There had been intrigue and dishonor of a sort in the letter to
Houdania, but not this--Oh, God! not this horrible, beckoning Circe
with infamous eyes and scarlet robes luring him to the uttermost pit of
the black Inferno.
But Diane had flashed and mocked him as a child when he was sensitive
and lonely. She had always mocked the memory of his mother. Brown and
lovely his cousin's face rose before him in a willful moment of
tenderness--and then from the shadows came again the flash of topaz and
Venetian lamps and the lovely face of Keela.
Something in Carl's haunted brain snapped. With a groan of horror and
suffering, he pitched forward upon the ground, breathing Philip
Poynter's name like an invocation against the things of evil crowding
horribly about him.
It was Dick Sherrill who at last found him.
"Nick!" he called in horror to one of the guides. "For God's sake
bring some brandy! No! he's had too much of that already. Water!
Water--can't somebody hurry!"
"Leave him to me, Mr. Sherrill!" said Nick with quiet authority. And
bending over the motionless figure under the oak, he gently loosened
the flannel shirt from the throat, laid a wet cloth upon the forehead
and fell to rubbing the rigid limbs.
Presently, with a long, shuddering sigh, Carl opened his eyes, stared
at the scared circle of faces about him and instantly tried to rise.
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