Maurice Gordon, as white as death, was leaning against the table.
He quite forgot himself. His lips were apart, his jaw had dropped;
he was hanging breathlessly on Guy Oscard's next word.
"He died of the sleeping sickness," said Oscard. "We had come down
to Msala before him--Joseph and I. I broke up the partnership, and
we left him in possession of the Simiacine Plateau. But his men
turned against him. For some reason his authority over them failed.
He was obliged to make a dash for Msala, and he reached it, but the
sickness was upon him."
Maurice Gordon drew a sharp sigh of relief which was almost a sob.
Marie was standing with her two hands on the pillow where Nestorius
lay. Her deep eyes were fixed on the Englishman's sunburnt,
strongly gentle face.
"Did he send a message for me--yes?" she said softly.
"No," answered Oscard. "He--there was no time."
Joseph at the window had turned half round.
"He was my husband," said Marie in her clear, deep tones; "the
father of this little one, which you call Nestorius."
Oscard bowed his head without surprise. Jocelyn was standing still
as a statue, with her hand on the dying infant's cheek. No one
dared to look at her.
"It is all right," said Marie bluntly. "We were married at Sierra
Leone by the English chaplain.
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