Later on in the afternoon, about an hour before dinner-time, Gervase, strolling on the terrace of the hotel alone, saw Helen Murray seated at a little distance under some trees, with a book in her hand which she was not reading.  There were tears in her eyes, but as he approached her she furtively dashed them away and greeted him with a poor attempt at a smile.

“You have a moment to spare me?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

She bent her head in acquiescence.

“I am a very unhappy man, Mademoiselle Helen,” he began, looking at her with a certain compassionate tenderness as he spoke.  “I want your sympathy, but I know I do not deserve it.”

Helen remained silent.  A faint flush crimsoned her cheeks, but her eyes were veiled under the long lashes—­she thought he could not see them.

“You remember,” he went on, “our pleasant times in Scotland?  Ah, it is a restful place, your Highland home, with the beautiful purple hills rolling away in the distance, and the glorious moors covered with fragrant heather, and the gurgling of the river that runs between birch and fir and willow, making music all day long for those who have the ears to listen, and the hearts to understand the pretty love tune it sings!  You know Frenchmen always have more or less sympathy with the Scotch—­some old association, perhaps, with the romantic times of Mary Queen of Scots, when the light and changeful fancies of Chastelard and his brother poets and lutists made havoc in the hearts of many a Highland maiden.  What is that bright drop on your hand, Helen?—­ are you crying?” He waited a moment, and his voice was softer and more tremulous.  “Dear girl, I am not worthy of tears.  I am not good enough for you.”

He gave her time to recover her momentary emotion and then went on, still softly and tenderly: 

“Listen, Helen.  I want you to believe me and forgive me, if you can.  I know—­I remember those moonlight evenings in Scotland—­holy and happy evenings, as sweet as flower-scented pages in a young girl’s missal; yes, and I did not mean to play with you, Helen, or wound your gentle heart.  I almost loved you!” He spoke the words passionately, and for a moment she raised her eyes and looked at him in something of fear as well as sorrow. “‘Yes,’ I said to my self, ’this woman, so true and pure and fair, is a bride for a king; and if I can win her—­if!’ Ah, there my musings stopped.  But I came to Egypt chiefly to meet you again, knowing that you and your brother were in Cairo.  How was I to know, how was I to guess that this horrible thing would happen?”

Helen gazed at him wonderingly.

“What horrible thing?” she asked, falteringly, the rich color coming and going on her face, and her heart beating violently as she put the question.

His eyes flashed.