Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe. Le Queux William

was the usual laugh at the mention of “monuments tickets,” for every Nile traveller before leaving Cairo has to obtain a permit from the Department of Antiquities to allow him to visit the excavations. Hence every dragoman up and down the Nile is ever reminding the traveller of his “monument ticket,” and also that “galloping donkeys are not allowed.”

      “Monuments teeckets very much wanted; gallopin’ don-kees not al-lowed,” is the parrot-like phrase with which each dragoman concludes his daily address to his charges before setting out upon an excursion.

      Dinner over, many of the travellers landed to stroll through the small town, half native, half European, which has lately sprung up at the head of the Sudan railway.

      As usual, Chester Dawson escorted Edna and went ashore laughing merrily. Time was, and not so very long ago, when Wady Haifa was an unsafe place for the European, even by day. But under the benign British influence and control it is to-day as safe as Brighton.

      Hubert Waldron lit a cigar, and alone ascended the long flight of steps which led from the landing-stage to the quay. On the right lay the long, well-lit European railway station, beyond, a clump of high palms looming dark against the steely night sky. The white train, with its closed sun-shutters, stood ready to start on its long journey south, conveying the European mail over the desert with half a dozen passengers to the capital of the Sudan.

      He strolled upon the platform, and watched the bustle and excitement among the natives as they entered the train accompanied by many huge and unwieldy bundles, and much gesticulation and shouting in Arabic. Attached to the end of the train was a long car, through the open door of which it could be seen that it contained living and sleeping apartment.

      At the door stood a sturdy, sunburnt Englishman in shirt and trousers and wide-brimmed solar topee. With him Waldron began to chat.

      “Yes,” the English engineer replied, “I and my assistant are just off into the desert for three weeks. The train drops us off two hundred miles south, and there we shall remain at work. The track is always requiring repair, and I assure you we find the midday heat is sometimes simply terrible. The only sign of civilisation that we see is when the express passes up to Khartoum at daybreak, and down to Haifa at midnight.”

      “Terribly monotonous,” remarked the diplomat, used to the gay society of the capitals.

      “Oh, I don’t know,” replied the Englishman, with a rather sad smile. “I gave up London five years ago – I had certain reasons – and I came out here to recommence life and forget. I don’t expect I shall ever go back.”

      “Ah! Then London holds some painful memory for you – eh?” remarked Waldron with sympathy.

      “Yes,” he answered, with a hard, bitter look upon his face. “But there,” he added quickly, “I suppose I shall get over it – some day.”

      “Why, of course you will,” replied the diplomat cheerfully. “We all of us have our private troubles. Some men are not so lucky as to be able to put everything behind them, and go into self-imposed exile.”

      “It is best, I assure you,” was the big, bronzed fellow’s reply. Then noticing the signals he shouted into the inner apartment: “We’re off, Clark. Want anything else?”

      “No,” came the reply; “everything is right. I’ve just checked it all.”

      “We have to take food and water,” the engineer explained to Waldron with a laugh. “Good night.”

      “Good night – and good luck,” shouted Hubert, as the train moved off, and a strong, bare arm waved him farewell.

      Then after he had watched the red tail-light disappear over the sandy waste he turned, and wondering what skeleton of the past that exile held concealed in his cupboard, strode along the river-bank beneath the belt of palms.

      How many Englishmen abroad are self-exiles? How full of bitterness is many a man’s heart in our far-off Colonies? And how many good, sterling fellows are wearily dragging out their monotonous lives, just because of “the woman”? Does she remember? does she care? She probably still lives her own life in her own merry circle – giddy and full of a modern craving for constant excitement. She has, in most cases, conveniently forgotten the man she wronged – forgotten his existence, perhaps even his very name.

      And how many men, too, have stood by and allowed their lives to be wrecked for the purpose of preserving a woman’s good name. But does the woman ever thank him? Alas! but seldom – very seldom.

      True, the follies of life are mostly the man’s. But the woman does not always pay – as some would have us believe.

      Waldron, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar, his thoughts far away from the Nile – for he was recalling a certain evening in Madrid when he had sat alone with Beatriz in her beautiful flat in the Calle de Alcalâ – had passed through the darkness of the palms, and out upon the path which still led beside the wide river, towards the Second Cataract.

      From the shadows of the opposite shore came the low beating of a tom-tom and the Arab boatman’s chant – that rather mournful chant one hears everywhere along the Nile from the Nyanza to the sea, and which ends in “Al-lah-hey! Al-lah-hey!” Allah! Always the call to Allah.

      The sun – the same sun god that was worshipped at Abu Simbel – had gone long ago, tired Nubia slept in peace, and the stars that gazed down upon her fretted not the night with thoughts of the creeds of men.

      Again Hubert Waldron reached another small clump of palms close to the water’s edge, and as he passed noiselessly across the sand he suddenly became conscious that he was not alone.

      Voices in French broke the silence, and he suddenly halted.

      Then before him, silhouetted against the blue, clear light of the desert night, rose two figures – Europeans, a man and a woman.

      The woman, who wore a white dress, was clasped in the arms of the man, while he rained hot, passionate kisses upon her brow.

      Waldron stood upon the soft sand, a silent witness of that exchange of passionate caresses. He feared to move lest he should attract their attention and be accused of eavesdropping.

      From where he was, half concealed by the big trunk of a date-palm, he could distinctly hear the words uttered by the man.

      “I have been here for three days awaiting you, darling. I travelled by Port Sudan and Khartoum, and then on here to meet you.”

      “And I, too, Henri, have been wondering if you would arrive here in time,” was the girl’s response, as her head lay in sweet content upon her lover’s shoulder. “Imagine my delight when the Arab came on board and slipped your note into my hand.”

      “Ah, Lola darling, how I have longed for this moment! – longed to hold you in my arms once again,” he cried.

      Lola!

      Hubert Waldron held his breath, scarce believing his own ears.

      Yes, it was her voice – the voice he knew so well. She had met her lover there – in that out-of-the-way spot – he having travelled by the Red Sea route to the Sudan in order to keep the tryst.

      Waldron stood there listening, like a man in a dream.

      It was all plain now. The man who had been marked out as Lola’s husband she hated, because of her secret love for that young Frenchman in whose arms she now stood clasped.

      He was telling her how he had left Brindisi three weeks before, and going down the Red Sea had landed at Port Sudan, afterwards taking sail to Khartoum and then post-haste across the desert to Haifa.

      “Had I not caught the coasting steamer I could not have reached here until you had left,” he added.

      “Yes, Henri. But you must be most careful,” she urged. “My uncle must never suspect – he must never dream the truth.”

      “I know, darling. If I travel back to Cairo with you I will exercise the utmost discretion, never fear.”

      “Neither by word nor by look must the truth ever be betrayed,”