His hard, set expression relaxed, a look of infinite tenderness crept into his eyes, and it was with a softened voice, more like the voice I knew of old, that he said:
"Like a madman, Mark; like a base coward, if you will."
I shook my head.
"You would not look as you do, Girlie, if you did that. Compacts with one's honour are easy of making and do not bring fever and insomnia along with them. Tell me what you mean to do."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Do?" he said with a forced laugh. "That is exactly what I have been wondering these last few days. I ran away from her like a coward, but I was a fool to think I could so easily escape—not in this land, at least, where everything speaks of her. Why, the very scent of the lotus flower which penetrates into my room at night …"
He stopped abruptly and bit his lip, as if determined to say no more—not even to me. I saw that he was making great efforts to contain himself, for his lips and hands were shaking as if with ague.
"You are killing yourself, Girlie," I said.
He laughed.
"And yet I don't want to die, old Mark. Not at any rate until I have made some arrangement for getting you safely out of this land."
"Not until you have gone back yourself, Girlie, and have shown to the world your discovery of this land, the truth of 'mad Tankerville's hobby,'" I said, trying to bring his mind back to its old enthusiasm.
"Yes!" he said with a weary sigh. "I came here for that purpose, didn't I? For that I toiled for years, studied, gave up home and country, everything even dragged you away in my train. And now …"
