attracted by that merry little French girl, Lola Duprez. Breakfast over, the party went ashore again, now in linen clothes and sun-helmets, to wander about the temple till noon, when they were to leave for Wady Haifa. He saw Lola and Edna Eastham walking with Chester Dawson, so, following, he joined them and at last secured an opportunity of speaking with Lola alone. They were strolling slowly around the edge of the sandstone cliff, away from the colossal façade of the temple, and out of sight of the steamer, for the old Frenchman had fortunately still remained on board—the blazing heat being too much for him. “Lola,” her companion exclaimed, “I have spoken to your uncle quite openly this morning. I know that he hates me.” She turned quickly and looked straight at him with her wonderful dark eyes. “Well—?” she asked. “He has told me the truth,” Waldron went on seriously. “He has explained that the reason he objects to our companionship is because you are already betrothed.” “Betrothed?” she echoed, staring at him. “Yes. To whom? Tell me, mam’zelle,” he asked slowly. She made no response. Her eyes were downcast; her cheeks suddenly pale. They were standing beneath the shadow of an ancient wide-spreading tree which struggled for existence at the edge of the Nile flood. “He has said that I am betrothed—eh?” she asked, as though speaking to herself. “He has told me so. Your future husband has been already chosen,” he said in a low, mechanical tone. Her teeth were set, her sweet, refined countenance had grown even paler. “Yes,” she admitted at last, drawing a deep breath. “My past has been bright and happy, but, alas! before me there now only lies tragedy; and despair. Ah! if I were but my own mistress—if only I could escape this grip of evil which is ever upon me!” “Grip of evil! What do you mean?” he inquired eagerly. “Ah! you do not know—you can never tell!” she cried. “The evil hand of Jules Gigleux is ever upon me, a hard, iron, inexorable hand. Ah! M’sieur Waldron, you would, if you only
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