He turned and went into the house and to his own work.  Martin Hillyard walked down the road along the river bank to the town.  Harry Luttrell had said his last word concerning Stella Croyle.  Of that he was sure and was glad, though Stella’s tear-stained face would rise up between his eyes and the water of the Nile.  Sooner or later Harry Luttrell would come home, bearing his sheaves, and then he would marry amongst his own people; and a new generation of Luttrells would hold their commissions in the Clayfords.  He had said his last word concerning Stella Croyle.

But Hillyard was wrong.  For in the dark of the morning, when he had bestridden his donkey and given the order for his caravan to march, he was hailed by Luttrell’s voice.  He stopped, and Luttrell came down in his pyjamas from the door of the house to him.

“Good luck,” he said, and he patted the donkey’s neck.  “Good luck, old man.  We’ll meet in England some time.”

“Yes,” said Hillyard.

It was not to speak these words that Harry Luttrell had risen, after wishing him good-bye the night before.  So he waited.

Luttrell was still, his hand on the little donkey’s neck.

“You’ll remember me to our honorary member, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

Nor was it for this reminder, either.  So Hillyard still waited, and at last the words came, jerkily.

“One thing you said yesterday....  I was very glad to hear it.  That Stella was well—­quite well.  You meant that, didn’t you?  It’s the truth?”

“Yes, it’s the truth.”

“Thank you ...  I was a little afraid ... thank you!”

He took his hand from the donkey’s neck, and Hillyard rode forward on the long and dreary stage to the one camping ground between Senga and Senaar.

For a little while he wondered at this insistence of Harry Luttrell upon the physical health of Stella Croyle, and why he had been afraid.  But when the dawn came his thoughts reverted to his own affairs.  The message delivered to him in the forest of the River Dinder!  It might mean nothing.  It was the part of prudence to make light of his hopes and conjectures.  But the hopes would not be stilled, now that he was alone.  This was the Summons, the great Summons for which, without his knowledge, the experiences of his life, detail by detail, had builded him.

CHAPTER VIII

HILLYARD HEARS NEWS OF AN OLD FRIEND

At Khartum, however, disappointment awaited him.  He was received without excitement by a young aide-de-camp at the Palace.

“I heard that you had come in last night.  A good trip?  Dine with me to-night and you shall show me your heads.  The Governor-General’s in England.”

“There’s a telegram.”

“Oh yes.  It came up to us from Cairo.  Some one wanted to know where you were.  They’ll know about it at Cairo.  We just pushed it along, you know,” said the aide-de-camp.  He dined with Hillyard, admired his heads, arranged for his sleeping compartment, and assured him that the execution had gone off “very nicely” at Senga.