"Malcolm, listen," she said quickly, "you're not going to die and I... alors, I must be honest with you..." Then the words began pouring out, "I don't want to marry yet, I'm not sure if I love you, I'm just not sure, you'll have to be patient, and if I do or do not, I don't think I can ever live in this awful place, or Hong Kong, in fact I know I can't, I won't, I can't, I know I'd die, the thought of living in Asia horrifies me, the stench and the awful people. I'm going back to Paris where I belong, as soon as I can and I'm never coming back, never, never, never."

But he had heard none of it. He was in dreams now, not seeing her, and he murmured, "... many sons, you and I... so happy you love me... prayed for... so now... live forever in the Great House on the Peak. Your love has banished fear, fear of death, always afraid of death, always so near, the twins, little sister Mary, dead so young, my brother, father almost dead... grandfather another violent death, but now... now ... all changed... marry in springtime.

Yes?"

His eyes opened. For an instant he saw her clearly, saw the stretched face and wringing hands and revulsion and he wanted to shriek, What's the matter for God's sake, this is only a sickroom and I know the blanket's sodden with sweat and I'm lying in a little urine and dung and everything stinks but that's because I'm cut for Christ's sake, I've only been cut and now I'm sewn up and well again, well again, well again ...

But none of the words came out and he saw her say something and jerk the door open and run away but this was just nightmare, the good dreams beckoning. The door swung on its hinges and the noise it made echoed and echoed and echoed: well again well again well again....

She was leaning against the door to the garden, gulping the night air, trying to regain her poise. Mother of God, give me strength and give that man some peace and let me leave this place quickly.

Babcott came up behind her. "He's all right, not to worry. Here, drink this," he said compassionately, giving her the opiate. "It'll settle you and help you sleep."

She obeyed. The liquid tasted neither good nor bad.

"He's sleeping peacefully. Come along.

It's bedtime for you too." He helped her upstairs, back to her room. At the door he hesitated. "Sleep well. You will sleep well."

"I'm afraid for him, very afraid."

"Don't be. In the morning he'll be better, you'll see."

"Thank you, I'm all right now. He... I think Malcolm thinks he's going to die. Is he?"

"Certainly not, he's a strong young man and I'm sure soon he'll be as right as rain."

Babcott repeated the same platitude he had said a thousand times, and did not tell the truth: I don't know, you never know, now it's up to God.

And yet, most times he knew it was correct to give the loved one hope and take away the burden of increased worry, though not correct or fair to make God responsible if the patient lived or died. Even so, if you're helpless, if you've done your best and are convinced your best and best knowledge are not good enough, what else can you do and stay sane? How many young men have you seen like this one and dead in the morning or the next day--or recovered if that was God's will. Was it?

I think it's lack of knowledge. And then God's will.

If there is a God.

Involuntarily, he shivered. "Good night, not to worry."

"Thank you." She put the bar in place and went to the window, pushed open the heavy shutters.

Tiredness welled over her. The night air was warm and kind, the moon high now. She took off her robe and wearily towelled herself dry, aching for sleep. Her nightdress was damp and clung to her and she would have preferred to change but she had not brought another. Below, the garden was large and shadow-struck, trees here and there and a tiny bridge over a tiny stream. A breeze caressed the treetops. Many shadows in the moonlight.

Some moved, now and then.

The two youths saw her the moment she appeared in the garden doorway forty yards away. Their ambush was well chosen and gave them a good view of the whole garden as well as the main gate, the guard house and the two sentries they had been watching. At once they crept deeper into the foliage, astonished to see her, even more astonished by the tears coursing her cheeks.

Shorin whispered, "What's the matt--"

He stopped. A wandering patrol of a sergeant and two soldiers, the first to enter their trap, rounded the far corner of the grounds, approaching them on the path that skirted the walls. They readied, then became motionless, their black, nearly skintight clothes covered all of their bodies except their eyes and made them almost invisible.

The patrol passed within five feet and the two shishi could have attacked easily and safely from this ambush. Shorin--the hunter, the fighter and leader in battle where Ori was the thinker and planner--had selected the blind, but Ori decided they would only attack a one- or two-man patrol, unless there was an emergency or they were prevented from breaking into the armory: "Whatever we do this time must be silent," he had said earlier. "And patient."

"Why?"' "This is their Legation. According to their custom that means it is their land, their territory--it is guarded by real soldiers, so we're encroaching on them. If we succeed, we will frighten them very much.

If they catch us we fail."

From the ambush they watched the departing patrol, noting the silent, careful way the men moved.

Ori whispered uneasily, "We've never seen these sort before--soldiers so well trained and disciplined. In a battle, massed, we would have a hard time against them and their guns."

Shorin said, "We'll always win, we'll have guns soon, one way or another, and anyway Bushido and our courage will swamp them. We can beat them easily." He was very confident. "We should have killed that patrol and taken their guns."

I'm glad we didn't, Ori thought, deeply unsettled. His arm ached badly and though he feigned indifference he knew that he could not sustain a long sword-fight. "If it wasn't for our clothes they would have seen us." His eyes went back to the girl.

"We could have killed all three easily.

Easily. And grabbed their carbines and gone over the wall again."

"These men are very good, Shorin, not ox-headed merchants." Ori kept the aggravation out of his voice, as always, not wanting to offend his friend or wound his sensitive pride, needing his qualities as much as Shorin needed his--he had not forgotten Shorin had deflected the bullet that would have killed him on the Tokaido. "We've plenty of time. Dawn's still at least two candles away." This was approximately four hours.

He motioned at the doorway. "Anyway, she would have given the alarm."

Shorin sucked in his breath, cursing himself.

"Eeee, stupid! I'm stupid, you're right-- again. So sorry."

Ori gave her all of his attention: what is it about that woman that troubles me, fascinates me? he asked himself.

Then they saw the giant appear beside her. From information they had been given at the Inn they knew this was the famous English doctor who achieved miracle healings for any seeking his services, Japanese as well as his own people.

Ori would have given much to understand what the doctor said to the girl. She dried her tears, obediently drank what he offered her, then he guided her back into the hallway, closing and barring the door.

Ori muttered, "Astounding--the giant, and the woman."

Shorin glanced at him, hearing undercurrents that further perturbed him, still angry with himself for forgetting the girl when the patrol was nearby. He could see only his friend's eyes and read nothing from them. "Let's go on to the armory," he whispered impatiently, "or attack the next patrol, Ori."

"Wait!" Taking great care not to make a sudden movement that might be noticed, Ori lifted his black-gloved hand, more to ease his arm than to wipe the sweat away. "Katsumata taught patience, tonight Hiraga counselled the same."