she ended, "But how much longer can these proud, simple and gallant
people continue to fight off the greedy lusting hordes of a modern
Caesar intent on Empire? A miracle happened here today on the plains
of Danakil, but the age of miracles is passing and it is clear even to
those who have thrown in their lot with this fair land of Ethiopia that
she is doomed unless the sleeping conscience of a civilized world is
aroused, unless the voice of justice rings out clearly, calling to the
tyrant Hands off, Benito Mussolini!"
"That's wonderful, Miss
Camberwell," said Sara, leaning over to read the last words as they
tapped out on the roller of the machine. "It makes me want to cry,
it's so sad and "I'm glad you like it, Sara. I wish you were my
editor." Vicky stripped the page from the machine and checked it
swiftly, crossing out a word and inking in another before she was
satisfied, and she folded the despatch into a thick brown envelope and
licked the flap.
"Are you sure he is reliable?" she asked Sara.
"Oh, yes, Miss Camberwell, he is one of my father's best men."
Sara took the envelope and handed it to the warrior who had been
waiting an hour outside the tent, squatting at the head of his saddled
horse.
Sara spoke to him with great fire and passion, and the man nodded
vehemently as she exhorted him and then flung himself into the saddle
and dashed away towards the darkening mouth of the gorge, where the
smoky blue shadows of evening were enfolding the harsh cliffs and
jagged peaks of the mountains.
"He will be at Sardi before midnight. I have told him not to pause
along the way. Your message will go on to the telegraph at dawn
tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Sara dear." Vicky rose from the camp table and as she
covered her typewriter, Sara eyed her speculatively.
Vicky had bathed and changed into the one good dress she had brought
with her, a light Irish linen in a pale blue, cut with a fashionably
low waist and skirt that covered her knees but displayed rounded calves
and the narrow delicately shaped ankles which gleamed in their sheaths
of fine silk stockings.
"Your dress is pretty," said Sara softly, "and your hair is so soft and
yellow." She sighed. "I wish I were beautiful like you are.
I wish I had a lovely white skin like you."
"And I wish I had a beautiful golden skin like yours," Vicky countered
swiftly, and they laughed together.
"Are you dressed like that for Gareth? He will love you very much when
he sees you. Let us go and find him."
"I've got a better idea,
Sara. why don't you go and find Gregorius. I am sure he is looking
for you." Sara thought about that for a moment, torn between duty and
pleasure.
"Are you certain you'll be all right on your own, Miss
Camberwell?"
"Oh, I think so thank you, Sara. If I get into trouble
I'll call you."
"I'll come right away," Sara assured her.
Vicky knew exactly where she would find Jake Barton, and she came up
silently beside the tall steel hull and watched for a while as he
worked, completely absorbed and totally oblivious of her presence.
She wondered how she had been so blind as not to have seen him properly
before, not to have seen beneath the boyish freshness the strength and
quiet assurance of a full mature man. It was an ageless face, and she
knew that even when he was an old man the illusion of youth and
freshness would remain with him. Yet there was an intensity in the
eyes, a steely purpose in the heavy line of the jaw that she had never
noticed before. She remembered the dream of his that he had told her
the factory building his own engine and in a clairvoyant flash she knew
that he had the determination and the strength to make it become
reality. Suddenly she longed to share it with him, and knew that their
two dreams could be placed together, his engine and her book, they
could be created together, each gathering strength from the other,
pooling their determination and their creative reserves. it would be
worth while to share both dreams with a man like Jake Barton.
"Perhaps being in love allows one to see more clearly," she thought, as
she watched him with secret pleasure. "Or perhaps it simply makes it
easy to kid yourself," and she felt annoyance that her natural cynicism
should overtake her now.
"No," she decided. "It's not make believe. He is strong and good and
he'll stay that way," and immediately she thought that perhaps she was
trying too hard to convince herself.
Unbidden, the memory of the night she had spent so recently with
another man flooded back to her, and for a moment she found herself
confused and uncertain. She tried to thrust the memory firmly aside,
but it nagged at her, and she found herself comparing two men,
remembering the wanton and wicked delights she had known,-and doubting
wistfully that she might ever recapture them.
Then she looked closer at the man she thought she loved, and saw that
although his arms were thick and dark with hair, and his hands were
large and heavy-knuckled, yet the thick spatulate fiLigers worked with
an almost sensuous skill and lightness, and she tried to imagine them
