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Turning, he fumbled in his pocket. The thing had hold of him. Dear God! He felt a large warm hand close over his. The gun was wrenched out of his fingers. Groaning, he slumped against the wall, but the thing held him up by his lapel, peering into his face. An ugly light flashed through the porthole of the door, illuminating the thing in irregular bursts.

"A pistol, am I correct?" the thing said to him. "I read of it when perhaps I should have been reading of Oxford, egomania, aspirin and Marxism. It fires a small projectile of metal at high speed, as the result of intense combustion within the chamber behind the projectile. Very interesting, and useless when you are dealing with me. And were you to fire it, men would come and want to know why you did it."

"I know what you are! I know where you came from."

"Oh, you do! Then you realize that I know what you are. And what you have been up to! And I have not the slightest scruple about carrying you down to the coal furnaces which fuel this magnificent ship and feeding you to the fires which drive us now into the cold Atlantic."

Henry's body convulsed. With every muscle he struggled, but he could not free himself from the hand that now locked on his shoulder, gently crushing the bones.

"Listen to me, foolish one." The thing drew in closer. He could feel its breath on his face. "Harm Julie and I shall do it. Make Julie cry and I shall do it! Make Julie frown and I shall do it! For the sake of Julie's peace of mind, you live. There is nothing more to it. Remember what I say."

The hand released him. He slumped towards the floor, only catching himself before he actually fell. He gritted his teeth, his eyes closing as he felt the warm stickiness inside his pants, and smelled his own waste. His bowels had cut loose.

The thing stood there, its face veiled in shadow as it studied the gun which it held out to the grey light from the porthole in the door. Then it pocketed the gun and turned on its heel and left him.

A wave of sickness rose; he saw blackness.

When he awoke he was crouched in the corner of the passage. No one had passed, it seemed. Trembling, dizzy, he climbed to his feet and made his way to his stateroom. And once there he stood over the small toilet vomiting up the contents of his stomach. Only then did he strip off his soiled clothes.

She was crying when he came in. She had sent Rita off to supper with the other servants on board. He did not even knock. He opened the door and slipped inside. She wouldn't look at him. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, but her crying wouldn't stop.

"I'm sorry, my Queen. My gentle Queen. Believe me, I am."

When she looked up she saw the sadness in his face. He stood helplessly before her, the lamp behind him filling the edges of his brown hair with an uneven golden light.

"Let it be for now, Ramses," she said desperately. "I can't bear it, the knowledge that he did it. Let it be, I beg you. I only want us to be in Egypt together."

He sat down on the settee beside her, towering over her, and gently he turned her and this time when he kissed her she melted completely, letting him enfold her, letting him breathe into her that powerful heat. She kissed his face, his cheek where the flesh was so taut over the bones, and then his closed eyes. She felt his hands tighten on her naked shoulders and she realized he was pushing her gown down and away from her breasts.

She drew back, ashamed. She had led him on and she hadn't meant to.

"I don't want it to happen," she said, her tears coming again.

Not looking at him, she pushed the satin sleeves upwards. When finally their eyes met, she saw only patience, and that faint half smile, now tempered by the same sadness she'd seen before.

He reached out for her, and she stiffened. But he merely adjusted the sleeves of her dress for her. And straightened the pearls around her neck. Then he kissed her hand.

"Come out with me," he said in a low, soft voice, kissing her tenderly on her shoulder. "The wind is cool and fresh. And they are playing music in the public rooms. Can we dance together to the music? Ah, this floating palace. It is paradise. Come with me, my Queen."

"But Alex," she said. "If only Alex ..."

He kissed her throat. He kissed her hand again. He turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm. The heat coursed through her again. To stay in this room would be folly, unless, of course. But no. She could not let it happen, until it was really what she wanted with her whole soul.

She might lose her soul utterly; that was the horror. There was a dim sense again of her world being destroyed.

"Let's go, then," she said drowsily.

He helped her to her feet. He took her handkerchief from her and wiped her eyes with it as if she were a child. Then he picked up her white fur from the arm of the chair and put it over her shoulders.

They walked together along the windy deck and into the corridor and towards the grand ballroom--a lovely confection of gilded wood and satin wall panels, of drowsing palms and stained glass.

He moaned as he looked at the distant orchestra. "Oooh, Julie, this music," he whispered. "It enslaves me."

It was a Strauss waltz again, only there were many musicians here, and the sound was louder and richer, flooding the great room.

No sign of Alex, thank God. She turned to him, and let him take her hand.

With a great sweeping turn, he began to waltz with her, beaming down at her, and it seemed then nothing mattered. There was no Alex; there was no Henry; there had been no terrible death for her father which must be avenged.