When he recovered consciousness, he found himself lying in a tent, and by him was the Sheik, holding in his hand the locket of Halima, the case deeply dented with a bullet mark.
"But for this, you would have died," exclaimed the Sheik. "Further had I read the whole of my daughter's letter, Yusuf would have taken your place. Now, rest yourself, assured that you have the friendship of one who is strong to help alike in hate and love."
On the morrow St. Just lay unconscious in a raging fever.
CHAPTER X.
But what of the Lady Halima, who had not seen her lover, or had any tidings of him for six weary weeks?
At the very moment when St. Just was undergoing his fearful ordeal on the rock, she was wandering restlessly, feverishly, about her own apartments, her thoughts wholly occupied with him. Indeed, ever since they had been parted, she had thought of little else. But, whereas, generally, her reflections, though she felt saddened by his absence, were tinged with pleasure at the thought of his handsome face and form, his bravery, his return to her with credit to himself for the successful performance of his mission; to-night they were full of gloom. She had a presentiment, she strove in vain to dissipate, that her beloved was in the direst peril. She was endowed with a more than ordinary share of that faculty which places us en rapport with those with whom we have a strong affinity; so that, even when separated by thousands of miles from those we love, we feel, rather than know, that misfortune is overtaking them.
And so it was that Halima; convinced of her lover's danger and her helplessness to avert it, she paced up and down the room wringing her hands, the tears trickling down her cheeks, and continually crying, "Oh! Henri, Henri, what is it that is happening to you, my love? My heart tells me that you are in dreadful peril; and I—I am powerless. Oh! why did you leave me?"
At the thought that she would never see him more, Halima became so overcome that she burst into a flood of weeping and sank upon a divan, burying her fair face in its cushions. And thus, somewhat later, she was found by Buonaparte, who, since his aide-de-camp's departure had been a not infrequent visitor. Unheard by her, he entered the room, wrapped in an ample cloak, and silently approached her side; then, with arms folded, stood looking down upon her.
Feeling intuitively that she was not alone, Halima raised her tear-stained face, and her eyes fell on the General. She gave a little start, then feebly tried to smile. Buonaparte dropped his cloak and seated himself upon the cushions by her side.
"What ails you, fairest one?" he asked. "Why this grief? I would come to see you oftener, but my leisure hours are few, so that I cannot visit you so often as I would. Come, pretty one, dry those tears, and tell me what it is that troubles you."