it out. The best plan is for you to leave a postcard with me addressed to yourself, and when the time comes the boy will post it. No need to write anything on it: you’ll understand.”
He stopped exhausted, whilst the young man stared at him. After a minute he went on again.
“I’ve got my brother’s address written out ready. His on one side, and mine on the other, and I’ll give it to you. You’ll do it for me?” he added.
Forde nodded.
“I’d like to show you my son,” the invalid said, “if you wouldn’t mind giving me an arm I think I can manage it.”
The younger man helped him to his feet and supported him to the inner room. Here there were two beds. On one lay two sleeping dark-skinned children, but the father passed them and drew back the coverlet to show the occupant of the further bed. Seldom had Forde seen a lovelier boy. Flushed with sleep, his fair hair touzled and rough, he lay fast asleep, his open shirt showing the dimpled milk-white neck. In his hand he clutched some cherished toy. He lay on his side, his rosy cheek burrowed into the pillow, little feathers of gold about his damp forehead. He seemed about seven.
Dunsford stood looking down at him, a look of mingled pride and pain on his face, and Forde was able to study him unobserved. It was a curious and interesting face, the brow well-shaped and the eyes dark blue and with something wistful about them. The watcher fancied that the sleeping child, when awake, might show much the same wide and faintly-puzzled look. The father too must have been fair, but the hot suns of the East had burnt his skin to a deep tan. Below the close red fez and small twisted turban his fair hair seemed going grey. His extreme thinness made the sharp ridge of his nose stand out like a beak, and there was a deep groove on either side between the nostrils and the hollowed cheeks. He had been recently shaved and only a gleam of grey showed along the narrow jaw. The mouth was compressed, but it seemed more from habit than nature. And now that he was off his guard its natural mobility could be noted. It was a face that showed intelligence and sensitiveness, allied with self will and determination, even a touch of fanaticism. The face of a man who might be fired by an impracticable idea, and who would break himself to pieces in trying to drive it through. He seemed a personality driven in upon himself. His bearing showed distinction as did also his well-kept hands.
As he watched the boy his face broke up and softened. Whatever wall he had built up about his inner self his defences were down before his son. He re-arranged the sheet, it seemed more with the motive of touching the child than for any other reason, and his hand lingered by the pillow. In the silence could be heard the soft breathing of the sleeper, till it was broken by a rustle of draperies as the Arab woman rose from the floor where she had been sitting beyond the bed. At sight of her the man’s face changed. He dropped the coverlet and made a sign to his companion to help him back to the other room.