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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46833
   :PG.Title: Hector Graeme
   :PG.Released: 2014-09-10
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Evelyn Brentwood
   :DC.Title: Hector Graeme
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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HECTOR GRAEME
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      HECTOR GRAEME

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      BY EVELYN BRENTWOOD

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      TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN
      LONDON: JOHN LANE MCMXII

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      THE ANCHOR PRESS LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX

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.. _`CHAPTER I`:

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   HECTOR GRAEME

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   BOOK I

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   Hector Graeme

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   CHAPTER I

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The dull November afternoon was fast drawing
to a close.  Patches of white mist lay in the
hollows of the elm-dotted park; the outlines of
stately tree and russet copse were rapidly merging into the
surrounding grey.

Already a flicker of light was beginning to appear in the
windows of Radford Hall, the home of Sir Thomas Caldwell,
Baronet, a house—like its owner—solid, sturdy, and
unimaginative-looking.  Nearly a mile away, standing well
back from a high ragged hedge of blackthorn, a line of
sportsmen could be seen waiting for the last drive of the
day to commence; behind each stood the waiting figure
of a loader, ready with the second gun.  Listless and
inactive as were now these figures, they would shortly become
possessed of a feverish energy; for in the turnip-field
beyond the blackthorn hedge were many partridges, and,
struggle later as they might with obstinate cartridges,
their movements would be far too slow for their impatient
masters, who with gun discharged would view, in helpless
wrath, the easiest of shots pass unscathed overhead.

At one end of the line, comfortably seated on a
grouse-stick, a young man was waiting with the rest.  He was a
young man whose face wore a look of great conceit, this
appearance being enhanced by a somewhat pronounced
eccentricity of attire.  There was something about this
youth that struck the observer as unusual; he was in some
indescribable manner different from his fellows, though to
the majority of mankind it must be owned the difference
was not of a pleasing kind.  This gentleman was
Lieutenant Hector Graeme, senior subaltern of Her Majesty's
1st Regiment of Lancers, now on foreign service in India.
In accordance with his usual habit of evading his duties—or
so said his enemies, among whom might be included
the greater part of his brother officers—Graeme had been
successful in dodging the troopship; and, having been left
behind with the depot at Canterbury, was on leave from
that place and staying as a guest at Radford Hall, Sir
Thomas being an old friend of his father's.

Standing behind him—for the idea of yielding up
his seat had somehow not occurred to him—was Lucy
Caldwell, Sir Thomas' only daughter and the mistress of
his household, he having been a widower for many years.
In her hand she was holding Hector's second gun, her
obvious intention being to act as loader to the fortunate
subaltern.  This, it may be remarked, was a task Lucy was
thoroughly capable of performing, the young lady having
been born and bred amongst sportsmen; indeed, there
was little concerning beasts and birds of the field with
which she was not thoroughly familiar.

At the present moment, however, there was a somewhat
annoyed expression on her usually good-tempered face,
and her brow was knit as she stood listening to the shrill
"tirwit, tirwit," rising from the turnip-field.

"Most provoking you should have the worst place for
this drive, Mr. Graeme," she said at length; "it will be
the best of the day, I know, and the birds always fly over
the centre and right."

"Don't you worry about that, Miss Caldwell," answered
Hector; "it's the luck of the draw; and anyway the birds
will come to me all right, you see if they don't."

"Indeed they will not; they'll make for that field of
roots over there, they always do."

"Not this time, I think.  Birds are curious things; they
like coming to the best shot; and that I am, here anyway.
Gad, I don't believe I could miss to-day.  Confess, Miss
Caldwell, you don't often see such shooting as mine, now
do you?"

Lucy frowned.  She had been taught to look upon bragging
of any sort as an impossible thing, and the remark jarred.

"Of course you're a good shot, Mr. Graeme," she said
rather coldly; "but it's hardly necessary to proclaim the
fact, is it?  As for the birds coming to you, you may know
better than I do.  I've lived here twenty-one years, it's
true, but——"

A sudden whir of wings cut her short, and away past
Graeme sped an old French partridge, which was out of
sight in the dusk behind before he had time to raise his
gun.

"Damn!" said Hector, "what did I tell you?  Beg
pardon, Miss Caldwell, but that's rather annoying, an old
Frenchman too; probably played that game many times
before.  Clean defeat, and I don't like it.  Hullo, they've
started," as through a gap in the hedge before them a
distant line of white flags could be seen advancing.  "Now,
be quiet, like a good girl, and I promise you some fancy
shooting."

"Over," "over," came faintly from the advancing flags,
followed some seconds later by a humming sound, rapidly
growing louder, till with a roar a large covey of birds topped
the blackthorn hedge, and then, seeing Graeme, broke up
and scattered in all directions.  A breathless moment
followed, the air resounding with the crack of guns and
whirring of wings, and then silence.

"How many down, Mr. Graeme?" gasped Lucy,
struggling with a stuck cartridge.

"Three, for goodness' sake keep count or we shan't
know where we are.  Notice that last shot of mine, by the
way?  Sixty yards at least, and stone dead.  No.  Pity.
Look out, there are more coming, straight to me as
usual."  Another right and left.  "Oh, please be quicker.  Damn,
my guns are getting red hot.  See these four coming?
I'll have 'em all, hanged if I don't."  Two double shots
followed, and then a cry of exultation.  "Done it,
by the Lord!  What price De Grey now?  I told you I
couldn't miss.  Only hope the others are looking,
particularly old Persian War.  Wish he was next me; I'd give
a fiver to wipe his eye.  How many down?  Thirty I
make it."

"Twenty-seven, Mr. Graeme, one a runner."

"Runner, not it.  I'm not dealing in runners to-day.
All dead as stones.  There are two more for you," as a
brace came swinging over and were promptly crumpled up
dead in the air.  "That makes twenty-nine by your
counting, thirty-two by mine.  Hang! here are the beaters,
and the day's over.  How many down, Fox?" to a keeper
who had now come up.  "Thirty-two all dead."

"Gum, but that's good shooting," answered Fox, while
a murmur of approbation arose from a cluster of
smock-frocked beaters.  "Thought I saw someone a-cutting of
'em down, sir, and I said as 'ow I thought it must be the
Captain.  Only 'ope the other gentlemen 'ave done as well.
Hi, Rover, seek lost, good dawg, good dawg.  Ah, drop it,
now, would you?  Oh, thankye, sir, thankye very much,"
and the tactful Fox's hand closed on a five-pound note, a
golden sovereign being likewise bestowed on the cluster
of approving smock-frocks.

The courtiers thus rewarded, Graeme turned to Lucy.
"And now we'll walk home across the park," he said; "no
use waiting for the waggonette, what do you say, Miss
Caldwell?"

"I don't think I will, Mr. Graeme.  You go if you like.
I must get back to make the tea.  You know what my
uncle is, if he's kept waiting."

"Do him good; he's a great deal too autocratic that old
uncle of yours; thinks he's still commanding troops in
Bugglaboo, or whatever his infernal Indian station was."

"Mr. Graeme!"

"Beg pardon, Miss Caldwell, but never mind him.  Come
along, we'll be home as soon as they are if we start now."

Lucy hesitated.  She wanted to go, and for that very
reason, being a woman, pretended she did not.  The idea,
moreover, though pleasing, was nevertheless in some
unaccountable way rather alarming; for though ordinarily
a walk home with one of her father's guests, however late
the hour, would have caused her no qualms, with Graeme,
it was different.  She had known him but three weeks,
and yet in that short time he had come to occupy a place
in her thoughts, and, what was worse, to control her actions
in a manner most disquieting to a girl as independent and
freedom-loving as Lucy Caldwell.  This too in spite of the
fact that both her father and uncle, the General, had little
liking for Mr. Graeme, and were, she knew, secretly
rejoicing in the knowledge that he was leaving Radford Hall
next day.  Hector also was aware of this, and of the
feelings of the rest of the house-party; but, having been
accustomed to unpopularity since his childhood, their hostility
disturbed him not at all.

"Better come, Miss Caldwell," he urged.  "See, they'll
be ages before they start.  It's my last evening here too;
I think you might."

Upon which Lucy decided that her reluctance was both
prudish and absurd.

"Very well, Mr. Graeme," she answered; "just wait a
minute, though, and I'll ask Mr. Robson to let my father
know."  This done, the two started on their walk, Lucy
setting the pace, which was that of a good four miles an hour.

"Where's Lucy, Tom?" said the General, some ten
minutes later, as, the bag having been inspected, the two
moved off towards the waiting waggonette.

"She'll be here in a minute; she was down at the other
end of the line.  The last I saw of her she was helping Graeme
to collect his birds.  Gad, that fellow can shoot, Charles,
quite like one of those fellows you read about in the
*Badminton Library*."

"Yes, and we shall hear all about it to-night too—every
blessed shot he made, and why he missed.  Conceited,
bumptious jackanapes."

"Curious thing old Jack Graeme having a son like that,
one of the best, old Jack.  Must take after his mother, I
suppose, she was a queer wild sort—wrong too."

"He's not Jack's son at all; you know that well enough,
Tom.  Crawford was this fellow's father."

"Surely, you don't believe that old scandal, Charles?"

"Of course I do, this fellow's the dead spit of Crawford.
The only difference between them is that he was a devilish
good soldier, one of the best we had in the army.  I didn't
like the fellow, but I'll say that for him.  This chap, though,
is a waster, so his regiment say.  They can't stand him
there, and that, as you know, Tom, is a bad sign, a damn
bad sign."

"I hope Lucy hasn't taken a fancy to him.  It's worrying
me a lot, Charles."

"Not she, she's far too sensible.  If she did, we'd have
to stop it, that's all.  I tell you, Tom, I'd sooner see the
girl in a convent, or—yes, I would—dead, begad, than see
her married to that fellow."

"Oh come, Charles."

"Yes, I would.  There's something wrong about the
chap; he sets me all on edge; he——  Hullo, Robson, seen
my niece?"

"She's walking home with Graeme, General, asked me
to let you know.  She said she'd be at the house before
the waggonette."

"Oh!" said Sir Thomas.

"Damn!" muttered the General.

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Meantime the pair under discussion were making their
way homewards across the park, Lucy rather silent, Hector
discoursing on Hector and that person's recent achievements.
He was feeling particularly pleased with himself
this evening, and, as a result, more than a little kindly
towards his companion.  At length, even the topic of self
was exhausted, and a sudden rather awkward pause ensued,
whereupon Lucy managed to find her voice.

"When do you expect to join your regiment in India,
Mr. Graeme," she said, "soon, I suppose, now?  How you
must be looking forward to it."

Graeme's face clouded.  "Next September, I believe,
that is, if I do go out.  Don't think I shall, though, I've
more than half a mind to send in my papers and cut the
whole show."

"Surely not, Mr. Graeme, at your age.  What on earth
would you do with yourself?  You couldn't idle for the rest
of your life."

"Couldn't I?  I could idle very well, Miss Caldwell,
besides, I should always find plenty to do with shooting,
hunting, and golf.  Those are my interests, and pretty good
ones too, I think."

"But surely a mere life of sport wouldn't content you.
Don't you want to get on in your profession?  Really,
Mr. Graeme, I cannot understand a man holding such views."

"Perhaps not, but it's a fact all the same.  I've no wish
to get on, as you call it, indeed I loathe soldiering.  What's
the good of it after all, what can it lead to?  I've no
doubt if I chose I could be as good a soldier as any of them,
but I don't choose.  It's a life of slavery, the army, it's
being at the beck and call of every silly fool who happens
to have more gold lace on his hat than you have; and then
the end—to become a general, a snuffy, purple-faced old
ass, like——"

"Like whom, Mr. Graeme?"

"Oh, like Grampus, my present lord at Canterbury, who,
when he gives a luncheon party, has the lot of us strutting
past him on foot parade to show his importance and amuse
his lady friends."

"But all generals are not like that, Mr. Graeme."

"All I've met.  It's a natural consequence too, I
suppose.  When a man's young and in full possession of his
faculties he's only a humble captain or major, but as he
approaches imbecility he rises in rank, till in the height of
senile decay he becomes a general."

"Mr. Graeme, you forget, I think, that my uncle's a——"

"He, of course, is one of the exceptions you just
mentioned," said Hector with a rather nasty chuckle.

"Mr. Graeme, you're horrid; I don't wonder people
dislike you."

"More do I, though perhaps if you'd been brought up as
I have you'd be horrid too."

"What do you mean?"

Graeme hesitated for a moment, frowning, and then
burst out, with a ring of passion in his voice:

"You've had a happy life.  Miss Caldwell, parents who
have been parents, I've not.  My father, for some reason,
would never look at me, while my mother alternately petted
and neglected me.  She was a queer being, my mother,
mad on spiritualism and such like, and what's more used
to drag me into her experiments.  She said I was clairvoyant."

"Good heavens, Mr. Graeme, what an awful thing for a
woman to do.  I beg your pardon; I forget it's your mother
I'm speaking of."

"Say what you like; I don't care.  I hated her when
she was alive, and do now she's dead.  It's played the devil
with me, Miss Caldwell.  I used to lie awake at night often
and shriek with terror, and I'm not much better now at
times.  That's the way I was brought up, nobody to care
twopence about me; and gradually I got not to care too,
till now I think I hate everybody just as they do me."

"Oh, surely, not everybody," began Lucy, and then
stopped suddenly.  At something in her voice, Graeme
turned and looked at her, a queer thrill of excitement
running through him.  He tried to see her face, but it was
turned from him; the feeling of excitement grew, and his
heart began to beat fast.

For some time he too had been conscious of a growing
feeling of attraction towards this girl; more, he felt
himself to be in love with her—a not unusual experience,
by the way, for Hector, to whom all feminine creatures
were as magnets to his iron.  This feeling, however, though
materially contributing to the enjoyment of the past three
weeks, had hitherto not been regarded by him as serious,
indeed, the idea of proposing to Lucy Caldwell had never
once presented itself to him.  Now the charms of such a
proceeding suddenly occurred to him.  The isolation, in
which he had hitherto gloried, seemed no longer desirable
but hateful, and with this came a sudden longing for
sympathy and the love denied him in his childhood.  It would
be glorious, he thought, to have someone to care for him;
to be interested in what he did, to have a home of his own
instead of the Mess, which he hated; and straightway
Hector made up his mind to do it, and, flinging prudence
to the winds, spoke.

"Miss Caldwell, Lucy, is there anyone who cares?"

"I—I shouldn't think so.  I—I don't know."

"Do you care?—because I do.  I—I love you most—damnably."

"Most damnably?"

"Yes, and if you'll marry me—I've meant to ask you for
a long time, but I've funked it before.  I'm not much of
a catch, I know.  I'll try and be different.  I could be,
I think, if you took me in hand.  For God's sake say you
will, Lucy."

"But are you sure, Hector?  Do you really mean it?
Oh, I never said you might, and look, there's an owl flown
by; he saw us, I know he did.  You might have waited
till he'd gone.  He has gone now, Hector."

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The four miles an hour dwindled down to a bare half.
The darkness deepened, owing to which possibly they lost
their way, turning east instead of west.  Away from the
Hall they wandered, oblivious of a purple-faced gentleman
who was awaiting them there, and whose wrath was rapidly
rising as he viewed the still mistressless tea-table.





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.. _`CHAPTER II`:

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   CHAPTER II

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The fair valley of Kashmir lay drowsing in the
August sunshine—a strip of green and gold
nestling amid a waste of rocky mountains.
All around rose the great hills, bare and sun-scorched
for the most part towards the west and south—at which
point enters the main road from India—but to the east
draped with heavy mantles of fir and towering pine; far
away, a glittering rampart of eternal snow and ice, the
great mass of the Himalayas barred the way to the north,
its jagged peaks and saw-like ridges fretting the deep
cloudless blue of the sky.

Over the valley itself, now a riotous waste of colour,
hung a shimmering vale of heat; through the warm heavy
air, drowsy with the perfume of a thousand blossoms,
gaudy dragon-flies darted to and fro, or hung poised with
tremulous vibration of gauzy wings; while here and there
orange and purple butterflies drifted lazily from flower to
flower.  Tiny rivulets murmured sleepily, as they threaded
their way through woods of chestnut, apple and pear,
interspersed with patches of golden millet and Indian corn,
the sole worldly wealth of some Kashmiri husbandman, the
roof of whose hut might be seen peering through the
surrounding clump of trees.

Born in the snowy mountains to the north, the river
Jhelum winds its way southwards through the centre of
the valley, passing through the great lake of Kashmir, a
vast sheet of burnished silver, on the still surface of which
lie masses of coral-pink lotus.  Onward the river crawls,
lapping in sleepy caress the wooden piles and temple-steps
of Srinagar, the country's capital, a ramshackle cluster of
wooden, chalet-like houses, built on both sides of the river.
Still half-asleep, it creeps on for some hundred miles through
a land golden with crops and bright with flowers and fruit,
on past Baramoula, the terminus of the tonga service from
Rawal Pindi, and out by a gorge in the mountains, through
which lies the road to India and the south.  Then it awakes,
and hemmed in by jutting crag and precipice, its course
vexed by boulder and quicksand, becomes henceforth a
wild torrent, roaring its way onward to Mother Indus and
the sea.

Following a rough track leading eastward from Baramoula,
and steadily rising as he goes, the traveller passes
through some fifteen miles of thinly-wooded country,
broken by fields of scanty millet and maize, till at length a
large wooden temple is reached, situated in a clearing at
the foot of a steep fir-clad ridge.  Leaving this behind, he
plunges into dense forest, and after an hour's stiff climb
reaches the summit, where suddenly and unexpectedly he
comes upon a native bazaar of rough wooden huts
overlooking an expanse of grassy plain.  Roughly circular in
shape, this plain is girt on all sides with a thick belt of
sombre firs, beyond which again tower the mountains.  All
around, either just inside the girdle of trees or at its edge,
are dotted small wooden houses and clusters of white
tents, while in the centre of the plain rises a large and more
pretentious-looking edifice, around which one August
afternoon a numerous and gaily-dressed crowd was to be seen
assembled.

This is Shiraz, the hill-station of Kashmir, and here,
when the valley below has become impossible owing to the
heat and mosquitoes, flock the English visitors and officials
of the country—both black and white.  The houses and
tents surrounding the plain, or Murg as it is called, are their
temporary homes, while the building in the centre is the
focus of Shiraz social life, serving indiscriminately as club,
library, cricket or polo pavilion.

No ordinary event, however, was responsible for to-day's
gathering of notabilities, no pagal gymkhana or crumpet
snatch, but something much more serious, namely, the
finals of the Shiraz Polo championship, and hence the
brightest and best of frocks and frills were here on view,
while hats and parasols were positively dazzling in their
splendour.

Moreover, an additional incentive had been given to
good fellowship, for was not Lady Wilford, the wife of Sir
Reginald Wilford, K.C.S.I., K.C.I.E. etc, etc., and present
Resident of Kashmir, At Home this August afternoon?  And
no experienced Anglo-Indian lady will, as is well known,
forego the delights of a free tea, nor for that matter, of
any entertainment, for which someone else pays.  Indeed,
even one modest rupee gate money has been known in that
country to frighten away the fair sex altogether from
race-meetings, gymkhana or polo match.  To-day, however,
there was no such vexatious bar to pleasure, and hence it
came about that all was light-hearted enjoyment and
hilarity.

Mrs. Twiddell, wife of Major Twiddell of the Supply and
Transport Corps, now absent in the plains, looked radiant
as she chattered away to her best friend, Mrs. Passy
Snorter.  True, she had a grievance, though you might
not have thought it, the said grievance being the reason
that necessitated the wearing of her present attire of pink,
instead of one of the ravishing confections of which she
had so often made mention.

"Looks charming?" she said prettily, "sweet of you
to try and comfort me, dear; it's Paris I know, but such a
rag now, poor old pink.  So annoying of my husband not
to send my boxes up in time;" and her friend, as she
sympathetically agreed, wondered how dear Mrs. T. could be
such a liar, for had not she—and for that matter all
Shiraz—observed the lady's dhirzi[#] stitching away at the despised
pink for the last three days in the Twiddell verandah?  She
could even have told to an anna what the said garment
had cost, and the wrangle there had been over the price.
She further wondered, incidentally, whether Jack Twiddell
had yet paid his club bill at Riwala, for Mrs. Snorter's
husband was the secretary of that institution, and told his
wife many valuable secrets anent mutual friends.

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[#] Native tailor.

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Lieutenant Crawler of the 1st Kala Jugas was evidently
in his element as, blade of grass in mouth, he discoursed
on the merits of the rival teams.  Crawler, it is true,
bestrode a pony for the first time in his life six months ago
on joining his regiment, but he had a good deal to say on
the subject of horsemanship, and was expressing his doubts
as to the "hands" of most of the competitors.  He went
on to compare polo with hunting, and indulged in personal
reminiscences of the Quorn and Pytchley, of which packs
he had read in the papers.  Important-looking officials for
the nonce laid aside cares of State, and turned condescending
ear to the trivial discourse of military acquaintances,
or beamed seductively on feminine admirers.  The Maharajah
Sahib, his retinue of sable followers grouped around
him, looked calmly on the scene, now and again bending
courteously to some female flatterer, the expression in
his dark eyes contrasting strangely with his respectful,
almost humble, salutations.

There was a stir—and sudden commotion amongst the
crowd.  Polo was about to begin, and away surged the
chattering throng, making hurriedly for the rows of chairs
lining one side of the ground.

The game to be played this afternoon promised to be an
exciting one, the rival players being a scratch quartette,
calling themselves the Dragon Flies, and four of the 1st
Lancers who happened to be in Shiraz on leave.  The
Lancers were in no sense representative of their corps, one
of their number only, Ferrers, the captain, being a member
of the regular regimental team, but, as they were better
mounted than their opponents, and having had a fair
amount of practice together while in Shiraz, they were
quite confident of success.  The other three were Kinley,
Carruthers, and Graeme.  The Dragon Flies, however,
were opponents not to be despised.  True, their ponies
were slow in comparison with those of the Lancers, but
against this they were handy and well trained, and knew
the game as well as their owners.  The men also, though
hailing from different regiments, and being at the
disadvantage of not knowing each other's idiosyncrasies, were
with one exception individually far better players than
their adversaries, Major Rocket, the captain, being generally
considered one of the best Number Twos, if not the best,
in India.

The above-mentioned exception was the "One"—Lieutenant
Gubbins of the 105th Native Foot, who, though
extremely keen, was a far from expert performer, and had a
rooted aversion to keeping in his proper place.  He had
promised, however, on this afternoon to amend his ways,
to leave the tempting ball to Number Two, and devote his
energies solely to hampering the back—and these promises
Gubbins, before starting, had every intention of keeping.

Some distance away from the chattering crowd, watching
the saddling of a fine grey Arab pony, stood Graeme and
his wife Lucy, for despite the scoffing incredulity of those
who knew, or thought they knew, Hector the proposal
made that November evening—nearly two years ago—had
been duly ratified, and after an engagement of six months
the two had been quietly married in Radford church.

There had been opposition, bitter opposition too.
Sir Thomas, the General, indeed, the whole of Lucy's
relations, having resolutely opposed the match.  In vain,
however, their efforts had merely succeeded in turning
Hector's somewhat indefinite intentions into a fixed resolve.
Even Lucy was surprised at the strength of purpose shown
by her lover, and, warmly seconding him, between them
they finally overcame her father's opposition, though never
that of her uncle.  The latter for a long time refused to
meet Hector, and, but for the reluctance to cause pain to
his niece, would undoubtedly have refused to appear at the
wedding.  So far, the general anticipation of disaster had
been singularly at fault; the marriage had turned out a
happy one, Hector proving himself a good and considerate
husband, while, far from sliding back into former ways, he
had flown to the other extreme and become a Puritan,
bitterly intolerant of even the mildest lapse from conjugal
duty.  This, as might be imagined, had not served to
increase his popularity, and it was almost universally agreed
that, though objectionable enough before his marriage,
since that event he had become altogether impossible, and
great was the commiseration bestowed on that dear pretty
little woman who had the misfortune to be tied to such
an ill-conditioned prig.

"The dear pretty little woman," however, stood in no
need of their sympathy, being, on the contrary, perfectly
and entirely happy.  She adored Hector, admired him for
his principles, so different from those of other men, and,
generally speaking, thought him the most wonderful person
in the world.  At the present moment she was listening
with interest, her arm through his, as he discoursed on
polo, more particularly on the part he was likely to take
in the forthcoming contest.

Hector's love for this game, though of somewhat recent
growth, had become the temporary master-passion of his
existence, and to the acquirement of proficiency in it he
had flung himself with the violence and concentration of
purpose that were usual with him on taking up a new hobby.
At home, it is true, he had shown no interest in the subject;
it was a feeble game, he had been wont to declare, and one
much too easy to play to be worth the learning.  Since
his arrival in India, however, he had come to regard the
matter in a different light.  Here everybody played polo;
indeed, it was looked upon as the one serious business of
life, bar love-making, and straightway it had become
Hector's business too.  Never would he admit that there
could be anything in the way of sports or games at which
he could not excel if he chose, and he set to work to provide
himself with ponies, first-class tournament ponies too; he
would look at nothing else.  He had now six, bought at a
price far beyond his means, the purchase of which had
necessitated the assistance of Ram Lai, the native banker
of Riwala, and this done, and all other pursuits abandoned
for the nonce, he laid himself out to learn the game.

Henceforth his conversation, his thoughts, his very
dreams were of polo, while his contempt for and intolerance
of those who had no liking for the pursuit were unbounded.
Morning and evening he could be seen assiduously practising
shots on the disused drill-ground at the back of his
Riwala bungalow, while in odd moments he would employ
the saises, khitmagars, and on one occasion—though Lucy
had immediately intervened—the cook, in throwing him
balls from every direction, while he, astride on a wooden
horse, drove the said balls all over the compound.  The
result of all this was on the whole gratifying, the progress
he made being generally conceded to be remarkable, though
this verdict was usually qualified by the remark that his
proficiency was mainly due to the excellence of his ponies.
"Anyone could play who was so well mounted as that
bounder Graeme," men were wont to observe, for in India,
even more than elsewhere, possessions in excess of one's
neighbours are wont to evoke caustic remarks.

Whether this were true or not, Graeme was now able to
hold his own in most companies, and was anticipating a
veritable triumph this afternoon, when he intended to show
the spectators how polo should be played, even though by
a novice.  His conversation was brought to an end by the
loud ringing of a bell, followed by the appearance of
Ferrers, fussy and important, summoning his men to the
fray.  With a hasty farewell to Lucy, and final examination
of his stirrup-leathers, Hector mounted the grey pony and
cantered into the field, where the rival teams were drawn
up in two lines facing each other.

After some delay, owing to young Gubbins' endeavours
to secure a flying start, the ball was at length thrown in
between the lines by the umpire, and the battle for the
Cup had begun.

Straightway arose a confused *mêlée* of sticks and ponies,
followed by much wild hitting, much missing, and
considerable dangerous riding, Graeme being neatly bowled
over by Gubbins before three minutes had elapsed.  All
were anxious to hit the ball, no matter where, so long as
they hit it, though the general tendency indubitably lay
in the direction of the gallery, where the various divinities
sat enthroned, watching the doings of their own particular
twin souls.

For the first two chukkers there was no score, though
this, it must be owned, was chiefly due to the mistaken
zeal of the Dragon Flies' Number One, who, forgetful of
his good intentions, persisted in trying to hit goals of which
he was incapable, instead of devoting his energies to the
opposing back and leaving the job to Major Rocket.  Had
it not been for this, the score would by this time have been
very heavy against the Lancers.  In the third chukker
the disaster so long impending occurred.  Rocket, who in
the interval had spoken very seriously to Gubbins, at
length secured the ball, and with a resounding smack
lifted it well over the opposing back's head, when it rolled
to within twenty-five yards of the Lancers' goal.  Ferrers—the
back in question—turned, and slipping the enemy's
Number One, made for the ball and ... missed it,
leaving Gubbins the chance of his life.

Exultantly the youth raised his stick, and was about to
add one more to his already lengthy list of failures, when
his arm was paralysed by a roar from behind of "Leave it,
you infernal young idiot, leave it, out of the way,
confound you!"  Though hurt at being thus addressed, the more
so as the opprobrious epithet must have reached the owner of
a certain pink parasol in the gallery yonder, Gubbins this
time managed to restrain his ardour, and obediently
sheering off to one side was rewarded by hearing a good clean
crack behind him, as the skilful Rocket sent the ball
whizzing through the Lancers' goal-post.  Instantly arose
loud and prolonged applause from the excited gallery, and
thus encouraged the Dragon Flies set to work with a will,
and by the end of the chukker had scored again twice.

Three to love, two more chukkers to go, and their
opponents flushed with success—truly, a bad business for the
cavalry team; and faces were troubled and brows gloomy,
as they rode slowly away to change their ponies.  So far
Hector had not distinguished himself.  His early upset at
the hands of Gubbins had ruffled him badly, and, this
disaster having been followed by frequent defeats at the hands
of the tricky Rocket, he had finally lost his temper in earnest,
with consequent evil results to his play.  The recent
reverses, however, had affected him very differently from
his companions.  They were disheartened; he, on the
contrary, was thirsting for revenge, and more than ever
determined to win the contest, even if it meant the riding
down of each individual member of the enemy in
turn—indeed, his tactics in the last chukker had evoked more
than one indignant cry of "Foul!"

He was now gloomily debating in his mind on whom to
commence operations when he came upon the other three
standing together, and at sight of the despondency on their
faces wrath boiled up in Hector's breast.

"What the devil are you looking so sick for, all of you?"
he said angrily.  "What if they have got three goals, we can
beat them all right.  Damme, I'll give you this pony, if
we don't!"

They stared at him, and, as they looked, something in
his face caused theirs to brighten, and hope once more to
dawn in their hearts.  In the hour of adversity man will
cling to the rottenest straw, but here was a rock, solid and
unmoved by the seas in which they were drowning.

"What do you suggest then, Graeme?" said Ferrers,
after a pause, oblivious of the fact that he, the hero of many
contests, was now asking advice of a novice, of one,
moreover, whom he had been wont to consider a fool, so true
it is that mere skill and experience must ever bow to strength
of personality.

"Do?" said Graeme, seizing the reins of government
thus abandoned.  "Why, go for them, attack all we know,
not merely try to prevent them scoring, as we've been
doing up till now.  Look here, Ferrers, I'll take charge:
you go up 'Two,' I'll take your place at 'Three.'  Now,
come on, and remember what I say.  Force the game for
all you're worth.  Knock 'em over, doesn't matter, but
win we will."

Thus saying, and without a word of protest from his
erstwhile captain, Hector led the way into the field, and
once more the game started; but this time a very different
state of affairs was manifest.  The Dragon Flies, so far
from attacking now, were soon solely occupied in the
endeavour to save their goal from the furious and repeated
attacks of the Lancers.  For some time they were
successful, but the latter would not be denied, and quite
outclassing their opponents at length triumphed over the
defence, the goal being followed by a second, scored just as
the bell rang.  Two goals to three, one more chukker to
go, and the excitement in the gallery rising, which
excitement increased to frenzy when Carruthers in the next few
minutes scored one more goal for the Lancers.

Then an unlooked-for misfortune befell them, for
Gubbins, by some happy accident, managed to fluke a
subsidiary, and for a moment demoralisation again hovered
over the cavalry team.  Graeme, however, rallied his men
in time, and for a while the game surged equally backwards
and forwards up the ground; but a few minutes only
remained, and hope was rapidly dying in the hearts of the
Lancers' supporters when the last chance arrived.  Graeme
slipped the opposing Number Three, and securing the ball
drove it clean and hard up the ground; galloping on, he
followed this up by another not quite so straight, the ball
rising in the air and settling within thirty yards of the
Dragon Flies' goal.  There it lay, a fair white sphere, right
in front of Ferrers; a possible near-side shot, but most
unlikely.

With passionate, strained attention Hector watched
Ferrers' approach, his whole will-power concentrated on
the striker, till the surrounding world, the roar of the crowd,
the thud of galloping hoofs had passed from sight and
hearing, and nothing remained save that flying figure
before him.  "You shall not miss it," he breathed, "you
shall not."  He saw the uplifted arm descend, he heard a
great shouting, mingled with the clang of the time-bell, and
then for a moment all was darkness, till, the mists slowly
lifting from his brain, he found himself alone, some fifty
yards away from the ground, his pony heaving and gasping
beneath him.  For a moment he sat, gazing vacantly
around, and then, dismounting, slipped his arm through the
reins, and led the sweating beast back to the waiting sais.

No one noticed his movements, every one being too
excited by the recent sensational finish, and engaged in the
laudation of Ferrers, who was the hero of the hour.  Justly
too, for such a shot at such a crisis had never before been
witnessed on the Shiraz ground.  Even Crawler was mollified
and expressed satisfaction with the play on the whole,
though he was of opinion that the Lancers, being better
mounted, ought to have won by more, and would probably
have done so but for Graeme, who, he noticed, had hardly
once struck the ball.  He was inclined to think that
Ferrers' shot was a fluke, and this remark having given
rise to some difference of opinion, the hero himself was
approached and asked to give an account of the
circumstance.  This proved somewhat vague and unsatisfactory.

"Truth is, you fellows," he said, "I really don't
remember much about it.  I recollect seeing the ball sittin'
there, and thinking how bally awful it'd be to miss the
beastly thing, and then, well, then I found I'd scored a goal.
Rather extraordinary feelin' it was, couldn't do it again,
I know."

"Rot, old boy," said Kinley, known in his regiment as
"Porky," on account of his appearance and appetite, "of
course you could do it again.  Tell you what, give you a
dozen tries now, and back you for a quid a time.  Who'll take?"

A chorus of assent arose, for the wise always took up
Porky's bets.  A move was made back to the polo ground,
and the ball placed in its former position, the succeeding
events resulting in the speculator's return to his quarters
an hour later a poorer man by twelve golden sovereigns.
"Silly fool I was," he mused as he went, "but then I
always am a silly fool over the bets I make."

Graeme also came in for a share of the general applause,
it being agreed that he had played well; quite wonderfully
for a beginner, though of course he wanted experience
and knowledge of the game.  Still, he had not been the
weakness they expected.  Ferrers went even further,
declaring that Graeme had been the stay of their side, and
though, when the first feelings of gratitude had worn
off, he recanted somewhat, he now proclaimed the fact
aloud and announced his intention of proceeding forthwith
to Mrs. Graeme to inform her of his opinion.  Lucy,
however, was not to be found, for she had seen that to which
the others were blind, and had flown forthwith across the
ground to where Hector was standing slowly donning his
coat and sweater.

"What is it, Hector, what's the matter?" she said,
looking anxiously at the drawn haggard face and tired eyes.

"Nothing's the matter, Lucy.  What should there be?
I'm a bit done, that's all."

"But I saw you reel; it was just after Mr. Ferrers scored
that last goal, I thought for a moment you were going to
fall.  Oh, this polo's too much for you, Hector."

"Fit of giddiness, that's all, I used to be subject to
them, you know.  I'm all right now; let's go home.  What
did you think of the game?"

"You played splendidly, all of you did."

"What about Ferrers' play?"

"He was wonderful, Hector, but then of course he's an
old hand.  When you've played as long as he has you'll
be quite as good, much better, I think.  But here we are
at the house, I'll just ask for a brandy and soda, and
then we'll go up to dress.  There's a big dinner on
to-night, you know.  I wish there was not, I should like you
to go to bed, oh, why not, Hector?  I can easily arrange
it with Lady Wilford."

Graeme, however, though anathematising the dinner-party,
refused to retire, and an hour afterwards was seated
at Sir Reginald's hospitable board, where a large and
festive company was assembled, all chattering of polo and
the great contest of the afternoon.  Hector took little part
in the conversation, but sat silent and moody, the efforts
of his partner, a light-hearted grass-widow, being wholly
powerless to rouse him to the smallest semblance of interest.
Even Lucy, watching him in the intervals of lively play
with Mr. Carruthers, at length grew indignant, as she noted
his air of deep abstraction.  She felt sorry for Mrs. Loveall,
whose face by this time wore a look of boredom and
chagrin, though it is true she would equally have hated
that flirtatious lady, had Hector responded in the slightest
degree to her overtures.

If he was tired, why had he not gone to bed, as she
suggested?  That would have been infinitely better than putting
in an appearance with the sole object, it seemed, of acting
as damper on the general enjoyment.  The other men
were no doubt tired also, but they had the manners to
disguise the fact; why could not Hector be like the rest,
and make an effort as they were doing?  There, he was
yawning; she would like to have shaken him.  Graeme,
however, persisted in his offence, and if he had succeeded
in boring his partner, she in return had well-nigh maddened
him.  In fact, an almost irresistible impulse to flee was
rapidly coming over him; a wild longing to escape from
the lights and chattering crowd and calm his shattered
nerves in the cool night air.  A few minutes more, and he
would have done so, but fortunately for his own and Lucy's
credit the signal for release came at length; whereupon
Hector sprang up, and, leaving Mrs. Loveall to find her
handkerchief and other fallen trifles as best she might,
made for the open window and fled out into the night,
where he stood breathing deep sighs of relief.  At his feet
slept the now deserted Murg, glistening like some great
lake in the light of the full moon.  At its edge the huts and
tents looked white against the background of shadowy
forest and gloomy pine-clad hill, while far away a vision of
unearthly beauty glittered faintly, the white splendour of
the snows, a spirit city of minarets and spires in a setting
of blue.  Over all lay the spell of a dead world, that
strange haunting influence breathed by the moon wherein
two elements are commingled, seemingly apart yet
inextricably interfused, the one death and the other love.  For,
though from a perished universe it comes, it is not gloom
but passion it stirs in most human hearts, and in this
alliance of Azrael and Eros can be read the great secret of
the world—that death is but the passing to another birth,
and, without love, birth cannot be.

It was not of the latter that Hector was thinking now,
but of that something within him, revealed that
afternoon—though but in a paltry game.  He knew now, ignore it
though he might, that he was not quite as others were, that
his was that strange gift of nature—will-power, personal
magnetism, call it what you please—the possession of which
marks the difference between those who lead and the herd
which follows.  And as he stood there, with the majesty of
sleeping mountain and plumed forest around him, their
greatness spoke to that something within him, reproaching
it, and at its voice the curious restlessness and discontent
born of the afternoon's awakening swelled to a flood of
bitter self-contempt.  How great was all this, and how
very small he and his present aims.  Vague longings came
over him, a desire for the unattainable, for that it surely
was.  He, a married man, whose course of life was chosen—a
life devoted to games and sport.

For a moment the idea of studying his profession came
to him, but at the thought his mind instantly revolted.
The *rôle* of smart soldier had no charms for Graeme;
that he knew required a different nature from his, an
unimaginative, methodical character, one content to follow the
path dictated, not to proceed to the goal by short cuts, as
he had done, and always would do, to the annoyance of his
military superiors.  No, he would leave that to such as
Ferrers and Rocket, both reckoned promising candidates
for advancement, the former being Adjutant of his
regiment, the latter Brigade-Major to the Inspector-General
of Cavalry.  They were and always would be followers;
as for him, he would be leader or nothing.

Well, perhaps his chance would be given him; it always
was.  Even now there were rumours of trouble on the
frontier, and he might be sent.  He would be, he would
move heaven and earth, and then...  "Damn, why
the devil can't they leave me alone?  Who is it?  Oh, you.
Lucy, do you want me?"

"Yes; what an unsociable person you are to rush away
like this, everybody's gone home.  Oh, what a lovely
night; look at that moon; it reminds me of board ship.
Do you remember?"

"Ship, what ship?  Oh yes, of course, exactly like.  The
crowd too about the same in intelligence as that lot in
there."

"Why do you sneer at them, Hector, what's the matter
with you this evening?"

"Oh, nothing, only I'm sick to death of this chatter of
polo.  Hang it, to hear them talk one would think Ferrers
had won the V.C. instead of scoring a miserable goal in a
match."

"Surely, Hector, it's a little small to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous, Lucy, and what seems to me small is
this raving about a mere game.  Hang it, there are other
things in life besides polo."

Lucy was silent.  Accustomed as she was to her husband's
frequent changes, this was a little too sudden and
unaccountable.  She endeavoured to fall in with his mood,
however.

"Perhaps you're right, Hector, though I don't think
you're quite fair.  You know, I've often wished you to take
a more serious view of things, your profession, for
instance, but you've always snubbed me when I began."

"Bah, my profession."

"Well, why not, surely it's a good enough one for any
man?  And I believe, Hector, I really do, that you could be
as good a soldier as any of them if you worked, perhaps
even be adjutant after Mr. Ferrers, and in time command
the regiment.  Oh, I should love you to command the
regiment."

"And after that, Lucy?"

"Oh well, that's as high as I go.  I think I should then
like you to retire, and perhaps go into Parliament."

"Colonel Graeme, M.P., Lord, what dizzy heights, Lucy."

"Don't sneer, Hector, I mean it, but you'll have to
work.  I'll take you in hand myself when we return to
Riwala.  Till then you may play as much as you like.
And now I've got some news for you.  How would you
like to shoot a bear?"

"Bear, where is he?"

"About twelve miles from here, I believe.  A native's
just come in to tell Sir Reginald, I don't think he much
believes in the story, though; he says these Kashmiris are
such liars it would be only waste of time going.  Still, I
think we might persuade him if you'd care for it."

"Rather, of course I would," said Hector, and perchance
at the sudden return to mundane interests the great
mountains and forests laughed, quietly derisive, for well
they knew the resistless force of which they, like him, were
but the phenomena, and how—make what plans and
resolutions he may—man must dance when the master-hand
chooses to pull the strings and call the tune, though till
then he is seemingly free to act as he pleases.  And so
Hector was allowed to become his own confident self once
more, and, feeling rather ashamed of his recent lapse from
common sense, hurried off with Lucy to the coercion of his
unwilling host.

"Oh, Sir Reginald," he said, entering the drawing-room,
"my wife tells me there are bears about.  Why not have
a go at them to-morrow?"

"I hardly think it worth while, Graeme," said the
Resident, "I don't suppose there's a bear near the place."

"Surely, the fellow wouldn't dare bring you false
khubber?"[#] said Hector.  "Why, I'd fine his village a
hundred rupees if he did, were I the Resident."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Information.

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, please let's go, Sir Reginald," said Lucy.  "It
would be a day out whether we shot anything or not.  Lady
Wilford will come too, and we'll have a ripping time.  I
should love it."

The Resident hesitated.  He knew perfectly well that
what Graeme had said was true, and that no Kashmiri
would have dared to bring him false information, but he
had secret and most important reasons for not wishing to
leave his post at the time.  That morning's mail had
brought in news of serious trouble on the North West
Frontier, hinting, moreover, at the possibility of its being
necessary to recall to their regiments all officers now on leave
in Shiraz.  This information, being confidential, could not
be given as a reason for refusing Graeme and his wife.  The
latter continued to press the attack.

"I have never seen a bear except in the Zoo," she pleaded,
"and I promise to be very good and quiet, and not get in
the way.  Oh, do go."

"I have never had a chance with that new .303 of mine,"
said Hector, "and I badly want to give that lazy devil of a
shikari of mine something to do, and see if he's the wonder
he makes himself out to be, simply eating and smoking his
head off in idleness, the brute."

"My dear fellow, I should like it as much as you do, but
we're rather busy in the office just now, and..."

"Why not go, Reginald?" said Lady Wilford.  "It
would be a day out, as Mrs. Graeme says, and anything
urgent could be sent after you by a peon;[#] it's only twelve
miles."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Native Messenger.

.. vspace:: 2

The Resident capitulated straightway, as was his habit
with his wife.  After all, she was right, he thought, and most
likely no letter of importance would come.  If it did, well,
his secretary could give out the necessary orders to the
officers.  He would chance it and go.

"Very well, my dear," he said, "if you're set upon it;
only don't blame me if the bears fail to appear, that's all.
I'll go now, and start off the servants with the tents, etc.
You'd better go to bed at once, young lady," turning to
Lucy; "we'll have to leave here by five at latest, you too,
Graeme, you must be tired after your exertions to-day.
By the way, Latimer," to his secretary, "you might give
me a few minutes in my study, there are one or two things
I want to see you about," and Sir Reginald went off to
make his preparations for the morrow.

Graeme, having first inspected the aforementioned .303,
proceeded to interview his shikari, to whom he imparted
the unwelcome news of the forthcoming expedition.  This
done, he acted upon his host's advice, and, making his way
to his room, was soon in bed and asleep.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER III`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III

.. vspace:: 2

Shortly after five the next morning, the party,
mounted on ponies, left the lamp-lit Residency and
started on their way to the village of Karin, in the
vicinity of which the aforesaid bears were supposed to be
awaiting them.  The sun was not yet risen; the air was
chill; and the sahibs sleepy and disinclined for conversation.

Close at their heels trudged the four saises, bearing their
charges' blankets, while some distance in the rear stalked
two dignified-looking natives, Gokal Singh, Sir Reginald's
dogra orderly, and Ahmed Khan, Graeme's shikari.  The
latter, a man of gigantic stature and imposing appearance,
was a typical specimen of the Kashmiri race.

On Graeme's arrival at Baramoula three weeks before,
this worthy, recognising at a glance the green and
inexperienced new-comer, had at once attached himself to
Hector's retinue, and, heedless of rebuffs, had seized upon
the sahib's gun-cases and started off with them in triumph
to Shiraz.  In vain did Graeme order him to put the guns
down and be off; Ahmed Khan merely smiled and stuck
sturdily to his booty.

Who did the sahib propose was to clean these weapons? he
asked, marching on.  Not the saises assuredly, nor the
bhisti,[#] and certainly not the Presence's bearer.  He
appealed to the latter, who at once—satisfactory terms having
been previously arranged—supported him.  The Kashmiri's
questions were reasonable, he declared, a shikari was
a necessity to a sahib of importance; but first, why not see
the man's chits,[#] for if an honest man he would doubtless
have such on him, and thereupon he commanded Ahmed to
produce what documents of the kind he had, and to beware
of showing false ones, for, he assured his master, such
things were done in Kashmir, and it behoved one to be
wary.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] "Water-carrier.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Written characters, mostly forged, from former employers.

.. vspace:: 2

A bundle of dirty papers was thereupon dragged to light,
an examination of which proved to Hector that he had
secured a treasure, for they one and all declared that, of
all shikaris now in Kashmir, this one, for honesty, skill,
and lion-hearted bravery, was incomparably the first.
Graeme, impatient to be off, and by this time bored with
the discussion, then gave in, and Ahmed secured a place,
which suited him exactly.  He smoked and slept all day,
spent his nights in the bazaar, and left the cleaning of the
guns to the sais, his sole self-imposed duty being to stand
up and salute the sahib whenever he saw him, a performance
which he religiously observed, and which irritated
Graeme exceedingly.  The present expedition, involving a
departure from the daily routine, was by no means to his
liking, and on receiving his orders the previous night he
had at once raised objections.  Right well he knew Karin,
he declared, and its inhabitants, the headman especially,
a liar, a very prince of liars, he was too, always deceiving
sahibs by false tales of bears.

Afraid, did the Presence say, he, Ahmed Khan, afraid of a
bear?  How could that be, for was he not known throughout
the country as a lion-hearted one, and the terror of all
wild beasts?  Let the Presence but deign to look at his
chits once more, and forthwith his hand sought the folds
of his dirty garments.  The frequent production of these
documents had by this time got on Graeme's nerves, and,
advancing on the lion-hearted one with uplifted arm and
dangerous eyes, he was about to make his meaning clearer,
when Ahmed, recognising the inevitable, salaamed humbly,
and with a meek "Taiyar, sahib, taiyar hojaega,"[#]
proceeded, with wrath in his heart, to make preparations for
the morrow.  He was now morosely trudging along by the
side of Gokal Singh, with whom as a Hindu dog he had
nothing in common, but to whom as a soldier and man of
violence he was invariably respectful.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] "I will be ready, sir."

.. vspace:: 2

For the first six or seven miles the journey lay through
the dense fir and pine forest, the track winding its way
along the mountain-side.  Here and there the path was
broken by noisy rivulets rushing down from above, nasty
chasms being thus formed, bridged in the usual slack
Kashmiri way by a few poles covered over with sods and
brushwood.  Dangerous places these for the rider, as when
the brushwood rots holes are left, through which the
crossing pony may chance to drop a leg.  Soon, however, these
and the gloomy forest were left behind and the party
emerged on to an open plateau, where the full glory of a
Kashmiri morning suddenly burst upon them.

Far below lay the valley, its green and gold gleaming
through a veil of silver mist, which glittered and flashed
like a diamond cobweb in the rays of the morning sun.
To their right stretched an endless succession of
mountains, the summits rising like islands through the vapour
billows which swirled around them—a restless, tossing sea,
now fast breaking up and melting into floating patches
of white beneath the growing splendour of the sun.  Far
across the valley gleamed the great snow-wall of the
Himalayas, now no longer spirit-haunted and visionary,
but pink-flushed and radiant with the kisses of the dawn.

At the sight Lucy gave a cry of pleasure, and, moving
instinctively closer to her husband, began to point out to
him the various beauties thus unfolded.  He was
unresponsive, for once more there had stolen over him the
faint melancholy of the previous night, and with it the
desire for solitude and silence.  He therefore assisted her
to dismount—Sir Reginald had here called a halt—and
muttering an excuse went to some distance, where he
stood gazing towards the north.

Lucy, much hurt at his behaviour, remained for a
moment looking after him, and then, with a sigh, walked
slowly away to join Sir Reginald and his wife, whom she
found tucked away behind a rock, whither they had
betaken themselves for shelter from the breeze that blew
cold and clear from the distant snows.

The Resident had not yet regained his wonted *bonhomie*,
and was full of gloomy forebodings.  He ought not to have
left Shiraz, he declared; something would be certain to
happen in his absence, and Latimer, though a good enough
fellow in his way, was not the man to cope with unforeseen
emergencies.  The present expedition too was more likely
than not to turn out a failure; a bear-shoot so often did.
Possibly they might get a shot, but he doubted it, he very
much doubted it.  He only hoped there would be no
mistake about breakfast.  Samuel—his Madrasi butler—was
not given to make a hash of things, but natives were so
unreliable, and to-day somehow he had a presentiment he
would.  But they must be getting on, not waste time on
this infernal hill, where he was rapidly freezing.

"Where's Graeme?  Oh, looking at the snows, is he?—very
fine, very fine indeed.  Where's my sais?  Abdul, you
rascal, leave that stinking hubble-bubble at once, and bring
my pony, the lady sahib's too.  Why don't you roll karo[#]
and keep them warm, instead of letting them stand in the
cold while you're squatting on the ground like a damned
fool?  They'll get a chill now and die, and you'll be in jail
khana.  Serve you right.  Hold his head, will you, how the
devil can I get up with the brute twisting about like a top?
My foot, curse it, right on my foot, you clumsy lout, and
now I shan't be able to shoot.  Oh, come on, come on,
Sarah, you too, Mrs. Graeme, never mind about that
husband of yours, he'll turn up at breakfast all right."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] "Walk them about."

.. vspace:: 2

Thus encouraged by the leader, the party, joined shortly
after by Graeme, once more resumed their journey, and,
the wind-swept plateau left far above and behind them,
were soon winding their way through the crops and
woodlands of the valley below.  Gradually, as the warmth
increased, Sir Reginald grew more amiable, till by the time
the mud huts of Karin appeared in sight he had become
his own genial self again, and was the first to point out the
camp, a collection of large tents hard by the village, their
white sides looking cool and inviting through the dark
green of the trees.

At a respectable distance a crowd of natives were squatting,
anxious for a sight of the great man and his guests.
At their approach they stood up together, and a chorus arose
of "Salaam, sahib, salaam," while turbaned heads bowed
low in reverence.  The headman came forward, and with
many protestations of unworthiness proceeded to welcome
the Protector of the Poor and the other Presences.  Sir
Reginald cut him short.  Afterwards, he said, he would
be pleased to see him, but not now, and thereupon he
dismounted, and, followed by the others, entered the large
marquee, where he stood, a smile appearing on his face as
he viewed the result of Madrasi Samuel's efforts.

It was a cheering sight on which his eyes rested.  On
the snowy tablecloth, glittering with glass and silver and
tastefully decked with flowers, stood crystal dishes piled
high with peaches, nectarines, and pears, while on a trestle
sideboard were displayed cold baked meats of many kinds,
from the tiny but succulent quail, nestling in his bed of
quivering jelly, to the lordly turkey, carefully browned and
portly with chestnut stuffing.  From buckets of ice, hock
and soda-water bottles reared inquiring heads, while from
the kitchen outside came the inspiring sizzle of bacon and
chop, their fragrance mingling with that of the roasting
coffee-berry.

The faces of the Resident and his wife beamed with
pleasure at the sight.  "Let come what might" now,
the main object to them of the expedition was assured,
and, no matter whether the bears were found or not, there
was at any rate eating and drinking to fall back upon.

Promptly vetoing Hector's suggestion that before falling
to they should make arrangements for the first drive in
order to waste no time.  Sir Reginald summoned the
servants and the business of breakfast commenced, during
which Graeme and Lucy mentally beheld the quarry, bored
with waiting, stalk disgustedly away to their mountain
fastnesses.  At length the apparently interminable meal
was ended, but not their trials, for Sir Reginald, drowsy
with repletion, called for cheroots, and, having carefully
selected a long and black weed from the box, notched the
end neatly with a knife, and, lighting it, lay back in his chair
and proceeded to abandon himself to dreamy reflection.
This was too much for the now indignant pair, and goaded
at length into action by their fidgeting Sir Reginald, with
a sigh of regret, rose and accompanied them outside, where
the headman and his retinue were still patiently squatting.

The story, as told by this worthy, was sufficiently
thrilling.  The country, it appeared, for miles round was alive
with bears, black in hue, and of incredible size and ferocity,
and though the number of those actually seen dwindled
down to three under the close cross-questioning of the
Resident, still three, one a man-slayer, was news enough to
inspire any man, or woman either, and it was with a heart
beating with excitement, not unmixed with fear, that
Lucy accompanied her husband to the scene of the coming
drama.

Hector was confident, as usual.  His experience of
big-game shooting was nil, but what of that?  He was a crack
performer with a shot-gun, and no doubt, should the occasion
present itself, he would prove himself equally proficient
with the rifle.  His vanity also was stirred, for had not the
headman besought him to deliver the village from the
tyranny of these beasts, and, though he was addressing Sir
Reginald at the time, his eyes had turned to him more than
once; and naturally, for it was hardly likely that anyone
so old and fat as the Resident could be relied on in an
emergency like the present.  No, it was to him they looked,
and, by Jove! they should find their confidence was not
misplaced.  Ahmed Khan well knew how to foster these
sentiments, for in them he saw lay profit to himself.  Like
most natives, he was an unconscious student of human
nature; it is their stock-in-trade for the extracting of rupees,
and, as he was aware from experience, the lordlier the sahib's
frame of mind, the more noble the bakshish, as is befitting.

Edging up to his master, therefore, who on this occasion
did not repulse him, he proceeded to launch forth into a
panegyric of Graeme's virtues, expressing his conviction,
that, of all the sahibs he had hitherto served, his sahib was
incomparably the bravest and most expert with gun and
rifle.  And for this, he ejaculated fervently, Allah be praised,
since no one less gifted could hope to emerge victorious
from a contest with bears so ferocious as these
undoubtedly were.  Thereupon followed a stream of gruesome
and imaginary anecdote illustrative of these animals'
incredible daring and savagery; but, with a pleased glance
at Lucy's white face, let not the memsahib be frightened,
for he, Ahmed Khan, would be there to see that no harm
came to her or the sahib.  Only over his dead body should
that happen, for he had no fear of the beasts, ferocious as
they were.  Let her but look, and here again his hand
sought out the bundle of papers, till, suddenly catching the
sahib's eye, he changed his mind, and lifting up a fold of
his dingy garments blew his nose hastily with it.

At length, after an hour's walk, the scene of action was
reached, this being a deeply-wooded ravine roughly
triangular in shape and about half a mile in length.  Lining
the base could be seen the beaters awaiting the signal to
advance, the guns being placed in position near the apex,
one on either side.

Perched on a tree, overhanging the edge of the ravine
and halfway between the beaters and guns, sat, in
dignified eminence, the patriarch of the village.  His duty it
was to stimulate the exertions of his friends by much
laudation of their efforts, and at the same time to excite
their hatred of the quarry by bitter cursing and vituperation
of the same.  His further mission was to act as sentinel,
and to give notice of the bear's approach to his lords and
patrons at the other end.

Suddenly a long loud whistle broke the silence, and at
the sound pandemonium broke loose in the ravine, each
villager howled his loudest, while through the din was
heard the dull monotonous throbbing of a tom-tom, lustily
beaten by the village priest.  The line of beaters crept on,
but so far there was no sign of the enemy; the uproar
gradually abated, and even the tom-tom had ceased to beat,
when suddenly the figure in the tree began to show signs of
agitation.  He craned forward, his neck was thrust out
like that of a vulture, and then with a wild shriek of
"Balu! balu!"[#] he commenced to wave his arms and gesticulate
with a frenzied energy, which threatened every minute to
precipitate him from his perch into the abyss below.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] "The bear! the bear!"

.. vspace:: 2

Instantly the clamour was renewed, the thrumming of
the tom-tom rose to a roar, while, faintly heard through the
din, the thin screams of the patriarch in the tree smote
upon the ear.  He exhorted his brothers to advance and
fear not, in the same breath cursing the bear and reviling
its female ancestors with an intensity and bitter hatred,
which that harmless mulberry-eater would hardly seem to
have merited.

At the sportsmen's end of the ravine a tense silence
reigned, all eyes being fixed on the undergrowth below,
whence a faint rustling and clatter of loose stones were now
coming, betokening something's approach.  Lucy's face
whitened, and she clutched her husband by the arm.
Shaking her off, he grasped his rifle tighter; but, alas! the
quarry was not for him, for suddenly the "old and fat"
Sir Reginald was seen to raise his weapon, a dull boom
echoed through the ravine, followed by a "Woof, woof," a
commotion in the bushes, and then the silence of death.
The bear was slain.

"Damn!" muttered Graeme, and was turning sharply
away when a gasp from Lucy stopped him, and looking
round he beheld another bear, which, having emerged
unseen from below, was now hastily shuffling off.  Graeme
fired, but the bear paid no heed; again he fired, and still
the target refused to stop, but to the accompaniment of a
wail from Lucy and a curse from Ahmed Khan lumbered
on to the shelter of some bushes and was lost to view.

A dreadful moment followed; not only had he, Hector
Graeme, missed an easy shot in the eyes of the whole
village, but, worse still, he had failed where another had
succeeded, an altogether impossible situation, and one by
no way improved by the well-meant, though perhaps tactless,
condolences of his host, who now joined them.  The
thing was done, however, and the bear in safety miles
away, so assuming what nonchalance he might, and avoiding
the reproachful eyes of Lucy, who declined to look at
Sir Reginald's bear, and the glum face of Ahmed Khan,
whose hopes of bakshish had disappeared with the bear,
he turned to his host, and jauntily inquired what the next
move was to be.  Sir Reginald without hesitation answered
that that must undoubtedly be lunch, it being now past
one, and the next beat more than a mile distant, whereupon,
guided by a white-clad khitmagar, sent forward for
the purpose by the thoughtful Samuel, the party returned
to the marquee, where once more they found a repast
awaiting them, more suggestive of Prince's or the Savoy
than a picnic in the wilds of Kashmir.

At first Graeme's mood was not conversational, but
gradually, under the influence of good cheer and much hock
and soda, his mortification subsided, till at cigarette time
he had recovered his wonted serenity, and even permitted
himself to discuss the recent disaster.

"Curious thing," he observed, "my missing like that,
wonder what happened.  Don't often do it, rather good
shot as a rule, ain't I, Lucy?"

"Indeed you are, Hector," answered the latter, looking
indignantly at her host and refusing to respond to a wink.
"My husband is considered one of the best shots in
Hertfordshire, Sir Reginald, and how he came to miss the bear
I can't imagine.  I think there must be something wrong
with that rifle, Hector, I really do."

"Wrong with the powder, I should say, Mrs. Graeme,"
said the Resident, in high good-humour, "wants
straightening.  Have to do better than that when you go to
Tirah, why ... Try that Grand Marnier, Graeme,
I can recommend it."

"Thanks, I will," said Graeme, filling his glass, "and
about Tirah—going up, are we, when?"

"Surely, Sir Reginald, there's no chance of that?" said
Lucy, with startled eyes.

"No chance whatever, Mrs. Graeme, no chance at all,
I should say; foolish of me to have mentioned it, must have
been dreaming.  A native regiment or two may have to
go, that is, if the Afridis really mean trouble, which I doubt,
but hardly British cavalry.  No, no, set your mind at rest."

"Native troops again," muttered Graeme discontentedly;
"it's always the same story.  They have all the fun,
while we fool about in cantonments.  Wish to Heaven I
was in a black corps."

"You'd very soon wish yourself out again, my friend,"
said his host.  "I know I'd give something to be back in
the old 12th," his thoughts reverting as he spoke to the
days when he was a subaltern in a fashionable Hussar
regiment.  "Gad, what times we used to have, and what
an infernal young fool I was to come the mucker I did.
Real life that was, not this tin-pot grandeur and importance."

Lady Wilford at once intervened.  To her, a former
Mussoori belle and daughter of a police official in that
place, Sir Reginald's London reminiscences were always
distasteful.  India, not England, was her native country,
and she was not going to hear the former or its dignity
derided, certainly not in the presence of a mere soldier officer,
who, as everyone knows, is in no way the equal of an Indian
civilian.

"Of course, you don't mean that, Reginald," she observed
with some asperity, "and I confess I'm rather surprised
that you, in your position, should have made such a
remark.  You'll be giving our guests an altogether wrong
impression, but," turning to Hector, "you mustn't take
what my husband says seriously, Captain Graeme; he often
jokes in this way."

"Mayfield's your cousin, ain't he, Sir Reginald?" said
Hector, unheeding.  "He and Lady Edith were staying with
my governor last covert shooting."

"No; she is.  Rockingham was my father's brother.
Good old Uncle Jack, wonder when I'll see him again.  Gad,
I remember...."

"Won't you tell us about the frontier, Reginald?" said
Lady Wilford.  "You know, Captain Graeme, my husband's
one of the great authorities on the subject; indeed, his
Excellency, a great friend of ours, once told me he
considered him the greatest.  I'm sure you would like to hear
about it, both of you."

"Very much," said Hector, lying back in his chair and
lighting another cigarette.

"It's hardly the subject for a picnic lunch, my dear,"
said the Resident, rather annoyed at being shown off in
this manner, "and I'm sure it wouldn't interest our
guests."

"Indeed, Sir Reginald, it would," answered Lucy, dealing
a surreptitious kick at her husband's foot, at which
with a low growl he opened his closing eyes.

"Some mullah fellow been stirring 'em up, hasn't he,
Sir Reginald?" he observed sleepily.

"The Hadda Mullah," said the Resident briefly, "trying
to proclaim a religious war.  Jehad, they call it.  Don't
think he will, all the same, for the Afridis have no religion
to speak of.  They'll be a hard nut to crack, if they do
rise; but let's be off, it's time we were at those bears again.
Wait a minute, though," he added, suddenly rising and
hurrying out of the tent; "there's a man I want to see
before we start.  You stay here," looking hard at his wife,
"amuse our guests till I return, Sarah.  I won't be a minute."

"Now then, what is it?" he said sharply to a blue-clad
native, with a leather belt round his waist, whose approach
he had observed through the open door of the tent.
"Letter for me?  Hum, I was afraid of it, a wire too for
Graeme sahib.  Damn, but it's bad luck on her.  All
right, here's the sahib coming out now.  You can give him
the wire—not now, you fool, wait for three minutes."

"Oh, Mrs. Graeme, come over here and have a look at
my bear, fine chap, isn't he?  I'll have him skinned for you
if you like; he'll make rather a good carriage-rug."

"It's awfully kind of you, Sir Reginald, but I couldn't
think ... Why, what on earth's the matter with
my husband?  He seems very angry.  Good—good
heavens, what's that in his hand?  It's, heavens, it's a
telegram.  Oh, Hector, what is it?"

"Only a recall, Lucy, that's all, an order to return, from
that old fool Schofield.  But I won't go.  I'll see him damned
first, by the Lord I will!  I'm here on leave, and here I'll
stay.  You see now what comes of being in the Service,
always at the beck and call of some jumpy idiot of a C.O."

"But—but why, Hector, what for?"

"I don't know; all it says is 'Return at once.'  Some
silly inspection, I suppose.  But I ain't going.  I'll wire
to say 'Regret impossible.'  Here, you fool with the belt,
give me a form."

"I'm afraid you can't do that, Graeme," said his host
gravely.

"Can't I?  I'll soon show you I can.  Why ... what
do you mean, do you know anything of this, Sir Reginald?"

"The 1st Lancers leave Riwala for the frontier to-night.
The Afridis have risen, after all, and seized the Khyber
forts.  I'm very sorry, Mrs. Graeme, but I was afraid of
it all along.  That's why I didn't want to come to-day."

Lucy said nothing.

"What's all this?" said Lady Wilford, coming up.
"Oh," on hearing the news, "I *do* call that a shame, my
dear, I am so sorry."

Lucy again made no answer, but, turning, left the group
and walked slowly away to her tent.

"Oh, but, Reginald," continued his wife, really
distressed, "surely something can be done, these two poor
creatures, why not send a wire to say Captain Graeme's
sick and can't move?  They'd believe you, though of
course they wouldn't him."

"My dear, what you suggest is impossible."

"I should just think it is," said Graeme, the anger on
whose face had now turned to joy.  "What! me skulk up
here while my regiment's fighting on the frontier, not much.
Here, I must get back to Shiraz at once.  Ahmed Khan,
put my things together, ek dum.[#]  And you," to the peon,
"order me a tonga when you get back.  Gad, but this is
good business, Lucy.  Now where's my wife got to?"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Immediately.

.. vspace:: 2

The Resident looked at him curiously.  He didn't much
like his guest at that moment.

"I think," he said rather coldly, "she has gone away to
her tent.  It's a bit rough on her, Graeme, you know."

"By Jove, yes, of course it is.  I must go and find her at
once.  When do you think we can start, Sir Reginald?"

"Time enough if you leave Baramoula to-morrow.
You can't do it to-night; besides, if you're thinking of
your brother officers, they'll have gone by now."

"I sincerely trust they have.  I don't want their
company, Porky in a tonga would be just about the limit,
and I must go to-night.  I shouldn't sleep a wink if I
didn't.  Oh, let's be off.  You can give me a permit, I
suppose, for the road?"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] A permit from the Resident of Kashmir is required by those
wishing to make the Tonga journey to the plains by night.
This is on
account of the dangerous nature of the road.

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, as far as that goes, there'd be no difficulty, but..."

"That's settled then.  I'll go and tell Lucy."

"Very well, if you insist, we'll be ready in half an hour
from now.  You can manage it, I suppose, Sarah?" to his
wife, who was looking at Graeme with indignant eyes.

"Oh yes, but I really think..."

"So do I, but it seems our friend here has made up his
mind.  Rather a sad ending to our picnic, Graeme;" but
the latter was already on his way to the tent, where he
found Lucy lying face downwards on her bed, quietly
sobbing.

At the sight, a sudden spasm of remorse seized Hector;
tears were a rare occurrence with Lucy.  He knelt down
beside her and tried to take her hand.

"I'm awfully sorry, dear," he began, "and I'm afraid
I've been beastly selfish, but I'm afraid in the excitement
I never thought of that.  I can see now it's devilish hard
on you, and I wish, I do indeed, I hadn't to go; but I
must; you see that, don't you, dear?"

No answer but sobs.

Hector was nonplussed.  He could make love as well as
most men—perhaps even better—but in the capacity to feel
the sorrows of others his nature was altogether lacking,
and he knew no other way to dry a woman's tears save
with kisses.  Such grief merely bored and annoyed him,
and, as he looked at the stricken figure before him, in
spite of himself a faint feeling of grievance began to take
possession of him.

"Come, Lucy," he said, trying to make his voice as
gentle as he could.  "Pull yourself together, dear; after
all, you are more to blame for this than me."

"I, Hector, oh, how?"

"For not letting me cut the Service when I wanted to.
You see now what has come of it."

"Oh, how I wish I had, but I only did it for your
sake, Hector."

"And that being so," continued Graeme, feeling his
advantage, "it's hardly logical to complain.  After all,
fighting is what we're for, not loafing about barracks.
Why, it was only last night that you were at me to take my
profession seriously, and now, when I've got a chance at
last, you grumble.  It isn't fair, Lucy, it isn't really; makes
the going ten times worse for me."

"I—I'm not grumbling, only—crying a little.  I—I
shouldn't be human if I didn't.  Oh, Hector, are you made
of stone?"

"Of course I'm not, only I've got more self-control.  I
feel it every bit as much as you do; it's the same for me,
you know."

"It isn't, it isn't!" sobbed Lucy.  "You've got the
excitement, your brother officers and—and the rest.  You're
not left alone with nothing to do but think, as I shall be
after to-morrow, for you must go then, I suppose.  Oh,
dearest, couldn't you wait for just one more day, for my
sake, Hector?"

"I—I'm afraid I must go to-night, Lucy," stammered
Hector.

The girl sat up, her eyes rather wild.

"To-night?  Oh no, no, you can't; you mustn't go
to-night.  I—I couldn't bear it, Hector."

"I must, dear; if I didn't, they might put me under
arrest for disobedience to orders.  Think what might be
said too, that brute O'Hagan, for instance."

"What does it matter about him?  I come first.  And
you can't go to-night.  The road's not safe.  Those awful
precipices."

"There's no danger, Lucy, and, believe me, I must."  Hector's
jaw set and his eyes hardened.

A long pause.  Graeme looked at his watch.  Quarter
of an hour had already passed.

"Lucy, dear," he began again, "I don't wish to hurry
you, but Sir Reginald told me to say that he would start in
half an hour;" and Lucy at once rose, except for her pale
face and red eyes, to all appearances calm once more.

"Very well, Hector," she said in a level voice, "I will
be ready.  Tell Sir Reginald I won't keep him waiting.
I—I should like an hour or two at Shiraz, though, if you can
wait so long.  I want to see about your things."

"Oh, of course, dear, and, Lucy, you know, don't you,
that it's not want of feeling on my part?  I hate it as much
as you do, probably more, only..."

"Yes, yes, but please leave me now, Hector, or I
shan't—shan't.  Oh, go—go."

She half pushed him out of the tent and closed the flap
behind him.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



"That fellow was right," muttered Hector, as some
hours later he rode down the hill on his way to Baramoula,
"who said soldiers ought not to be married.  I wish to
heaven I'd sent in my papers before I left England, as I
wanted to; but she wouldn't have it, said she wanted me
to make a name for myself, and now the time's come, it
seems she doesn't want it at all.  No more do I, much
rather stay behind with her.  God, how cursedly miserable
I feel, so much for love for a woman stirring a man's
ambition and making him keen to do things.  It don't, it
takes all the heart out of him.  Hullo, there's Baramoula,
now I wonder whether that fool ordered my tonga?" and
shaking up his pony he rode on at a canter.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV

.. vspace:: 2

Early morning on the Khyber Hills.  Not the
autumn morning known to dwellers in rural
England, where eyes rest on a landscape of still
loveliness, on stubble-fields of pale yellow, on copses of
russet and gold, and on meadows sheeted in silver dew, but
something far different from that.  Here is no green of grass,
no vitalising chill of morning air, but instead a dull
burning heat, clothing a land of flat stony plain and glowing
mountain, towering up into a sky of hard cloudless blue.

In the centre of the plain, apparently alone, a British
soldier stood watching, a white-faced soldier, his khaki
uniform creased and tumbled, and, though his *rôle* of
sentry was no laborious one, already stained with dark patches
of sweat.  Around him for miles stretched the brown
monotony of sun-baked stony flat, seamed here and there
by ragged-edged nullahs and dry watercourses, in the sandy
beds of which a few withered shrubs and tussocks of grass
clung hard to a miserable existence.

Before him, some three miles away, a wall of mountains
barred the view, a rampart of earth and stone glaring red
in the sunlight; sheer from the plain it rose, a forbidding
barrier between India and Afghanistan, a barrier too with
but few gateways, one of which, however—a dark rift in the
hills—lay directly in front of the soldier as he stood.

Here and there, huddled against the foot of the mountains,
could be seen the mud walls and strong square towers
of a Pathan village, apparently deserted save for the
occasional appearance of a white-clad figure and a few herds
of miserable-looking sheep and goats browsing on the
hillside hard by.  Far away behind him, the solid walls and
ramparts of Fort Hussein rose from the plain, a former Sikh
stronghold, and now the temporary abode of her Majesty's
1st Regiment of Lancers.

Screening its mass, arose a thick haze of dust and smoke,
through which now and again could be seen the faint
twinkle of lance-point and sword-scabbard, and, the dust
at times clearing, strings of mules and horses moving to
and from a pond of muddy water.  Over all was a pitiless
brazen sky, in which glared the yellow disc of the sun, its rays
smiting down on sweating man and beast, and turning Fort
Hussein into an inferno of flies, fever, and burning walls.

Sentry Bates, clutching his carbine, now well-nigh too
hot to hold, viewed all these things with aching eyes, and
spat on the ground and swore.  "An' this is bein' on
active service," he muttered, "this doin' of guards and
pickets more than wot a man 'as in barriks, no fightin',
no enemy, no nuthink, only patrollin,' an' stinkin' rations
and 'ot beer when you git 'ome.  Wot are we 'ere for, I'd
like to know, wot for did they send the ridgmint up 'ere?
Fed up, that's wot I am, fair fed up."  He paused, took off
his helmet and wiped his brow.  He then replaced the
headpiece, front to back, as is customary with Tommy Atkins
when out of sight of authority, and, taking from his
breast-pocket a packet of "Swell" cigarettes, lit one and resumed
his soliloquy.

"Wonder what 'Ooky's doin' over there?" he murmured,
gazing towards a hillock some two miles away to the
front of him, where a small group of horses could be seen
standing.  "Fancy the bloke a-sendin' 'im on detached post,
ruddy foolishness, I call it, not like the bloke at all.  'Ullo,
they're movin', strike me, they're gone, now what the 'ell
does that mean?"  He remained staring vacantly.

Private Bates, though apparently solitary and unsupported,
was nevertheless not so, for close at hand, hidden from view
in the depths of a great nullah, a troop of the 1st Lancers
were lying; to which force he was now acting as look-out
man.

Here, standing in a row, their heads fastened together by
the process known in the Service as "linking," were the
horses, black with sweat and restlessly kicking at the
buzzing flies, while their riders, except the luckless Bates and a
few men told off to watch the animals, were sitting in a
circle smoking and indulging in that desultory conversation
to which the British soldier is addicted.  Some yards away
Hector Graeme was lying on his back, his head resting on
his helmet and a handkerchief spread over his face.  For
an hour he had so lain, trying to sleep; but, the flies and
heat forbidding, he had now abandoned the attempt, and
was listening to the conversation of the men.

The detachment of which he was this morning in command,
or rather one similar to it—for the duty devolved
on each troop of the regiment in turn—was sent out daily
from Fort Hussein to its present position, its mission being
to watch for and report on any movement of tribesmen
from the direction of the Pass.  For the better fulfilment
of the task allotted, and to avoid unnecessary wear and tear
of horseflesh, it was customary to push forward from the
troop itself a detached post of six men under a
non-commissioned officer.  These were stationed on a small hillock
about a mile distant from the mouth of the Pass, their
orders being to watch it, but on no account to enter it.

To-day the command of this post had been entrusted to
a certain Sergeant Walker, familiarly known as "Hooky,"
for, as every soldier is aware, in the Army all Walkers are
"Hookies," just as all Clarkes are "Nobbies."

It was the sudden disappearance of this party from its
hillock that had so excited the interest of Private Bates,
and, curiously enough, at the same time, the conversation
in the nullah had also turned on the subject of this
particular non-commissioned officer.

"Think 'Ooky's caught the 'Addy Mullah yet, Jim?"
said a voice.

"Shouldn't wonder at all, Spider," was the answer,
"got 'im tied by a neck-rope to 'is 'orse and a-bringin' of
'im up before the orfcer.  Now then, 'Addy, quick march,
'alt, saloot.  Stand up straight, can't yer? and stop fiddlin'
with yer 'ands.  This 'ere 'Addy, sir, 'as been givin' a lot of
trouble lately, creatin' of disturbances in the Khyber Parse.
Most troublesome man, sir, can't do nothin' with 'im.
Sivin days to barriks?  Very good, sir.  Right turn,
dismiss.  Come back, d'ye 'ear, and saloot the orfcer properly.'"

"'Ooky's a bloke like a lot more we 'ave in the Army,"
said another, Wilde by name, "always a-gettin' of a man
'set' and naggin' at 'im.  'E makes crime, does Sergeant
Walker."

"That's a fact, Oscar, and 'e 'imself ain't no perticler
class, neither.  'E don't know 'is 'orses and 'e don't know
'is drill, but 'e's got a kind o' soapy way with 'im wot goes
down with Rawson.  Don't get round 'im, though," jerking
his head towards Graeme and lowering his voice to a
cautious whisper.

"'Oo, 'im?  Why, Taylor, 'im as is waiter in the orfcer's
Mess, says as 'ow the other orfcers..."  The rest of
the sentence was inaudible.

"Orfcers, wot do they know?  Why..."  Mumble,
mumble, and then, in the heat of controversy, a voice raised:

"'E ain't a fool, I tell you, Ginger, the 'ole squadron
knows that.  Ferrers, 'oo's Ferrers?  Give me 'Ector, and
you can 'ave the rest, ole man and all."

"Now then, stop that language," came sharply from a
recumbent figure with three gold stripes on his arm,
surmounted by a crown.  Sergeant-Major Stocks had suddenly
become alive to the enormity of the present discussion, and
hastened to intervene.  At his voice a hush fell on the
group till, authority once more slumbering, the
conversation was resumed.

"Wot for then 'as 'e gone and put 'Ooky on detached
post, that's what I want to know?" said a voice, echoing
the same doubt that had arisen in Private Bates's mind.

"Better arsk 'im, cully, not me.  'E knows 'Ooky same
as 'e knows every man in the squadron, and if so be as 'e's
put 'Ooky to watch the Parse, 'e's got 'is reasons for it,
same like 'e always 'as."

A somewhat curious smile played over Hector's face as
he listened, for the speaker was right in what he said.  He
*did* know his men.  More, he had an intimate knowledge
of their natures and capabilities, such as no other officer of
the regiment could have hoped to acquire even had he tried.
However, the other officers had not tried, the study of
character in no way being regarded as part of the training
of an officer in the British Army.  With Hector such
knowledge was a natural gift, as well as a hobby, and possibly
it was owing to this that he possessed his curious
popularity and influence over the men, at which Major Rawson,
his squadron leader and constant foe, had so often wondered.

And yet, knowing them as he did, he had deliberately
selected a non-commissioned officer, whom he knew to be
one of the most incompetent in the regiment, for the
responsible position he now held.  But again, as Private
Thomas had observed, he had his reasons, though these
would probably have much astonished that person, as well
as anyone else to whom they had been divulged.

Briefly they were as follows.  The present was the fourth
occasion on which Graeme had been entrusted with this
particular mission, and so far as had also happened to his
brother officers, the proceedings had been of a singular
tameness—no sign of an enemy having been seen and no
shot fired.  While they were content to grumble, Hector
had determined to act and at all costs to have some little
fighting to his credit, even if this should involve an attack
on the Pass with his one troop.

On the way out this morning, his mind occupied with the
problem of how his object was to be attained, he had by
chance overheard a conversation between the redoubtable
Sergeant Walker and a corporal; the former, as was his
wont, vaunting his bravery and informing his incredulous
companion that "give me but arf a chance, and I will show
them I am afraid of no Pathan blokes; up the bloody Pass
I mean to go sooner or later, orders or no orders."

Graeme, at first bored, soon became attentive, and finally,
to the astonishment of the troop, called the hero up, and
told him he would be in command of the detached post that
day.  This information he supplemented with a few
remarks on the necessity of daring and enterprise on the part
of subordinates, concluding by a short anecdote dealing
with the subject of a certain sergeant who, though acting
in defiance of orders, had yet achieved great renown.
Having thus fired an already sufficiently vainglorious spirit, he
despatched the man on his mission, observing with secret
gratification his victim surreptitiously borrow the
trumpeter's revolver, and with this tucked away in his holster
depart, rating his followers as he went, even more than
was his wont.

Having then watched the party's arrival at their
destination, Graeme, well pleased, descended into the nullah,
occasionally climbing out, glasses in hand, while a frown
gradually overspread his face as time went on and nothing
happened.  By now he had abandoned hope, and was
apathetically listening to his soldiers' talk when there was a
sudden general cry of "'Ullo!" and removing the handkerchief
from his face, he looked up to meet a pair of bulging
eyes staring at him from above.  It was Bates the sentry,
an agitated Bates, bursting with momentous tidings.

"Beggy pardon, sir," he gasped, '"Ook ... Sergeant
Walker, sir, 'as left 'is 'ill, and there's 'eavy firin' goin' on
in the Parse, you can 'ear it quite plain from 'ere."

A chorus of "Gawds," a scuffle, a rush, and all were up
the nullah's side and standing on the level, with eyes fixed
on the dark rift in the mountain wall.  Yes, there it was,
the dull intermittent thudding of shots, plainly audible in
the still morning air, and, as Graeme listened, a queer cold
thrill ran through him—that strange sensation, half awe,
half exultation, which every soldier has felt on whose ears
the sound beats for the first time.

In those red mountains yonder a drama was now being
enacted, a drama all the more terrible because unseen and
only imagined; one in which he too must shortly play his
part.  He, now warm and palpitating with life, would a few
minutes hence be standing in Death's presence, nay, might
have passed into his keeping and become deaf and insensible
as the stones on which he lay.

Fascinated, he stood gazing, and still the firing continued,
but, strain his eyes as he might, no sign of enemy could he
see on those bare brown slopes; nor yet of the sergeant
and his party was there a trace.  They were gone, apparently
swallowed up in the mountains.

At last from the mouth of the Pass a cloud of dust
appeared, through which horsemen could be discerned
galloping hard along the road leading to Fort Hussein.

At the sight, a buzz of conversation arose.

"Made a 'ash of it, same as I thought he would."

"Been up the Parse, cont'r'y to orders."

"An' now 'ookin out of it, double quick?"

"'Ow many's been shot, I wonder?"

"Mount," from Graeme, and straightway there was a
cessation of comments and a frenzied descent to the nullah
and horses, each man seizing the first animal he came to,
regardless of ownership.  A blast of bad language rose up
like smoke.

"Leave my 'orse alone, Ginger.  Get on yer own ruddy 'orse."

"Which of you blokes 'as pinched my lance?"

"Take yer 'orse's foot off my carbine."

"Forward, gallop, march" from the leader, and the
troop were off, making for the road along which the
horsemen were advancing—Graeme with his trumpeter some
thirty yards ahead.  As he rode, he thought hard,
speculating as to what had happened, and wondering if it meant
the chance for which he had been asking, till at length the
road having been reached he halted, the troop drawn up in
line across the way behind him, waiting for the fugitives,
now barely a quarter of a mile distant, and still galloping
hard towards him.  On they came, nearer and nearer still,
till their faces could be seen, and at the sight a simultaneous
murmur of "Gawd" broke from the staring men.

"Halt!" shouted Graeme.

The horsemen paid no heed, but still came on, a wild-eyed
rabble, their horses in a lather, with necks outstretched
as they thundered along the dusty road.

"Halt!" he roared once more.  "Halt!" echoed the
Sergeant-Major.

"Christ, they'll be into us," from the troop, whereupon
an ominous murmur and shuffling arose from the ranks.

"Damn it, my lot'll be off in a moment," muttered
Graeme, and then, inspiration coming to him, "Engage!"
he shouted.

Immediately, at the familiar word of command, the
murmuring ceased, with a clatter of bamboo and steel
down came the lances, and a row of glittering points barred
the road; behind them sat a line of motionless figures,
soldiers firm and steady once more, their momentary
wavering gone.

At the sight the fugitives stopped, and a high-pitched
chattering rose upon the air, each man telling his story,
glancing the while with fearful eyes towards the mountains
behind.  Livid cheeks ran wet with tears, and little
quavers of laughter, broken with sobs, broke from
loose-lipped mouths, the loud gasping of the steaming horses
drowning the pitiful outcry; but their comrades behind the
lance-points answered nothing, only looked at them, their
eyes cold and faces grown suddenly white and very serious.

"And these are British soldiers," muttered Graeme, a
feeling of disgust coming over him; "the others would have
been the same too in another minute."  And then rage seized
him, and riding up to Sergeant Walker, now a shivering
jelly of a man, he began furiously to question him.

In vain, however; the creature was too far gone to answer,
and could only babble incoherently, while he pointed with
shaking finger to his horse, in whose side could be seen a
small dark hole, from which at every laboured breath a
thin stream of blood ran out, staining with dull crimson the
white dust of the road.  At length, patience deserting him,
he seized the man by the collar and shook him.  This
method proved more effectual, and he succeeded in eliciting
the fact that he had taken his party up the Pass in spite of
orders, that they had been suddenly fired upon from all
sides, and he couldn't clearly remember what had happened
then; but they had got out all right, all of them.

"Private Mortlock missing," said the Sergeant-Major's
voice from the rear, and at the words a cry of exultation
almost escaped Graeme, for his calculations had proved
correct, and Sergeant Walker had provided him with the
chance asked for.  Remembering in time, however, he
checked himself, and turning his back on the troop began
rapidly to consider.  The risks were obvious, also the futility
of the proceeding on which he had already determined, but of
these he thought not at all, for with him an idea once formed
became an obsession.  It had to be carried out, right or
wrong, possible or to all seeming the reverse, for such was
his nature.  The "how" might require consideration—deep
consideration too, as now—but the "whether"
never.  His course once decided on, doubts never assailed
him, and in this he had the advantage over most; for
feeling no doubt, and consequently no counter-emotion
rising to cloud his brain, this was at his disposal, free to
work undisturbed at the problem before it.  So now,
with all eyes fixed upon him, he sat debating and then the
plan clear before him he turned and rode slowly back to
the staring troop:

"Men," he said, "I'm going back for Mortlock, I want
four volunteers, who's for it?"  Silence for a good ten
seconds, and then out from the rear rank rode a dirty-looking
soldier, one Private Williams, reputed the worse character
in the troop.  Forward he came, and, halting behind
Graeme, sheepishly grinned at his comrades.

"I'm wiv yer, Billy, strike me," said a voice, and
Private Rogers, his chum and constant associate in
evil-doing, also rode forward and ranged himself alongside.

"I'll come too, sir; it's a Christian's duty," said another
quietly, and Private Green, the religious man of the troop,
and an ardent temperance advocate, joined the other two.

A pause followed, Graeme's eye running down the line.

"I should like you, Haslopp," he said at last, "to make
up the party," whereupon, without a word, a huge shoeing-smith,
the regimental "strong man," left the ranks, and the
number required was complete.  "Right," said Hector,
"four good men," at which unwonted eulogy Rogers and
Williams winked in unison.  "Now, Sergeant-Major, you'll
be in charge of the troop till I return.  Bring them on after
me to that rise there, and open fire on the hills bordering
the Pass.  Don't suppose you'll see anything, or hit it if
you do, but it will help to keep the enemy's fire off me.  As
for them," pointing to Sergeant Walker's men, now very
silent and subdued, "keep 'em well in front; run a lance
into any man of them who tries to bolt.  That's all, I think.
Now then, my heroes, forward on," and, shaking up his
horse, Graeme set off, followed closely by the quartette of
volunteers.

"A nice selection," he reflected as he rode, "two bad hats,
one religious lunatic and a thick-headed shoeing-smith.
Never mind, such as they are, they came at a word from me,
and I love 'em for it.  Gad, I do.  Devilish quiet it all is,"
as mile after mile was covered, and still the silence
remained unbroken; "nearly there now, must be, and not a
shot so far.  Wonder whether they've cleared off and it's
going to be a walk-over after all.  Ah, not it," suddenly
ducking his head, as something sighed through the air
above him, followed by a deep bang, while a wailing cry of
"Allah, Allah," came faintly to his ears.  "Stooks is at it
too now," he continued, as the rending shriek of cordite
sounded from behind, and a flight of bullets whistled
overhead.  "Lord, we're in for it."  He bent forward in his
saddle and urged his horse forward at top speed, while the
air was alive with winged death and the hills ahead echoed
to the loud banging of Jezail and Snider.  "It's good
though, all the same, worth living for;" and, a sudden feeling
of exhilaration coming over him, he shouted aloud.  Rogers
and Williams screamed hoarsely in sympathy, till a loud
thud followed by a ringing crash brought the concert to an
abrupt termination.  "Who is it?" shouted Graeme,
pulling up and looking round.

"Rogers, sir," came faintly from a dusty heap on the
road, the said heap sitting up and looking around with
dazed eyes.  "Not 'urt, though, sir, it's me 'orse 'e's got
'it in the 'ead.  'Ere, Billy," rising and walking unsteadily
towards his chum, "gimme 'old of yer stirrup, I'll foot
it alongside."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," shouted Graeme, "go
back to the troop at once, and take your sword and carbine
with you."

"Beggy pardon, sir, Williams and I..."

"Get back, damn you."

"Beggy..."

"Oh, go to the devil.  Come on, men.  Let go of that
stirrup, Rogers; hit him on the head, Haslopp, if he won't,"
and once more the party were off, leaving Rogers looking
sullenly after them.  For some minutes he stood there,
and then, having addressed a few pungent remarks to his
dead horse, unbuckled his sword and extricated his carbine
from its bucket, and, one under each arm, trudged away to
a rock hard by.  Here he sat down, and, having lighted a
cigarette, proceeded at his leisure to take pot-shots at the
hills in front of him.

Meanwhile, the party, now reduced to four, were rapidly
nearing the mouth of the Pass, but so far no sign of the
missing man was to be seen.  Faces began to look serious,
and the sense of imminent peril to strike home, but still
their leader held on, though with every yard covered the
situation was becoming more desperate.

Suddenly there arose a cry of "Here he is, sir," and
Graeme, looking round, saw Green bending over a heap of
khaki lying some distance from the road, the others with
their officer having passed it by unseeing.

"Get up, Mortlock," shouted Hector, galloping towards
the prone figure.

"Look sharp, man, there's no time to be lost.  What's
the matter, Green, not dead, is he?  Oh—" stopping short
and looking curiously down at what had been a human face
before Pathan knives had altered it.  Much interested
Graeme remained staring, till roused by a warning voice.

"Look out, sir, they're comin' down from the rocks;
they'll be on us in a minute.  Better be off, sir; can't do
nuthink for 'im now."

"Go to blazes.  Haslopp, where the devil are you,
Haslopp?  Here, I'll hold your horse; you get down and
hand him up to me, put your back into it, man.  Oh, for
the Lord's sake, look sharp."

"It's all right, sir, plenty of time.  Christ, but ye're
'eavy, ole man.  'Ere you are, sir, got 'im?  Not that way,
sir.  Put yer arm round 'im, let 'is 'ead rest agin yer
shoulder like."

"Damn, he's slipping; he's slipped, Haslopp.  Get your
swords out, you two, look behind you," to Green and
Williams, whose faces were now ashen.

"Orl right now, sir.  Gimme my 'orse, Williams.  Blast
ye, don't let 'im go."

"Are you up, Haslopp?  The point, Green, mind, not
the cut."

"Not yet, sir, steady," to his dancing horse; "orl right
now, sir."

"Come on then.  Be off, you two, no good your waiting
here.  Gallop on and tell the troop I'm coming—you too,
Haslopp."

There was no answer from the shoeing-smith; he remained
where he was.  Not so the other two; they were
off like swallows, nor did they draw rein till a voice from
the roadside made them pull up, sick with sudden terror.
It was only Rogers, however, requesting the loan of a
stirrup, and, much relieved, the two, Rogers running
alongside, proceeded on their way.

"Price of a pint out of this 'ere?" gasped the pedestrian.

"Thank God, on your bended knees, Rogers, for 'Is
mercy to us all this day," said Green.

"So I will, matey, when I gits the pint.  Think the
bloke 'll stand it, Billy?"

"Ruddy oceans, cully," was the reassuring answer, "and
a limon squash for the rivrend Grassey 'ere."

Meanwhile, Graeme and Haslopp were struggling painfully
on.  More than once the burden slipped, and but for
the "strong man's" assistance would have rolled to the
ground, while, to add to their difficulties, Hector's horse
had been shot through the neck and was trying his best to
bolt.  From a canter the pace had fallen to a trot, and
finally a walk, bullets and chunks of telegraph-wire shaving
them at every step.  Fortunately, however, the enemy,
the party having once moved off, made no further attempt
at pursuit.  Possibly they deemed it hopeless, more
probably the sight of the troop in rear deterred them; but
whatever the reason, they stopped where they were,
contenting themselves with shooting at the retreating horsemen
from behind their rocks.  Still, it was a weary journey,
and Graeme's arms were numb with the strain and his
brain reeling with the smell of sweat and blood, when at
length the firing slackened and then, save for an occasional
shot, ceased altogether.  Now, but half conscious, yet
clutching his burden the tighter, Graeme toiled on, till at
last, mingling with the fast-increasing roar in his brain, the
thud of galloping hoofs was heard approaching.  Louder
and louder it sounded, and then round a bend in the road
ahead appeared the sturdy figure of Sergeant-Major Stocks,
with the troop behind him.

Seemingly miles away, Graeme heard the shout of "'tion"
followed by "Carry lance," and then the white road seemed
to rear up and smite him in the face.  He reeled, fell
forward on his horse's neck, hung there for a moment, and
then, still gripping the corpse, rolled over sideways, Haslopp
supporting the double burden till help arrived, when
he rode quietly back to his former place in the rear rank.

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"Stand 'im on his 'ead, Major; always keep a bloke's
'ead wot's fainted lower than 'is 'eels."

"Take yer 'orse, Cobble, and 'urry up the ambulance.
Tell 'em the orfcer's dead."

"Do nothing of the kind, Cobble.  I'm all right; fetch me
a water-bottle."

"Water-bottle, water-bottle," from many voices, "'oo's
got a water-bottle?  'Ere y'are, sir."

"Send the men away, Sergeant-Major, what the devil
are they staring at?"

"No business to be 'ere at all, sir.  Be off, all of you, at
once; never seen an orfcer before?  Get back to yer 'orses
sharp."

"Where's Mortlock?"

"Lying over there, sir, where them men are.  I've sent
for the ambulance; it's comin' along the road now, sir.
Cut about 'orrible is Mortlock, sir, 'is brains——"

"Oh, shut up, and give me a cigarette."

"Cigarette, 'oo's got a cigarette?  The orfcer wants a
cigarette.  'Ere y'are, sir."

"Get the troop mounted now, and tell the trumpeter to
bring my horse."

"Better ride in the ambulance, sir, ye're faint-like."

"With Mortlock?  No, thank you, Sergeant-Major.
I'm all right, I tell you," getting up and promptly sitting
down again.  "Wait a minute, now I'm ready," and shaking
off the Sergeant-Major's arm he walked slowly back to the
troop.

"Three cheers for the orfcer," said a voice.

"Stop that and get mounted," was the surly answer,
"right about wheel, walk, march."

The troop moved off, the ambulance following close in
the rear, and in an hour's time they were passing under
the walls of Fort Hussein.  These were lined with soldiers
in every species of undress, for the messenger despatched
for the ambulance had made good use of his time; and
all were anxious to see the corpse, which, from Private
Wainwright's account, must be well worth inspection.

"The Colonel would like to see you in his quarters at
once, Graeme," said Ferrers, riding up; "the body is to be
taken to the mortuary.  I'll arrange about that,"
whereupon without further colloquy the adjutant rode away.

"Curious way to greet a fellow who's just done what I
have," muttered Graeme, staring after him, "I suppose
he's sick he didn't do it himself.  Gad, what jealous
beggars fellows are.  Never mind, I've got the crow over
them this time anyway," and with a pleased smile on his
lips Hector dismounted, and handing over his horse to a
waiting orderly made his way to the Colonel's quarters.

A cold summons to "Come in" answered his knock, and
entering he found himself in the presence of two men, one
his commanding officer, the other a thick-built individual,
whose hair of bristling black stood up around his head like
a brush, a round rosy face and staring black eyes completing
the picture.  This person was Colonel Quentin, generally
known as Golliwog, a man who, despite his somewhat
quaint appearance, was reputed to be one of the best staff
officers in India.  As Hector's fate would have it, he had
selected this day for a few hours' inspection visit to Fort
Hussein, which time he had spent on the top of the tower
in company with a powerful telescope.

"You sent for me, sir?" said Graeme, addressing his
Colonel and smiling as he spoke, the smile fading, however,
as he noted the expression on the latter's face, which, far
from being congratulatory or even civil, was unpleasantly
hostile.

"Yes, I sent for you," he answered shortly, "but first
let me introduce you to Colonel Quentin.  This is Captain
Graeme, sir, the officer in command this morning," whereupon
Golliwog rose from his chair and silently held out his
hand.  He then resumed his seat, his eyes fixing themselves
upon Graeme in a hard, unwinking stare, maintained
without intermission throughout the ensuing interview.

"It seems, Graeme," resumed Schofield, "and I regret
to say it's not the first time, you've made a mess of things."

"I, sir, how?" stammered Hector, utterly taken aback.

"By disobeying orders; you know perfectly well the
strict injunctions not to enter the Pass, and yet in spite of
them your patrol went up this morning, with the result
that you lost a man most unnecessarily.  Of course, my
information may be incorrect, and, if so, I should be glad
to hear it."

For a moment Graeme was silent.  This view of the
matter was one altogether unexpected by him, and rendered
his action the more impossible of explanation from the fact
that it was true—though how true fortunately neither his
Colonel nor anyone else knew.

"Sergeant Walker, sir, exceeded his instructions, I
think, though, I'm hardly to blame for that."

"Not to blame," snapped Schofield, "who is then, I
should like to know?  If you'd given your instructions
properly, it wouldn't have happened.  An officer's not
responsible for his troop, isn't he?  A nice theory to hold,
I must say."

"You recovered the man's body, I believe, Captain
Graeme?" said Golliwog gently.

"I did," was the sullen answer.

"Was the firing heavy when you went back?"

"It was."

"Hum," and Quentin again relapsed into silence.

"It's thanks to that, Graeme, your recovery of the
body, I mean," resumed Schofield in a quieter tone, "and
the intercession of Colonel Quentin, who has promised to
explain the affair to the General, that I do not intend to
carry the matter further.  I trust, however, it will be a
lesson to you, and that in future you'll be good enough to
obey orders exactly and implicitly.  That's all, I think,
unless, sir," turning to Golliwog, "you'd care to say anything."

"Of course, Graeme," answered Quentin, "I'm quite in
accord with your Colonel.  An officer must stand or fall by
what his command does.  He has the training of them, he
gives the orders, and if the latter are misunderstood he gets
the blame; it's really fair, for he also, and not the men, gets
the credit if things go right.  A very great many officers
can do things themselves, Graeme, but to make others do
them for you, you being the head and they the hands, wants
a leader.  All the same, as regards this morning, I think,
and I am sure your Colonel agrees with me, that your
personal share was creditable, most creditable."

"Oh, most creditable," snarled Schofield.

"That's all I wish to say, Colonel," continued Quentin.
"Good-bye, Graeme, I hope to meet you again some time,"
and the speaker's teeth gleamed in a sudden smile, as he
shook Graeme warmly by the hand.

"That's a curious-looking officer, Schofield," he resumed,
the door having closed behind Hector.  "Stuff in him, I
should say, must be.  How does he do his work?"

"Indifferently well, to be truthful, sir."

"Hum, very likely.  Three-cornered beggar I can see.
Wouldn't do for an A.B.C., you think?  Belman wants
one, I know, for this Tirah show, and if you recommend I
could easily get him the job."

"Couldn't do it, sir, really; his General would starve in
a week, and I should get the blame.  As you told him yourself
just now, sir, a man's responsible for his subordinates."

"Hum, in that case I suppose I mustn't ask for him.
Pity though, I should like to have done something for him.
Good-bye, Colonel, I must get back to Saidabad.  Not
done much inspecting, thanks to Graeme.  Good-bye."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



Meanwhile Hector, with wrath in his heart, was striding
back to his quarters, passing, as he went, the officers'
Mess, a disused stable, where a crowd was assembled
discussing lunch and the morning's events.

"Hullo, there goes the hero," said Kinley, seeing him
pass.  "Hi, Graeme, come here, tell us all about it," vainly
calling.  "Lord, he looks sick; wonder what the old man's
been saying to him?  Damned bad luck, really, to earn a
V.C. and get a choking off."

"V.C. be hanged," said another, "damned disgraceful,
the whole thing, I call it.  Nice show up for the regiment,
Golliwog looking on too."

"Shut up, O'Hagan," said Royle, one of the majors.
"It was a devilish plucky thing to do, and I for one mean
to tell Graeme so when I see him."

"Oh, of course, Royle, I didn't mean anything against
Graeme personally.  He did his best to save the situation,
but, all the same, it's not a nice thing for a fellow to have his
men bolt, for bolt they did; you can't get away from that.
If I were he, I know I'd send in my papers and never be
seen again, not a bad thing for the regiment, too, if he did.
By-the-bye, I'm having a small gamble in my room to-night,
hope you'll come, Royle, and you too, Carson," to another
officer who had just entered.  "We'll have dinner sent over
from the Mess."

"Thank you, O'Hagan, I should like to," answered Royle,
but the other refused somewhat shortly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER V`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V

.. vspace:: 2

The weeks passed, Christmas came and went, but
still the monotonous peace reigning over Fort
Hussein and its environs remained undisturbed.
All around, sometimes even within hearing of the
garrison, mountain and pass echoed to the thunder of guns
and rattle of rifle-fire, but for them there was nothing;
listless and inactive they remained, apparently forgotten, in
the surrounding tumult.  The 1st Lancers were a good
regiment, not fashionable, possibly, but efficient and keen;
further, they were "happy," and knew nothing of those
internal dissensions which destroy the harmony of less
fortunate corps.  Here, however, shut up in a dreary
frontier fort, with nothing to occupy or distract their
minds, the tone of the regiment insensibly changed.
Tempers, always uncertain in India, wore dangerously thin;
quarrels blazed forth on little or no provocation; and soon
cliques, constantly shifting, began to form.

On one subject, however, these various factions were in
absolute agreement, that one being the cordial dislike they
all felt for Captain Hector Graeme.  For a time, following
on his exploit in recovering Private Mortlock's body, his
brother officers had been inclined to make much of him,
and to show him, the juniors especially, that they considered
the Colonel had been both hard and unjust; but these feelings
on their part had long since died away, and their former
sentiments regarding him again prevailed.

This, it must be owned, was largely due to Graeme's
incapacity to respond to their well-meant overtures, but
their latent aversion was fanned by the assiduous slanders
of Captain O'Hagan—who had a peculiar unreasoning
hatred for Hector—till now they had come to regard the
Mortlock episode as one highly discreditable to all
concerned in it, and of which the less said the better.  The
word "bolt" had been freely used by that person, and,
though Royle and one or two others had at first checked
him, he had persisted, even to the extent of uttering his
calumnies outside the regiment, with the result that Graeme,
save by the men and one other officer, found himself
regarded more or less as a pariah.  A recent decision of his,
moreover, had given colour to O'Hagan's insinuations,
for, thanks to some unknown influence, Hector had been
offered, and refused, a billet as transport officer to a column
fighting in Tirah, a chance at which any other officer of the
regiment would have jumped.

On receiving this application for his junior officer's
services, the sole proviso being his own recommendation,
Colonel Schofield had for some time hesitated.  Against his
own convictions—and they were strong ones—he had been
impressed by what Colonel Quentin had said concerning
Graeme, and, being a conscientious man and one who
theoretically had no likes or dislikes among his subordinates,
he had begun to ask himself whether it were not possible
he had made a mistake about this junior.  With this idea
in his mind, he had laid himself out to find the hidden pearl
in the oyster, even unbending so far as to ask Graeme to
accompany him, in place of his adjutant, on one of his early
morning rides, the result being that on that occasion he
rode alone, Hector having unfortunately overslept himself.
Stifling his annoyance, he tried again, but, though this time
successful in securing his junior's company, the invitation
was never renewed, Graeme's conversation, alternately silly
and boastful, having tried the Colonel beyond endurance.

Major Rawson, privately spoken to on the subject, did
not feel hopeful of ultimate improvement in his captain;
he grew worse, he declared, instead of better, his squadron
accounts were always in a muddle, while to give Graeme
a duty to perform was for that duty to be scamped or, more
likely, shirked altogether.  True, in an emergency, such as
the fire in the squadron store, he seemed to wake up—indeed,
he extinguished the flames before the arrival of the engine;
also the men liked him; but, for his part, he had no belief
in these fly-away fellows, who only worked by fits and
starts; give him the methodical straight-going officer, who
was always the same and followed the rules laid down.
And the Colonel, agreeing, had thereupon commenced his
perusal of the morning's mail, amongst the letters being
the above-mentioned application.  For a day and a night
Schofield wrestled with his doubts, and then, though with
considerable misgiving, sent for Hector and informed him
of his willingness to recommend him for the post.

"Only promise me, Graeme," he concluded, "that you
really will put your back into this.  Remember, it's not
only yourself you have to think about, but also the credit
of the regiment."

The concession—and to Colonel Schofield it was a great
one—had been made in vain, for Hector then and there
declined the chance offered him, giving no reason.
Incredulous at first, his Chief soon lost his temper, for it was
one thing, he felt, for him to hesitate to recommend a
subordinate, but quite another for the latter, when so
favoured, to refuse the offer.  It would be far better now,
he realised, for Graeme to go, even though he proved himself
a failure, for, after all, he had been applied for by name,
thus throwing responsibility on the shoulders of the applier;
whereas his refusal to go would assuredly give rise to caustic
remarks from authority, anent lack of keenness in his
command, inability to influence his officers, etc.

With these harassing thoughts in his mind, he stifled his
anger and proceeded to reason with Graeme, urging upon
him the greatness of the opportunity offered, and pointing
out the folly of refusal.  In vain; Hector remained
unmoved; he had made up his mind, and with him, that done,
the matter was finished.  The interview also afforded him
a very real gratification.  Well he knew—with that
uncanny intuition of his—what was passing in his Colonel's
mind, and was more than ever determined to thwart him.
It was his turn now; he would make the most of it, and
repay his Chief for the humiliation he had heaped upon him
before a stranger, in this very room, three months before.
Hector never forgot an injury, or a kindness for that matter,
and the remembrance of that interview had been smouldering
in his heart ever since.  One word of praise then, or
afterwards some acknowledgment of what he had done,
might have been the making of Graeme; but this was not
Colonel Schofield's way.  Praise from him, if earned, was
to be understood, blame to be expressed, and so he had
seized upon what was wrong in his subordinate's conduct,
ignoring the rest.

Graeme had shown gallantry, it was true, but it was not
necessary to praise him for it; the sense of having done his
duty, he considered, ought always to be sufficient reward for
a soldier.  It was not sufficient for Hector, however, to
whom applause was as essential as the modicum of opium
is to the well-being of a Chinaman, and the consequence of
his Colonel's refusal to gratify this craving was to fill him
with a bitter sense of grievance and determination to annoy
his superiors in every possible way.  They wanted him now,
did they? he thought.  Very well, they shouldn't have
him, he was not going to risk his life a second time; he had
done it once, and got nothing for it save abuse, and it would
be the same again, for they were all alike; he would see
them damned before he went.  Schofield therefore was
but wasting his breath, and, realising this at last, he
abandoned the effort and dismissed Graeme from his presence,
concluding the interview by remarking that an officer who
refused the chance of active service was, in his opinion, best
out of the regiment he commanded.

"You may think what you please," muttered Hector,
on his way back to his quarters, "but I'm hanged if I will
resign.  I meant to once we returned to Riwala, but now I
won't, just because you want me to."

Thenceforth Hector went his solitary way, shunning,
and shunned by, his brother officers, and doing just
sufficient regimental work to enable him to avoid a second
interview with his Colonel, who was now, he knew, only
waiting the opportunity to fall upon him.

To most men, his would have been an impossible existence,
but Graeme had been at variance with his fellows
since his childhood, and his ever-present feeling of grievance,
coupled with the sense of battle against odds, served but
to stimulate and harden him in his course.  Indeed, had
it not been for one thing, he would rather have enjoyed his
present life, but that thing was a big one to him,
intolerable even, namely, his total inability to cope with the
slanders of Captain Robert O'Hagan, whose enmity he
returned with a concentrated bitterness of hate, such as,
had he been aware of it, would have possibly made that
cautious person pause.  Many times he had sought to
bring his traducer to task, but always without success, for
O'Hagan was cunning, popular too amongst his fellows,
while Graeme was the reverse, and blank looks or even
flat refusal was the sole response he met with in his frequent
endeavours to elicit definite proof of calumny from the
mouths of his brother officers.

Of wordy controversies in public—and only in the
presence of others would O'Hagan condescend to address
Graeme—there had been many, and violent ones, but
invariably the result had been humiliating to Hector, for
O'Hagan possessed the ready tongue of a cheap-jack, and
easily reduced Graeme to impotent silence, the latter's
feeble, though rude, rejoinders only awakening delighted
titters from all present.  One day, he sought out O'Hagan
and threatened personal violence, to which menace his
enemy, who was no hero save in public, where he was
safe, replied by calling up a passing junior and requesting
Hector to repeat his recent observations.  This, Graeme,
too angry or too careless to consider consequences,
promptly did, whereupon O'Hagan at once reported him
to the Colonel, producing his witness, and the Chief, glad
of the chance, let himself go for a full ten minutes.
Hector subsequently departed to his quarters, where he
flung himself down on the bed, gritting his teeth, and
tearing at the counterpane.

Thus engaged, he was suddenly brought to himself by a
knock at the door, and Captain Carson, his one and only
friend in the regiment, entered.

"Hullo," said the latter, looking at him, "what's the
trouble?  You seem put out."

"I'm busy, Peter, what do you want?" was the answer.

"Nothing much," said Carson, unruffled by his greeting.
"I'll go if you want me to.  Got some news for you, that's all."

"What is it?"

"Regiment's going back to Riwala, thought I'd tell you
so that you could wire to your missus.  She's back from
Kashmir, isn't she?"

"Likely she'd stay up there in the snow, isn't it?  What
the devil are we moving for?  I hate a move, the whole
place upset and everybody fussing like blazes.  Lord, how
Rawson will fidget, shan't have a moment's peace now, I
suppose."

"What an extraordinary fellow you are, Graeme.  Don't
you want to go back?"

"Of course I do, no one but a fool would wish to stay
here.  It's the moving I hate.  Gad, but I'll be glad enough,
I know, to have my own house again, and be quit of the
cursed Mess and my brother officers for a while."

Carson frowned.

"Why do you always sneer at the fellows, Graeme?  It's
no wonder they dislike you."

"I hope they do, but I don't wish to talk about them.
When are we off?"

"Three days from now, Ferrers says, just in time for the
races."

Graeme's face darkened.

"Blast the races!" he said.

"In heaven's name, what for?  You're hard to please
this morning."

"O'Hagan's benefit, that's what Riwala racing means,
Carson.  O'Hagan——"

"Oh, shut up, you've got O'Hagan on the brain.  'Pon
my soul, Graeme, I can't understand this hatred for the
fellow.  I don't like him much, I own, nor I believe do the
others really, but I don't hate him.  Why are you so
infernally immoderate in everything, why not take things
quietly, as I do?  You'd find life much easier.  After all,
he's not a bad-hearted fellow."

"He's a low, cowardly blackguard, not one redeeming
point about him."

"There's no fellow like that, Graeme; anyway, he's an
officer of the regiment, and all our talking won't alter that
fact."

"You're right, Peter, talking won't."

"Well, what else can you do?  Hullo, what the——  Good
Lord!" for the door had been suddenly kicked
open—O'Hagan never knocked save at a senior's door—and the
subject of their discussion stood on the threshold.

"You here, Carson?" he said, his eyebrows lifted in
seeming surprise at the latter's being in such company.
"Come and play bridge."

"Not now, thank you, O'Hagan; as you see, I'm talking
to Graeme."

"That won't keep you.  Graeme's in for it again, cutting
stables this time.  Rawson wants you, Graeme, at once,
going to wheel you up before the C.O., I believe."

"All right, O'Hagan, thank you."

Hearing the gentle answer instead of the outburst he
expected, Peter Carson looked up in surprise, with a curious
feeling of uneasiness.  Surprised also was Captain O'Hagan,
but pleasantly, for at last he thought he saw his enemy cowed
and conscious of the futility of further resistance.  His dark
eyes gleamed and a bullying note came into his husky voice.

"It's not all right, I can tell you," he said.  "Rawson
says, of all the slack, useless——"

"Quite so, and now—get out."

"Get out, who the devil are you talking to?  Keep
away, d'you hear?  Carson, you're the senior officer here,
you're witness——"

"Sit down, Graeme, and you, O'Hagan, be off.  You've
given your message, and I should say made the most of it.
Clear out."

"Oh, very well, though I must say it's a nice way to treat
a brother officer.  The Colonel shall hear of this, I promise
you, both of you."

"If you stay another minute, I'll throw you out myself,
by God, I will," said Peter, the Carson temper suddenly
blazing up, and rising he advanced towards the other, who,
however, did not await his approach, but fled hastily.

"Riling fellow that," said Peter, resuming his seat and
proceeding to relight his pipe, which had gone out.  "Very
near lost my temper.  What the devil are you laughing at,
Graeme, at me?"

"No, at him."

"Him, what for?"

"To think what a fool he is, hammering away like that."

"Hammering?"

"Yes, driving the nails in."

"Don't know what on earth you're talking about, don't
suppose you do either.  Well, I'm off, there's a busy time
ahead for all of us," and Peter rose and went out, leaving
Graeme deep in thought.  For some minutes he sat there, and
then walked across to the window, where he stood looking
down on the squadron lines below, already permeated with
the spirit of unrest, born of the news of the coming move.

Hurrying to and fro, pointing with his stick and explaining
the obvious, Major Rawson could be seen, two harassed-looking
subalterns and the Sergeant-Major in close attendance;
while some distance away, grave-faced and dignified,
Colonel Schofield was standing, issuing orders to the
alert Ferrers, who was zealously taking down the same in
a large note-book.

A feeling of angry contempt was aroused in Graeme as he
looked.  "Fussy fools," he muttered, "the whole regiment
turned upside down because of a move of a few hundred
miles.  God! there's Rawson lifting a saddle and weighing it.
Why don't he take his coat off and groom the horses and
pack the kits while he's about it?  And you're worse," he
continued scornfully, apostrophising his unconscious C.O.,
"you're a damned humbug, you are; for only the other day
you agreed with Quentin when he told me that to make
others work and not work yourself was the thing, and now
you see the exact reverse going on you stand there and say
nothing.  Make me sick, the whole lot of you do.  Wish to
God I had the running of the show; I'd soon stop all that,
and at the same time get them off with no bother at all."

He turned from the window and threw himself down on
the bed once more, where he lay evolving schemes of fussless
removal, and then, his interest in the subject growing,
he seized pencil and paper and committed his ideas to
writing.  And, as it happened, the idle occupation of a
few minutes was not wasted, for Major Rawson, possibly
from over-anxiety, was that same evening laid low by fever,
and the command of the squadron consequently devolved
upon Hector, who thereupon proceeded to put his
newly-hatched plans into execution.  Ignoring hourly messages
and instructions from the sick-bed, he the next morning
summoned his non-commissioned officers to his quarters,
and after an hour's conversation dismissed them, he
himself departing for the day in quest of Cee Cee.[#]  Nor, except
for half an hour daily, did he subsequently visit the lines,
though in the other squadrons all the officers were in
attendance throughout the day.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] A kind of rock partridge.

.. vspace:: 2

To the disappointment of his *confrères*, no hitch occurred
in B Squadron arrangements; on the contrary, while all
around fuss and confusion reigned, in Hector's command
there was clock-like precision, and to the minute on the day
appointed for departure, their kits and tents packed away
before daylight on bubbling camels, his men stood waiting
beside their saddled horses, with quiet enjoyment on their
faces as they viewed the agitated throng on either side.  Nor
did an extra-minute inspection by a cold-faced Colonel
reveal the deficiencies he hoped in his heart to find, and
a distinct feeling of injury was in the Chief's heart as
he found himself forced to order B Squadron to move off
first—A, the leaders by right, not being yet ready.  At the
station, however, disaster at last arose, Williams and
Rogers profiting by the occasion to slip away to the bazaar,
where next day they were found by the garrison police
very drunk.  The consequence of this mishap was severe
censure for Hector, Schofield remarking that such
disgraces were to be expected in a squadron left to the care
of non-commissioned officers.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI

.. vspace:: 2

A few evenings later, with the dream-like rapidity
with which life's scenery is constantly shifting
behind its players, Hector was once more back
in his Riwala home.  Gone—flitted into the past—were
the bare mud walls, stinking lanterns and camp-chairs of
the Fort Hussein Mess; in their place the soft comfort
and luxury of a drawing-room, each detail of which had
been personally superintended by Lucy herself.  Here now,
warm and comfortable, he reclined in a huge arm-chair,
his eyes dreamily gazing into the crackling log-fire before
him, and his mind in the beatific state induced by the
consumption of an excellent dinner and the subsequent inhaling
of a Turkish cigarette.

Beside him, busy with the knitting of a yellow silk
waistcoat, sat Lucy, a dainty figure in tea-gown of lemon and
white, which was quite in harmony with the soft lights and
colouring of her surroundings.  Like the hen-pheasant,
however, in gorgeousness of plumage she was quite
out-shone by her lord, whose smoking-jacket of amethyst
velvet, with buttons of pink crystal, amber silk shirt, and
Russia leather slippers of the same hue, formed a somewhat
striking picture.  On his knee reposed a somnolent white
cat, a species of animal he loved, which he was caressing
with much tender solicitude.

"Hector, dear," said Lucy, suddenly breaking the silence,
"I've got an idea."

"Have you, Lucy?  Ow!" to the cat, "you old beggar
you, put your claws out at father, would you?  Come and
tickle this chap's tummy, Lucy, and see him kick."

"Oh, put the thing down, it worries me to see you.
Really, Hector, how a sporting person like yourself can
adore a cat as you do is beyond me.  If it was a dog now,
I could sympathise, but—a cat."

"A dog, nasty fidgeting brutes; besides, every fellow
in the regiment's got one, that alone's enough.  As for my
being sporting, so's a cat, the finest sportsman in the world,
a genuine one too, hunts for his own pleasure, not to be
thought a good fellow, like most men.  What about that
big lizard we caught this morning, eh, old Nimrod?"
again addressing the unresponsive animal.

"To me they're like spiteful women, Hector."

"Just where you're wrong, Lucy, a cat's not a bit like a
woman.  They're restful, which a woman's not; they're
independent; know what they want and get it, while a
woman not only don't know her own mind, but always does
the very reverse of what she preaches."

"Really, Hector, I'm sure you can't say that of me."

"There you are, Lucy, can't discuss a thing without
taking it personally.  Besides, you're as bad as any of
them.  You're always at me to become a keen soldier, yet,
when the chance of active service comes along, you——"

"Dear, that's not fair, as I've told you before.  You surely
wouldn't like me not to care, Hector, like some wives?"

"I don't suppose I should, but it's not that I'm talking
about, it's the inconsistency.  But, about cats and women
a cat only takes what it wants, a woman, on the
contrary——"

"Oh, bother the cats!  I want to talk about something
else, the Regimental Cup to-morrow."

"When I propose to be ten miles away at Rarkat Jheel,
quail shooting."

"Oh, but, Hector, you can't really.  The regiment's
At Home, and we must put in an appearance; besides, I
should like it."

"Like it, a fifth-rate race-meeting?"

"Yes, I should.  I'm not a hundred, Hector, and every
woman wants a little gaiety at times.  Of course I love
going out shooting with you and all that, but I think just
occasionally we might vary the programme a little."

"Oh, of course, if you're set upon it, Lucy, that's another
matter, but it's a weary business."

"Only because you make it so, and take no part in things,
Hector.  The Regimental Cup, for instance, every officer
but you is running something, no matter whether it's got
a chance or not.  You only are out of it, and I hate it—it
looks so odd and unsporting.  I know, of course, it's not
that, but the others think so."

"Let them think what they like, I don't care.  I'm not
competing because I can't win.  I'll play second fiddle to
no one, least of all to O'Hagan, and nothing I've got could
beat Matador, he's a racehorse, the rest are only polo ponies."

"Hector, I do hate that Captain O'Hagan."

"Really, why?  I thought he rather liked you."

"Oh, he's civil enough to me, it's because of his
rudeness to you I hate him.  Hector, do you know what he
said the other evening at the Club?"

"That he meant having me out of the regiment?  Yes, I
heard of it, Lucy."

"He dared to say it, Hector.  Oh, I could kill him for
it," and Lucy's breast heaved and her blue eyes flashed.

Hector laughed.  "Perhaps he will, Lucy; he has all the
others behind him, you know."

"But you mustn't allow it, you must fight him.  I'll
help you all I can.  The Colonel likes me, I know; let's have
the old man to dinner, Hector, and do him really well.
Oh, Hector, do rouse yourself, it's not like you to submit
tamely."

Hector looked at her, and, as he did so, the curious glitter
in his eyes vanished.  Rising, he went across to his wife
and kissed her.

"I believe you'd stand by me, no matter what I did, Lucy."

Some strange note in his voice startled her; she looked
up.  "Hector, what do you mean?" she said quickly.
"Oh, Hector dearest, you won't, you don't mean to do
anything mad?"

At the fear in her voice, Graeme's half-parted lips shut
tight.  He picked up the cat, and, returning to his chair,
resumed his contemplation of the flames, his face
expressionless.

"Don't be alarmed, Lucy," he said, and it seemed to her
that there was a shade of contempt in his tone, "and as
for O'Hagan and his paltry schemes, leave the poor fool to
me.  I'm only letting him play a little, and when the time
comes—and it's pretty close now—it's Bob O'Hagan who'll
go under, not me.  But, about this idea of yours, what is
it, to go to-morrow?  If so, I will, as you want it."

"It's more than that, Hector, I want you to ride in the
race for the Cup."

"But what on?"

"Hermes, Captain Carruther's second string.  He'd give
you the mount, I know, for I asked him this afternoon.
He's a good pony, Hector, and jumps well, though of course
he can't beat Matador."

"He'd be just about last, Lucy.  I last, no thank you.
Sorry, I'd like to please you, but it can't be done.  I'll go
to the races, as you wish it, but a ride on old Hermes is
rather too humiliating a proceeding.  Hullo," looking up
at the clock, "past eleven, and an early parade to-morrow
morning.  Time for bed.  Come on, Lucy.  You too, Fop,
old man, no tiles for Romeo to-night," Hector rose, and
having lighted Lucy's candles, departed to his
dressing-room, the cat hanging limply in his arms.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII

.. vspace:: 2

"Sporting lot your fellows are, to be sure, Bob.
Damme, the whole blessed regiment seems
to be going for the Cup this afternoon."

The speaker, Captain Legge, a thin-faced rat of a man
hailing from Bangalore, formed one of a group assembled
in the ante-room of the Officers' Mess, 1st Lancers, discussing
the past luncheon, coffee, cigars, and the race-card.

"Have to be, Tabby, or clear out," answered O'Hagan,
glancing towards the far corner of the room, where Graeme
was sitting, chuckling over the "Cat Derby," as depicted
by Louis Wain.  "Don't like unsporting fellows with us,
don't keep 'em either.  Hi! you," to a passing khitmagar[#]
"liqueur brandy, jeldi, you soor,[#] d'ye hear?" his heavy
eyes glaring at the man, who sullenly departed on his
mission.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] A native waiter.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

[#] "Quick, you pig."

.. vspace:: 2

"Grandee on the job to-day, Tabby?" asked Major
Ramp, a racing gunner from Calcutta.

"Backing him myself, Barabbas, if that's any use to
you," was the answer; "ought to be a pinch, now the
Ferret's not goin'."

"Why didn't you buy him in the lotteries last night
then, Tabby?" said another, drooping his eyelid at
O'Hagan.

"I did, or rather Jackie did it for me, Cross; kept it
quiet that way, and got him cheaper.  That's right, ain't
it, Jackie?"

"Quite," responded a squeaky voice, and Jackie, a
meek-looking vet.—also hailing from Bangalore—thereupon
produced a note-book from his pocket and began to turn over
the pages.

"What about your own, though, Jackie," said Ramp;
"he's in the same race, ain't he?"

"The old Tinker?  No earthly, Ramp, been off his feed
the last two days."

"Don't shout it to the Mess, hang it, man," said his
patron, frowning at him.

"Sorry, Tabby, but we're all pals here, these fellows
won't give it away, I know, especially if they want to back
Grandee, and, if they take my tip, they will."

"Of course not," from all, and "Thank ye, Jackie.  I'll
bear it in mind," from Major Ramp, who, knowing the pair,
made a mental note to leave that particular race alone.

"Matador's a certainty for your race, I suppose, Bob?"
said Captain Brass.

"Moral, if he stands up, and he's never fallen yet.  Got
a pot on him, advise you fellows to do the same."

"Who's riding him, Bob?"

"Having a go myself.  Must be one of the regiment,
you know, which gives me rather a pull; give most of 'em
seven pounds at least."

"I see old Cyclops is running, Bob; queer old devil, used
to belong to us till Stainforth sold him to Carson.  New
game for him, racing, though, ain't it?"

O'Hagan looked round the room before answering.
Strangely enough, he was frightened of Carson, though not
in the least of Graeme.  Seeing no sign of Peter, however,
he replied boldly:

"Cyclops is not going.  I stopped it.  A race full of
amateur jockeys is dangerous enough, without a one-eyed
brute of a pony no one can hold joining in.  So I just told
Carson I wouldn't have it, and there was an end of it."

"Why ain't Graeme performing, Bob?" asked Brass.
"He used to go like smoke at home with the Bicester."

"Captain Graeme don't ride now, except on parade,
when he has to," answered O'Hagan, again glancing towards
the corner and meeting Hector's eyes over the top of the
paper.  This was instantly raised, however, and encouraged
by the surrender O'Hagan continued:

"What do you do with unsporting fellows in your regiment,
Ramp?" he observed.

"Show 'em we don't want 'em," was the answer.

"But if they won't go, what then?"

"Get the Colonel to report badly on them, but surely
Graeme..."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about him, of course, brother
officer, you know, Ramp, and all that.  Still," lowering
his voice, though speaking very distinctly, "as you are
aware, every regiment has its undesirables, useless fellows
no one likes; one doesn't talk about it, of course, but there
it is."

"He's a devilish good shot, is Graeme," said Brass,
"best I ever saw, I think."

"Cavalry fellows ought to be fond of riding," squeaked
Jackie, "that's their game, not shooting."

"Or go to the infantry," said O'Hagan.

"What the devil d'ye mean, O'Hagan?" said Legge,
who belonged to that branch of the Service.

"I really beg your pardon, old chap.  I always forget you
ain't a cavalry man or a gunner"—remembering Ramp—"you're
such a sporting cove.  Have another brandy?"

"No, thank you, and I don't see why a fellow shouldn't
care for shooting even if he is in the cavalry; it's sport
just the same as racing.  Besides, Graeme plays polo,
don't he?"

"Oh yes, in a way.  His real hobby's clothes and cats,
though."

"Cats?"

"Yes, sleeps with a cat, I'm told.  Jolly for his wife, eh
what?  Hullo," suddenly breaking off, with a look of
well-feigned surprise and concern on his face, for Graeme had
risen, and, apparently unconscious of his or the others'
presence, was now making his way to the door, "there's the
man himself," he added, Hector having disappeared, "now
I have done it."

"Good Lord, O'Hagan, why the devil didn't you tell us
he was there?" said Brass indignantly.  "He must have
heard every word."

"Well, if he did, he only knows what all of us think,
and..."

"I think we ought to be making a move, O'Hagan," said
Legge shortly; "it's past one now, and I'm riding in the first
race.  Come on, Jackie, you're always an hour decorating."

He rose, and, the others following his example, the party
departed to their different quarters to dress.

Meanwhile Hector was walking rapidly away from the
Mess on his way to Carson's bungalow.  At the compound
entrance he paused, and for a moment stood leaning against
the gate, as if reflecting; then once more moved on, and,
entering the house, came upon Peter engaged in the sorting
of fishing-tackle.

"Hullo, Graeme," he said, "you're just the man I want.
Help me to straighten this out, will you? it's kinked like
blazes," whereupon, without answering, Hector sat down
on the bed, and, taking up one end of the line, proceeded
to disentangle it.

"Hands very shaky this morning, Graeme," said Carson.
"Why the dickens don't you give up those infernal cigarettes
and take to an honest pipe, like me?  You look pretty
seedy too; what's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, want of exercise, I suppose.  Think I'll
go for a ride this afternoon."

"Can't.  The regiment's At Home, and we've got to be
there.  Pity you didn't enter one of your ponies for the
Cup, as I wanted you to; you'd have had your ride then."

"I wish I had now, I'd give something for a mount.  I
envy you old Cyclops, even."

"Cyclops is not going."

"And why not?"

"Because I don't want to break my neck, that's why."

"Break your neck be hanged.  Cyclops is a devilish good
jumper."

"All right, you ride him then; you're welcome."

"Thank you, Peter, I will.  I'll go now and tell the sais
to have him down on the course."

"You'll do nothing of the kind.  I was only joking.
D'you think I'm going to have your missus..."

"Where shall I find the sais?"

"I won't lend him, I tell you."

"Oh, want to back out of it, do you?"

"I never back out of anything; you know that perfectly
well, Graeme."

"I used to think so."

"But..."

"Ah!"

"Oh, take the pony and be hanged to you.  I don't
want to lend him, I tell you that straight; but, since like a
fool I offered the brute, you can have him.  Break his neck
if you like, your own too."

"Thank you very much, Peter, and will you or shall I
have him sent down?"

"I will."

"Right, good-bye, you're coming yourself, I suppose?"

"Yes, with the ambulance for you."

"Good.  I'll be off to dress," and Graeme, leaving Peter
frowning at his knots, returned to his own bungalow,
where he found Lucy awaiting him in the verandah.

"Where on earth have you been, Hector," she said,
"and what's the matter?" staring at him.

"Nothing.  I've been given a mount for the Regimental
Cup, Lucy, just what you wanted, aren't you pleased?"

Lucy, however, did not look pleased.  She stood, with
her eyes still fixed on her husband's face.

"Why have you done this, Hector," she said after a
pause, "rather a sudden idea, isn't it?"

"Oh, I know it seems changeable, Lucy, but I've been
thinking about what you said last night, about its being
unsporting not to ride, and so on.  I'm really doing it
more to please you than myself.  Where are my things?
I must hurry," trying to pass her as he spoke.

Lucy stopped him.

"Wait a minute, Hector," she said; "if it's only to please
me you're riding, you needn't do it.  I too have changed
my mind; I'd rather now you didn't."

"And why not?"

"I don't think I quite know, but I don't wish you to.
Let me send a note to Captain Carruthers, please, Hector,
I'm sure he won't mind."

"This is absurd, Lucy; only last night you begged me
to ride, and now that I've done what you ask, you——"

"I know it seems silly.  Oh, Hector, I can't explain,
but something tells me you ought not to.  Please let me
write that note."

"I certainly won't.  I'm not going to be made a fool of
like this," snatching at the chance of losing his temper,
"and it's no good writing to Carruthers; it's Cyclops I'm
riding, not Hermes."

"Cyclops," echoed Lucy, who knew the animal as she
knew every pony, dog or child in the regiment.  "Cyclops,
oh, you can't mean it, Hector?"

"I do, though.  Peter offered me the mount, and I've
accepted.  Oh, for goodness' sake be reasonable, Lucy; it's
done now.  Come and dress.  Where are my things?"

"And you care so little for me as to ride a one-eyed
bolting brute in a steeplechase," began Lucy furiously;
then suddenly her anger passed, and coming close to her
husband she laid her hand on his arm.  "Hector, won't you
for my sake give this up?  It isn't often I ask anything
of you, but now I do.  Oh, dearest, please—please."

"And have Peter and the rest think I'm afraid?  No,
thank you."

"Hector, you know you don't care what they think.
It's something to do with O'Hagan."

"Perhaps it is, Lucy; he called me 'unsporting' just
now, and I'm going to show him I'm not.  Once more,
please tell me where my things are?"

"Hector, I implore you," began Lucy, and then, seeing
his face, stopped.  "You won't give this up then," she
said, "whatever I say?"

"No; where are——"

"I don't know," she said violently, "and I don't care,
find them yourself," and she left him, banging the door
behind her as she went off to her room.

Here for an hour she remained, dawdling over her dressing,
to the just indignation of Halling, her maid, who also
proposed to go racing that afternoon under the escort of
the regimental sergeant-major and his wife, and who, for
the first time in her experience, found her mistress both
trying and inconsiderate, and also for the first time
sympathised with her master, stamping up and down the
verandah outside.

At length, just as Hector had made up his mind to
send for a horse and ride on without her, she emerged from
her seclusion, and coldly asking him if he meant to come
to the races that afternoon entered the waiting buggy,
seized the reins, and drove off, Hector scrambling in after
her.  In silence they rattled down the broad mall, Lucy
looking straight ahead and declining to answer Hector
when he spoke, and after some narrow escapes from
collision with passing gharries—for the lady was not driving
with her customary skill—arrived on the scene of action.

To those accustomed to the greensward and trees of a
British racecourse, that of Riwala would have come as
a rather doleful surprise.  Facing a great open stretch of
dusty maidan, around which ran the track, rose the grand
stand, a bare-looking edifice of wood and corrugated iron,
surrounded by iron railings, forming the enclosure, where
the various regiments of the garrison dispensed hospitality.
For some hundred yards to the right and left of the stand
the course, unmarked save by rows of whitewashed stones
and a few flags, was shut in by a double row of wooden
railings, the stand side and enclosure being reserved for
the *élite*, that opposite for the [Greek: oi polloì] and such natives
of the lower order as cared to attend.

The second race had just finished when Lucy and
her husband arrived, and a babel of voices was rising on
the air, bookmakers shouting their anxiety to pay on the
winner, and spectators chattering to the accompaniment
of brassy and somewhat unpleasing music from the band
of the Queen's Own Purple Fusiliers.

All the notabilities of Riwala—almost, it might be said,
of the Punjaub—were here assembled, mostly of military
status, it is true, but nevertheless comprising a few civilians
of importance, such as Mr. Timothy Qui Hye, the
Commissioner, and, greater still, Sir Backshish Gussle Khana,
Lieut.-Governor of the Punjaub—a very big man, and one
conscious of his eminence, though, like some other great
men, a little careless in his attire; his boots, of the kind
known as "Jemima," and a "made-up" tie marring an
otherwise irreproachable costume of decent black.

Many others were there too, though not of such eminence
as his.  Lady Pompom, for instance—the wife of Sir Julius
Pompom, commanding the station of Dam Kot—a regal-looking
lady, in a dress of imperial purple, surmounted by
a white solar topee tastefully decorated with yellow flowers.
A crowd of youths were about her, for Lady Pompom was
fond of boys, designating them "young people of my own
age."  Some of these young people, it is true, looked as
though they would like to be elsewhere, but no such
defection was possible, as well they knew, for that would mean
the official displeasure of Sir Julius, with, possibly,
consequent stoppage of leave, and even—such things had been
known—nasty remarks in confidential reports.

Those two ladies yonder, who were so warmly yet
carefully embracing—a loving handclasp, a peck on the right
place, a "How sweet you look!" and the thing was done—were
Mrs. Warmon, the wife of Major Warmon of the 250th
Mesaltchis, and her friend and foe, Mrs. Charpoy, better
half of Colonel Charpoy, commanding the Purple Fusiliers.
Rival beauties of Riwala, they hated each other right well,
hence the warmth of the embrace; and both being a trifle
touched up, this accounted for their care in bestowing the
kiss, which operation completed they parted and spoke to
each other no more that day.

Forlorn and unattended, on the steps of the grand stand,
sat the two Game girls, their eyes roving in search of male
recognition.  This was their third year in the country, but,
though hitherto unappropriated, hope was far from dead
in their somewhat flat bosoms.  Possibly the net may have
been spread a little too openly in the sight of the bird, but,
be this as it may, gamebag and creel were still empty, and
the Misses Game remained, and were likely to remain, the
Misses Game.

Into this throng walked Lucy, Hector following.  She
was all smiles, now that there were others to see—a trim,
sporting-looking figure in brown, with a hat of the same
colour, touched with vermilion, and smart, laced-up
patent-leather boots.  Not for long, however, was she suffered to
remain with her husband, a cluster of young men soon
surrounding her, all anxious to give her tea, show her their
ponies, any pretext to draw her away for a little private
conversation.  For Lucy, unlike Hector, was a popular
person with all, from the great Sir Backshish himself to
little Tickler Macpherson, the dusky daughter—one of
fourteen—of Dugald Macpherson, Assistant Commissioner
of Riwala, Highland of name though *café au lait* in hue.

Reputed inaccessible to lovemakers, too, was Mrs. Graeme,
which quality, and the ready sympathy she showed with
their various husband, lover, and servant troubles, endeared
her to the women, in spite of her looks and clothes; while
at the same time it rendered her conquest incumbent on
all self-respecting shikaris of ladies.

Eventually Captain Knowles, proficient at the game of
love-making, wrested the prize from the other competitors,
somewhat to his own surprise, for, though for some time
he had done his best, he could not pretend that that
best had been crowned with any measure of success.
To-day, however, there was a welcome change in the lady's
manner—she no longer chilled but smiled upon his efforts,
ignoring her husband, to whom the gay captain, as she
knew, was anathema.  To her annoyance, Hector showed
none of his usual signs of restiveness at the other's presence;
on the contrary, he rather abetted his endeavours to please,
and, on Knowles suggesting tea, handed her over willingly,
and, turning away, was soon lost to view in the crowd.  For
a moment Lucy stood looking blankly after him, but,
speedily rallying, expressed a desire for shelter from the sun,
and Knowles, instantly responding, led her away in triumph,
and was shortly afterwards comfortably seated beside his
booty in the darkest corner of one of the big marquees.

"Thank Heaven," muttered Hector, "I'm alone at last,
now, what's to be done to pass the time?  Confound this
waiting, my nerves are all anyhow.  Hullo, there's Cyclops,
I'll go and have a look at him."  He walked away to where
a native was standing holding a pony, a dun-coloured beast,
rusty-coated and hideous.  One of his eyes was gone, the
result of a blow from the fork of a revengeful sais, whose
arm Cyclops had playfully chawed; the other was small,
and, as usual, vindictive-looking.

Not an engaging-looking mount for a steeplechase, it
must be admitted, though the look of the brute appeared
at the present moment to give satisfaction to Graeme,
particularly the red eyeless socket, at which he attentively
gazed.  Nevertheless, despite his unengaging appearance,
Cyclops had his good points, being hard as nails, a perfect
fencer, and possessing the pluck of the devil with the temper
of a fiend.

"Khabadar,[#] sahib," said his guardian, as Hector came
up.  "Ai bainchute,"[#] jerking at the bridle just in time to
save Graeme's arm from bared yellow teeth, "Hamesha
aisa hai, sahib, bôt bobbery bainchute wallah."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Look out.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

[#] An untranslatable term of abuse reflecting on female relations.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

[#] "Always like this, sir, a violent..."

.. vspace:: 2

"Horrid beast," muttered Graeme, looking at him.  "I'll
take the steam out of you, my friend; there won't be much
bobbery about you when I've done."  He walked away,
and stood for a moment leaning over the enclosure rails.
As he did so, a thunder of hoofs struck on his ears, and
Tabby Legge flew past, his mount, a splendid chestnut
Arab, fighting for his head as he went.

"Grandee," said Graeme, "that's the certainty, is it?
Hum, and here's Tinker, Jackie up too, 'tisn't often he
rides.  Betty still to come—oh, here she is.  Lord, what a
commoner, different class altogether.  I wonder what they're
up to, some silly knavery, I suppose, from the way they
talked in the Mess.  It can't be Grandee, or they wouldn't
have said so; still, that might be part of the swindle, for
they know no one would believe them.  All the same, I
don't think it's Grandee, but Tinker, especially as Jackie's
riding, they know they'd get a better price with him up.
Hope to goodness they get done, though I don't see how
they're going to, unless Betty wins, and she can't if the
others stand up.  Hullo, they're off, and one left at the
post, which is it, Grandee, I suppose?  No, it isn't; it's
Tinker, then they do mean Grandee, after all.  Funny, I
could have sworn it was the other.

"Lord, it's a procession," looking through his glasses
at the chestnut, who was leisurely cantering ahead of the
already labouring Betty.  "Well, that's over," lowering
his glasses and turning away.  "Why, what's up?" a
sudden roar from the crowd rising on the air.  "Good
Lord," his eyes turned once more on the course, "Good
Lord," for passing him was Betty, alone; some
distance away, off the track, being Grandee, plunging and
fighting with his rider.  The favourite had run out.  "Now,
what the devil have they been up to?" muttered Hector.
"Betty wasn't backed, I know.  Aha, I have it, Tabby
thought it was Jackie behind him, not knowing that rascal
had been left, and pulled out to let him win"—which was
the exact situation.

"Splendid that is, quite bucked me up; and now to
dress, my race is next.  I wish I didn't feel so shaky,
though; my heart's going like a dynamo, and I can hardly
breathe.  Curious, what a nerve-ridden beggar I am,
always like this beforehand, though once I'm started I
don't care twopence.  Anyone to look at me would say
I was in a blue funk, and so I am really, or rather one part
of me is; the other's right enough 'You tremble, carcass,'"
he quoted half aloud, "'you'd tremble still more if you
knew where I was going to take you.'  Gad, you would.
Ah, here's the tent.  Lord, what a crowd!  Most of them
too, from the look of them, in a worse funk than I am.
Got the colours, Abdul?" to his bearer, "All right, leave
them here.  I can dress myself," and Graeme, sitting down,
proceeded to array himself in Peter Carson's chocolate and
blue, after which he put on his overcoat, and, having been
duly weighed, set off for Cyclops' stall, where he found Lucy
and Carson surveying that ill-favoured beast.

"Oh, here you are at last, Graeme," said Peter; "we've
been looking for you everywhere.  Thought you'd given
it up and gone home.  I should, if I were you, Cyclops is
not quite at his best to-day."

"What's the matter with him?  He looks all right,
anyway he's got to go."

"Hector, I wish you'd give it up," said Lucy, laying
her hand on his arm; "for my sake, please do."

"Nonsense, Lucy, it's all right.  Cyclops won't fall,
will he, Peter?"

"I wouldn't bet about it; he might; I wouldn't trust him."

"You see, Hector, even his owner doesn't think it safe.
Besides, you're not fit to ride; you look so white and strange,
doesn't he, Captain Carson?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Graeme, a bit pale perhaps, but
that doesn't go for much."  Then aside to Hector.  "You
look like a ghost, man, don't be a fool, give it up, as your
wife wants you to.  It's not the game to frighten her like
this."

"There's the bell," answered Hector.  "Give me a leg
up, Peter.  Hold his head, confound you," to the sais.  "All
right, I'm up.  Chor do.[#]  Steady, you brute," and Graeme
rode away, Cyclops now as quiet as a lamb.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Let go.

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, Captain Carson, I do hate it so," said Lucy, looking
after him, "I feel certain something's going to happen."

"Not it, Mrs. Graeme, see how nice and quiet the pony's
going."

"But he'll bolt as soon as they start, and Hector has no
experience of race-riding."

"Nor have the rest; he's as good as most of them, anyway.
Don't worry, Mrs. Graeme, but come and watch the race.
Where would you like to see it from, the grand stand?"

"No, I'll stay here, I think.  Don't let me keep you,
though, Captain Carson, I shall be all right."

"I'd rather remain with you if I may.  Hullo, there's
the trumpet; they're off.  Here they come.  Cyclops
leading."

"Surely he's bolted, oh, he has—he has."

"Not he, always goes a bit free to start with: he'll soon
settle down, you'll see.  Ah, well over, did you see that,
Mrs. Graeme, yards to spare?"

"Where's Matador?"

"Behind, Lord, what a mover he is, only cantering."

"Who's that down, surely it's my husband?"

"No, it isn't, it's Falconer on Sultan; but he's up
again now and on.  Look how well Cyclops is going, a
good twenty lengths ahead, if only he could keep it up."

"Where's Matador now?"

"Still behind; O'Hagan will leave it too long if he don't
take care.  Ah, there he is coming up now, leaving the
rest standing; by Jove, he and Cyclops are almost abreast,
both going for the open ditch.  Good—good God! ... It's
all right, Mrs. Graeme, it's all right, I tell you.  Your
husband's up and walking about.  Take my glasses and
look for yourself, they're better than yours."

"But the other—the other, is he up too?"

"Can't see yet, these glasses are so infernally bad.
Mrs. Graeme, do you mind if I leave you?"

"No, no, go quickly; get there first before them,"
pointing to a stream of people flowing across the maidan
towards the open ditch.  "Bring him straight back to me.
I'll have the buggy waiting there by those trees.  Oh, my
God, what a fool I was not to have understood, you too,
Captain Carson, it's as much your fault ... Why
didn't you refuse?"

"Because I was a blind idiot.  Hi you," advancing on a
sais holding a pony hard by, "give up that ghora[#] at once."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Horse.

.. vspace:: 2

"Smit sahib's pony," said the man, not moving.

"Don't care who's it is; let go, I say, or——" raising his
stick.

He snatched the reins from the terrified native, and
flinging himself into the saddle galloped away, belabouring the
pony as he went.  It was a race, but Carson won, and
reaching his goal, a good hundred yards abreast of the leading
man, sprang to the ground and ran up to where Graeme
was standing, looking down on a huddled heap of white
and scarlet at his feet.  A few yards away lay Cyclops,
his neck outstretched and one eye sightlessly staring, while
away in the distance, with reins trailing and stirrups
flapping, Matador could be seen, galloping gaily homeward.
Seeing Peter, Hector turned and hurried to meet him.

"Can't get rid of him, can't we, Peter?" he cried.
"Well, I have, I've done what you couldn't do, old man,
he's gone now, right enough, he and Cyclops together,
come and see."

Carson seized him by the shoulder, crushing it in his grip.

"Hold your tongue, you fool," he whispered, "look
behind you; they'll be here in a minute.  D'you want to
hang?  Oh yes, I'll come and see.  God help you," and,
still holding him fast, he hurried on to where O'Hagan was
lying.

"O'Hagan," he called, "get up, man, get up," and then,
no answer coming from the heap, he knelt down beside it,
and tearing open the silken jacket felt for its heart.  For a
few seconds he remained kneeling, the clamour from behind
growing rapidly louder, and then rose to his feet once
more.

"You're right, Graeme," he said quietly; "quite right,
you have done it."

"What's happened, who is it?" said a breathless voice,
echoed by others.  The spectators had arrived.

"O'Hagan, dead," answered Carson.  "Oh, keep away,
man; have you no sense of decency?  Where's a doctor?"

"Who's the other?  Rode right into him.  Most deliberate
thing I ever saw in my life.  I saw it quite plainly
through my glasses."

Carson spun round, facing the speaker, his eyes blazing.

"Who was it said that, who was it, I say?  Don't stand
skulking behind there, whoever you are, but come out and
say it like a man.  Some poor loser, I suppose, with five
rupees on Matador, whining because he's lost.  Come out,
I say, if you've a spark of pluck in you," but to the
invitation there was no response; the speaker declined to show
himself.

"You want to know about it, do you?  All right, you
shall.  I'll tell you as I told old Peter here.  Three weeks
ago in Fort Hussein I——"

"I know you did, old boy, you were quite right too; it
was my fault for lending you an infernal one-eyed brute.
Can't you see the man's had concussion, and don't know
what he's saying?" he continued, addressing the crowd.

"One-eyed," said a voice, "that accounts for it then."

"That accounts for it, as you say.  Thank God, here's
a doctor at last.  It's O'Hagan, Sarel."

"Bad?"

"Neck broken, I think."

"Good God! and what about Graeme there?  He looks
pretty queer."

"I'm not queer at all.  I'm perfectly clear.  I'll tell
you how it happened.  It's a long story, but——"

"Graeme, your wife's waiting for you.  She's anxious
naturally, and I promised her I'd bring you back at once,
you can tell me all about it as we go, I'd like to hear.
Out of the way, please," to the crowd, who obediently
formed a lane, and still holding him firmly by the arm
Peter hurried Graeme away to where Lucy was standing.

"Is the buggy ready, Mrs. Graeme?" he said, not
looking at her.  "Yes, there it is; well, get him home as
quickly as possible.  Keep him with you, don't let him
speak to anyone.  He's a bit light-headed, you see," he
explained, looking away, "don't quite know what he's
saying; been talking awful rot."

For a moment Lucy looked at the speaker, but still he
refused to meet her eye.

"I ... understand, Captain Carson," she said at
last, and then shivered slightly and turned away.

"Who's light-headed?  What the devil do you mean,
Peter, and where's Cyclops?  Hullo, Lucy, what are you
doing here?"

"You've had a fall, dear.  The race is over."

"Over, where's O'Hagan?"

"And I want you to take me back.  I—I'm cold," and
again Lucy shivered.

"Matador, O'Hagan, what of them?"

"Never mind about that now, Hector."

"I will know, I must know, where are they?"

Lucy looked questioningly at Peter; the latter nodded
in answer.

"Captain O'Hagan's hurt, Hector."

"Is he dead, is he dead?"

Again Carson nodded, but this time there was no
response from Lucy; he looked quickly up, and then,
moving forward, stood almost touching her.

"O'Hagan is dead, Graeme," he said; "you may as
well know it now as later.  Oh, for goodness' sake, get your
wife into the trap and be off.  Can't you see she's nearly
fainting?"

"Dead," echoed Hector, a deep sigh rising from his
breast; then suddenly his mouth closed firmly, and he
straightened himself.

"God! what an awful thing," he said.  "How did it happen?"

"Oh, never mind that now, you'll hear all about it
later.  Get your wife home."

"Why, what's the matter, Lucy, you look pretty bad,
shaken I suppose?  Come along."  Putting his arm round
her, he supported her towards the waiting buggy, and with
Carson's help lifted her in and tucked the rugs round her.

"Good-bye, Peter," he said, taking up the whip, "and
thanks for what you've done.  Talked awful nonsense, I
suppose, didn't I?  Must have had concussion.  By the
way, what time will the funeral be to-morrow, early, do
you think?"

Peter stared at him, but Graeme's eyes met his boldly.

"I suppose it will," he said at last.  "I'll come round
to-night and let you know."

"Oh, don't trouble.  I shall get the orders."

"I'll be round at half-past nine.  I want to know how
your wife is.  Good-bye, Mrs. Graeme," and Peter raised
his hat and walked quickly away.

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Nine o'clock had struck.  Once more Hector and Lucy
sat together in the softly lighted drawing-room, the former
a trifle pale, but otherwise in no way changed from the
man of twenty-four hours before, the latter haggard-faced,
with dark lines under the eyes that stared into the flames.

Now and again she would glance up furtively at her
husband, her eyes curiously wondering as they took in the
sheen of silk and velvet, the cat slumbering on his knee,
and the air of placid content pervading his whole being;
then, with a shiver, she would turn away and resume her
contemplation of the fire.  For, like Peter, Lucy failed to
understand.  Suddenly her lips began to tremble and her
eyes to fill with tears; for a moment she remained fighting
against it, and then, abandoning the effort, flung herself
on her knees beside Hector, sobbing wildly:

"Oh, Hector, speak, say something; it's awful to see
you, I can't bear it, I can't, I can't."

Graeme stroked her hair, and, bending down, kissed her.

"Hush, dear," he said gently, "you'll only make yourself
ill, and after all, Lucy, it wasn't you who did it; it was
I.  Take it as I do.  I don't..."

"It's that which is killing me, Hector, your not caring.
Oh dear, can't you realise the—the—horror of it all?"

Hector frowned.

"I'm not a hypocrite, Lucy," he said slowly, "why
should I pretend to care when I don't?  I hated the fellow,
so did you.  Why this fuss then now?"

"Fuss, oh, my God, Hector, are you human, that you
can talk of it like that?"

"I honestly don't understand you, Lucy, are you going
to say now you wish the man back?"

"I'd give all I've got, Hector, for him to be alive again.
I'd give even my sight, and there's nothing worse than
blindness.  Hate him, of course I hated him.  I hate him
now more than ever, because this afternoon was his fault.
Oh, can't you understand it's not of him I'm thinking, but
of you, Hector, you?"

"You think they—there'll be unpleasantness over this,
Lucy?  Well, if there is, I'm ready for it.  They can't call
you as a witness, though, that's one thing.  A wife, you
know——"

"I would insist on being called.  I would force my way in."

Hector stared.

"You—you mean you'd give me away, Lucy?  Jeanie
Dean's conscience, eh?"

"And I'd lie and lie and lie!  I'd go through hell for
you, Hector, you can trust me, dear, not to fail you."

Again Hector stared.

"You beat me, Lucy," he said, "you go for me for
doing it, and then want to perjure yourself to pull me
through.  But, look here, indiscriminate lying won't help us,
we must have the story pat, and stick to it like bird-lime.
Hullo, someone outside, come for me already, have they?"

"It's only Captain Carson, Hector; he said he'd be here,
you know, at the half-hour."

"Did he?  I forgot.  Think he knows, Lucy?  I can't
remember what I said.  I was off my head at the time."

"He knows everything, but he won't speak; you can
trust him.  Here he is."

"Leave us, Lucy; we must have this out together."

"But you won't lose your temper, Hector, you won't
abuse him?"

"Not I, I'm like an angel to-night.  Go, Lucy, please,"
and Lucy went, Peter entering by the other door as the
curtain dropped behind her.

"Glad to see you, Peter.  Have a drink?"

"No, thank you, Graeme."

"Cigarette, then?  No, I know you won't.  Fill that
old pipe of yours and sit down.  Match?  Here you are."

A pause.

"Well, Peter?"

"How's Mrs. Graeme?"

"All right, thank you; you've not asked after my health,
though."

Another pause.

"So that's what you wanted Cyclops for, Graeme?"

"I'll give you the pick of my stable, if that's what you're
after, Peter."

"Was it a sudden idea?"

"No, that afternoon at Fort Hussein.  I saw it was the
only way, since then I've been waiting.  If I'd failed this
time I'd have done it later.  I knew, though, I shouldn't
fail, I meant it, you see."

"Good God!"

"Why do you say that?" burst out the other with
sudden passion.  "I only did what you and half the others
wanted in your hearts.  Oh, I'll be candid with you; you
know most of it, anyway, and you played the game this
afternoon.  That fellow was a plague spot, Peter; he was
ruining the regiment, though for that I don't care two pins;
it was when he put himself up against me that I took a
hand.  And he did attack me, you know that, Peter,
insulted me, blackguarded me behind my back, said I was
a coward, and vowed he'd have me out of the regiment."

He paused.  Peter said nothing, only watched the other's
face, for this was a changed Graeme to him, and, as he
looked, he began to understand a thing he had never quite
been able to before: how Private Mortlock's body had been
recovered that August morning, six months before.

Graeme resumed, in the same tone of concentrated
purpose.  "Well, Peter; when anyone goes for me, I hit back,
not as most do, blow for blow, wasting their strength, but
with one blow only, and I take care that one has not to be
repeated, Peter, it settles the matter for good and all.
That's what I've done with O'Hagan, and that I'll do with
anyone or anything which comes up against me.  It was
him or me; can't you understand?  There was no room
for us both, I had to kill him, myself, or both.  And now
you know, what do you propose to do—give me away?

   |  "'And Hector Graeme walked between
   |  With gyves upon his wrist.'

Is that it?  Do, if you like and can."

"For God's sake, no levity, man."

"That's another thing.  You, and my wife too, seem
to expect me to show penitence, to cry over what I've done.
Why?  I'm glad, not sorry; why should I then pretend a
sorrow, like the Walrus with the oysters?"

Peter stared at him, with bewilderment in his eyes, as
there had been a few minutes before in Lucy's.

"Because," he said slowly, "because you're a human
being, Graeme."

"Well, I don't feel it, not in the slightest degree, and
I'm not going to sham."

Carson rose, and for a moment stood looking down at him.

"Graeme," he said, "you and I have been friends since
you joined ten years ago, and, well, I stand by my friends,
and do not give them away, whatever they do; their
actions are matters for their own consciences, not mine.
Of this afternoon I'll never speak again; it's a thing, I
confess, beyond my understanding; let it remain at that
and be buried.  Only you—you must see it can never be
quite the same between us again; you do see that, don't
you?"

"No, I don't."

"I can't help that; it is so, for me, at all events.  But
one thing I promise you: no one outside shall see it; they
must not.  We *must* be careful, for ... your wife's
sake.  Good-night, Graeme."

"Good-night, Peter."





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.. _`CHAPTER VIII`:

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   CHAPTER VIII

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The hill station of Chillata lay seething in the
summer rains.  This queer, rambling place, the
hot-weather capital of India, is a collection of
houses strewn seemingly haphazard along the crest and
slopes of a fir-clad ridge, or rather chain of hills, some three
miles in length and many thousand feet above the level
of the plains.  On all sides of the ridge the ground falls
steeply away; on the south towards the plains, a
haze-veiled vista of brown flat, stretching unbroken to the
horizon; on the north, east and west to a succession of
forest-clad hills and valleys, beyond which rises a chain of
snow-capped mountains.  Running along the crest of the ridge
lies the one metalled road, the main artery of the place,
bordering which stand the various European dwellings.
These are few and far apart towards the western extremity,
but increase in number as the road runs on eastward, till
finally they merge into the town itself, a heterogeneous
mass of shops, Government buildings, and native bazaar.

Such in brief was, and is, Chillata, the summer residence
of British official might and majesty in India, and
consequently, during that season, the resort of all that is most
select and fashionable in the country.  In the hot weather
of the year 1900, however, thoughts other than those of
social pursuits and sport were occupying the minds of most
men.  The British Empire was at war in distant South
Africa, and so far, though close on a year had elapsed since
its beginning, no sign of the end was at hand, and the fate
of England still rocked in the balance.

Still, even this fact, patent though it was to all, failed to
interfere appreciably with Chillata enjoyments, for to
human nature it is not public but individual interests that
matter; and even a toothache is of far greater moment to
him who feels it than the fate of a hundred empires.  Thus
it came about that, so far from proving a damper, the war
acted as a stimulant to the enjoyment of Chillata youth;
the ever-present possibility of harrowing partings added
zest to love-making between the sexes; waltz tunes gained
in enchantment; and hearts thrilled in response to stirring
martial ballad.

In high official quarters a somewhat different view
prevailed, for here were men with a stake in the country,
oldish men to whom waltz tune and martial ballad failed
to appeal—their time for that was past.  Unlike the others,
they, being more largely interested, were able to take a
larger view, and thus realised that England's downfall
would certainly involve that of India, and consequently
their own, a very serious matter indeed.  Here faces were
grave—the higher the official, the graver the face—as, deaf
to the gay glamour rising from the Mall outside, they sat
in dingy offices anxiously deliberating or wrestling with
increasing correspondence.

In one of these offices, a bare and cheerless apartment,
situated in the huge brick edifice forming the Military
Offices of Chillata, a man sat busily writing one September
morning—a thick-set man, with bristling black hair and
round, staring eyes, last seen one August morning in Fort
Hussein, now a brigadier in rank and Adjutant-General to
the Indian forces.  On the table before him lay a pile of
letters, fat-looking documents in long official envelopes,
both white and blue, most of them marked "Urgent,"
"Very Urgent," or "Confidential."  These he was opening
in turn, rapidly reading, and answering on slips of yellow
paper, which he carefully pinned to the various documents,
and threw into tin trays placed on the floor beside
him for removal and subsequent engrossment by his clerks.

A knock at the door was heard.  "Come in, come in,"
he muttered, and Captain de Boudoir, Star Comedian of
the Chillata A.D.C., appeared.  To prevent the departure
of this officer for the plains, and consequent disappointment
to the public, he had been retained as staff officer,
despite protest, to the Adjutant-General to the Forces, the
Intelligence Department—the natural refuge of such as
he—being unfortunately full up at the time.

"In an hour, De Boudoir," said Quentin, "I'm not
ready for you yet.  No, it's no good asking for a morning
off; I won't give it you for fifty rehearsals."

"But, sir, this evening, sir, his Excellency's coming.
Hoped you would too, sir."

"Bah!  You can't go, I tell you.  What's that, a card?
I won't see him, whoever he is."

"He won't go, sir; it's Captain Pushful; he's here
every day."

"What does he want?"

"Usual thing, sir—South Africa."

"Tell him to go to blazes.  I have work enough, as it is,
without being worried by every fool who wants to go
battle-fighting.  Confound it, De Boudoir, what the devil's
the good of you if you can't——.  Hullo! what the—who
the dickens is this?" for the door had gently opened,
and a head appeared, its eyes beaming upon him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said an insinuating voice, and
thereupon a body followed the head, "but could you spare
me a minute?  I won't keep you long sir."

"Who the devil are you?"

"My name is Pushful, sir.  I think, sir, I'm a connection
of yours by marriage.  My sister——"

"Turn him out, De Boudoir.  Oh, damn it all, this is——"

"My sister Mary, sir, married your second cousin William.
'Boodles' we used to call him, because——"

"Really, sir, I fail to see——"

"And Boodles told me to be sure and look you up."

"Tell me what you want, sir, and go."

"I thought, sir, perhaps you would see your way to get
me out to South Africa, and——"

"Send in an application then.  Good-day."

"I have, sir, six already."

"Send another then, and I'll consider it."

"Thank you, sir, and you will——"

"Oh yes, yes.  Good-day, and De Boudoir," as the door
closed behind the visitor, "when that application comes,
put it where the others go, in the basket; d'ye understand?"

"Very good, sir, anything more?"

"No.  Yes, there is.  Do you know a Captain Graeme,
1st Lancers?  I thought I saw him the other day."

"Yes, sir; he's here on two months' leave.  She's been
in Chillata since April, living at Dilkhusha, the house the
Pennants had last year."

"If you see him to-day, will you tell him I want him?
If you don't, send a note."

"Very well, sir.  I'll get my pony, and go there now."

"No, you won't; you'll stay where I can get at you, in
your office.  Go this afternoon if you like, till then work.
That will do, thank you," upon which De Boudoir sorrowfully
withdrew, cursing the fate that had placed him here,
instead of with his friends in the Intelligence Department.

"I'd like to give the fellow a chance," muttered Quentin;
"he was badly treated over that last affair.  Colonel would
not even recommend him for a transport billet"—for in this
way had Schofield saved his face on Hector's refusal—"and
he was wrong, I'm sure of it; the fellow's got stuff in
him, if it can be got out, that I'll swear, though I only saw
him for a few minutes.  Well, I'll give it to him, and damn
the recommendation."  He sat thinking for a moment, then
plunged once more into his correspondence.

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Three miles away, the subject of these reflections was
idly lounging in the breakfast-room of Dilkhusha, a
fair-sized two-storied building lying among the fir-woods at
the extreme western end of the Chillata range.  Nearly
three years had elapsed since a certain fateful Riwala
race-meeting, three uneventful years, spent in the manner usual
to Anglo-Indians in India.  Two more Regimental Cup
races had been won and lost, but on neither occasion had
Hector competed, nor even been present as a spectator.
With Lucy's full concurrence, nay, urging, he had shut up
their bungalow and departed with her on shooting trips to
the hills.  During these three years Lucy's health had
gradually declined, till she was now but a wreck of her
former self; that she had been too long in India was the
opinion of most, while the doctors declared that it was a
nervous breakdown, started probably by the shock of the
Cup incident, and in this perhaps they were right, for illness
and Lucy had had little acquaintance before that event.

It is true there had been no trouble over the matter, or
suggestion of foul riding on Hector's part; on the contrary,
much sympathy had been expressed with them both for
the pain and grief they must be foiling.  A letter had also
been received from O'Hagan's mother, a sad letter, for it
appeared that, whatever his other feelings, the dead man
had been a good and devoted son, but she in no way blamed
Hector for his share in her son's death.  It was even worse
for him than for her, she wrote, and from where he was now,
Robert, she knew, forgave him as fully as she herself did.

Hector, having read the above, when handed to him by
his wife, had absently rolled it into a spill, and was proceeding
to light a cigarette with it, when Lucy had snatched it
from him and hurried away to her room, where she had
sobbed on her bed for hours.  One consolation was hers, and
that was the obvious avoidance of her by Peter Carson.  When
they met, as was sometimes unavoidable, he was always
friendly, more so even than before, but he took care not to
meet her eye; and he did not come to the house at odd times,
as was his wont.  Finally, he had left Riwala for a year's
shooting expedition to Eastern Africa, and, though the
twelve months was nearly up, she would not see him again—not
for a long time, at any rate—for shortly she too would
be gone, leaving the hateful country, she hoped, for good.
She and her husband, a few months hence, would be
at home, a course urged upon Hector by the doctors for
over a year, but which Lucy had refused to follow till he
could accompany her.  At last, after many refusals,
Colonel Schofield had agreed to Captain Graeme's going
in October, three months ahead, not a day before.

A change now was more than ever imperative for Lucy,
on whom, in addition to her other troubles, a further
burden had been laid—one for which she had always longed,
but which in her present feeble condition threatened to
overwhelm her.  To all the doctors' entreaties, to go home
in the spring and let Hector follow her six months later,
she refused to listen, her only concession being to spend
the hot weather in Chillata, instead of remaining in Riwala
with her husband as she originally intended.

Here he would be able to run up for the very few days'
leave he could hope to obtain.  They would be in the same
country, at any rate, and if he were ill she would know at
once, and have a home ready for him to come to; whereas,
by the other plan, thousands of miles of sea would be
between them, and anything might happen to him even
without her knowing—things in India occurred with such
appalling suddenness.

Hector, on his part, had done his best.  He had rented
one of the best, though unfashionably situated, houses in
Chillata, and personally superintended every detail for her
comfort.  He even accompanied her on the long, tedious
fifty-mile carriage drive up the hill, a special comfortable
landau having been chartered by him for the journey,
instead of the ordinary two-wheeled tonga usually employed
by travellers to that place.  This was a most unwonted
attention on Hector's part, who had hitherto held himself
aloof from all such matters, leaving them to be dealt with
by Lucy, even to such details as the packing of his personal
belongings and arrangements for the transport of ponies, etc.

Like Lucy, he too had changed much of late, and now
showed a consideration and affection of which even she
would never have believed him capable.  Of what had
brought this about she was ignorant, nor did Hector
himself know exactly.  Remorse for O'Hagan's death was
certainly not the cause, or even regret for the pain caused to
his wife; nevertheless he too had been shaken, not by the
act itself—the memory of which troubled him not at
all—but by the revelation within him of some tremendous
capacity for evil, rendering him a thing apart from his
fellows.  The knowledge of this for a time had shaken even
his callous soul, and given birth to a feverish desire to be as
others are, to feel as they felt, to live as they lived.

With this feeling within him, he laid himself out to please
Lucy, anticipating her every want and devoting himself
to her to an extent that caused Graeme's uxoriousness, as
it was called, to become a byword, especially in Chillata,
where connubial devotion was a somewhat unusual thing.
Hector was far too desperately in earnest to care for the
world's sneers; they didn't know what his object was,
how should they?  He redoubled his efforts, and now that
a child was to be born to them strove with all his might to
interest himself in the baby's coming—little liking as he
had for children—for in the cultivation of such purely
natural feelings as affection for wife and child, he realised
dimly, could he hope to stifle the monster of whose existence
he alone was aware.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, Lucy knew
nothing of all this.  She was too sane and healthy-minded to
be able to comprehend such a nature as her husband's,
and with the curious fatality that had always marked her
dealings with him, she now, instead of aiding, rather
frustrated his efforts, and always, sadly enough, to her own
undoing.  It was not want of tact on her part, for of that
quality Lucy had more than most, but simply that, being
so normal herself, the comprehension of the abnormal was
beyond her understanding; and, though touched and
pleased with her husband's constant wish to be always with
her, she yet fought against it, believing that he stayed
solely to please her.  With this idea in her mind, she was
constantly urging him to leave her, and mix more with his
kind; it was unnatural, she declared, for a man to wish to
remain in the house all day with, at most, an hour's walk
as his sole exercise.  Of course, it was sweet of him to wish
to be with her, and she appreciated the thought, but she
would much rather he didn't; she could get on very well
by herself, and he would always be home before dark.

Hector, driven in upon himself, would go off on long
solitary rides—the worst thing for him—leaving Lucy
happy in the consciousness of an unselfish action.  How
well she understood him, she thought, and what a dear he
was.  True, there was that one episode of the race-meeting—to
which she owed the present state of her nerves—but
even for that she had by now come to account.  It had
been an accident after all, she was certain, and Hector, to
gratify his vanity, had made out it was intentional, and
was hence naturally unable to feel the remorse, which she
and Peter Carson, in their ignorance, had expected of him.
Callous?  Not he, why, every action of his since then had
shown him to be the very reverse.

Gradually, braced by the clear Chillata air, and the
prospect of a speedy return home, Lucy, though still feeble,
had somewhat recovered, and with the arrival of her
husband, on a quite unexpected two months' leave, was now
almost happy.  For the first two weeks after his coming
she had been somewhat anxious, for talk in Chillata was
almost exclusively of war, and the place thronged with
applicants to be sent out to South Africa.  Only too well
did she realise Hector's vanity, and feared that he also,
solely from a morbid disinclination to be left in the
background, might in his turn apply; and she knew he would
certainly succeed, as he always did, when those dreadful
sudden fits of determination came upon him.  It was
therefore with a feeling of heartfelt relief that she saw him,
apparently, in no way interested in the matter, though,
had she known his mind, it is possible she would not have
been so lighthearted on the subject, and would have been
more than ever touched by a further proof of his devotion.
For exactly what she had feared was in her husband's
mind, and for that reason Hector avoided Chillata assemblies
like the plague, refused to attend the theatre, despite
Lucy's urgings, and, when obliged to pass that way, hurried
by the Military Offices without a glance.

He was now, on this September morning, brooding over
the subject, a crumpled copy of the *Pioneer* in his hand,
detailing some fresh disaster, which he felt bitterly, had
he been in command, would have been no defeat, but a
brilliant success.  For a week without intermission it
had rained steadily, rendering even the short morning and
evening walks impossible; and day after day, night after
night, the rain had poured drearily down, rattling on the
corrugated iron of the roof, turning Lucy's small garden
into a quagmire, and shrouding the surrounding hills and
valleys with a pall of white vapour.  Small streams had
become torrents; hill paths running rivulets; while from
weeping fir-tree and chestnut sounded the continuous drip
of water on dank fern and rotting vegetation.  As Hector
looked and heard, a feeling of depression came over him,
and with it that other self began to make itself heard.  The
longing came over him to be off at once to the Military Offices,
send in his application, and go, for despite the constant
refusal to others, he had no doubt of success, were he to apply.

"Three weeks more of this," he reflected, "then two
months' idling in the plains, and after that home, a year's
loafing again, while others are making names and passing
me.  It's that which galls me, being out of it, I who could
leave them all if I chose.  Oh, curse my folly of five years
ago, impulsive fool that I was; I could have got out of it
easily too, if only they hadn't opposed me.  If they'd made
it easy, I don't think somehow I'd have persisted.  Oh,
damnation take it, here am I, with the best wife in the world,
regretting.  Apply?  Not I.  Oh, thank God, here she
is.  Lucy dear," throwing down the paper, and hurrying
forward to meet the pale ghost who now entered, "it's
good to see you down so early.  Here's your chair, I've
got the cushions and everything ready for you.  There,"
settling her comfortably and tucking the shawl round her
feet, "now tell me how you feel, better?"

"Much better, Hector dear, thanks to you and the way
you cheer me up.  I'm afraid I'm rather a burden to you
now, and so very plain and unattractive.  You can't call
me pretty, as you used to."

"Nonsense, Lucy, you're prettier than ever, and far
more attractive to me now, naturally."

"Oh no, I'm not, Hector.  You only say that because,
because ... you're the best husband in the world,
so different from most men to their wives.  But isn't that
the *Pioneer*, any news of the war?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Lucy; the war, as you know,
doesn't interest me."

"But surely it ought to, besides, there are so many we
know fighting out there.  Oh, Hector, how thankful I am
you're not one of those who volunteered.  It would have
broken my heart had you done so."

Hector turned sharply away, and walking to the window
remained for a moment staring out into the mist.

"Lucy," he said suddenly, "why did you always oppose
my retiring?  I could have done so before the war started,
now I can't."

"Because I didn't want to spoil your life, Hector.  I
want you to command your regiment, not settle down yet;
you're too young.  It was for your sake I refused.  I
should have loved it myself."

"And at the same time you don't want me to see active
service," said Hector, with a somewhat justifiable show of
irritation.  "Can't you see, Lucy, that not being in this
war will certainly prove a bar to my own or anybody else's
chance of future command?"

"But you *have* seen active service, Hector.  Surely once
is enough for any man, besides, you did so well then,
everyone knows you ought to have got the V.C.  Oh, by the
way, I have meant to ask you for some time, do you know
a——  Oh, bother, there's a caller, don't go.  Hector,
it's only Mrs. Swaine.  How do you do, Mrs. Swaine?"
to the lady who was ushered in by the bearer.

"So glad to find you in, Mrs. Graeme," said the
new-comer.  "I came round to ask whether you and your
husband would care to come round to lunch to-day.  Rather
short notice, I'm afraid, but my nephew has just received
orders for South Africa; he goes to-night, and I'm inviting
a few friends to give him a send-off."

"Your nephew? oh, how dreadful for you, Mrs. Swaine,
I'm so sorry."

"Oh, I don't know, after all, it's what soldiers are for,
and Tom's really very fortunate to be selected.
Everyone's applying nowadays, you know, and nearly all are
refused.  They only take the best men, and Tom, though
he is my nephew, is very highly thought of at Headquarters."

"They'd like my husband to go, I know," said Lucy,
up in arms at once, "he only has to apply."

"Oh, really?  I didn't know they'd take married men.
Sir Henry told me the other day they wouldn't.  Anyway,
I'm sure Captain Graeme wouldn't think of leaving you
... now," with an arch smile at the frowning Hector, "the
thing's quite unthinkable.  But about lunch, will you come?"

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Swaine, I should like to,
but I'm afraid my husband——"

"Oh, I'll come," said Hector.

"Capital," said the lady.  "Well, I must be off, I've got
all sorts of things to see about.  Good-bye, you two, so glad,"
and away trotted Mrs. Swaine, leaving silence behind her.

"Hector dear," said Lucy, after a pause, "you didn't mind
what that woman said?  She's a good soul really, only
tactless."

"Not I," said Hector, "but you were saying something
when she came in.  You asked me if I knew——"

"Oh yes, General Quentin, such a curious person, Hector.
They call him Golliwog here, and I should say he has
about as much intelligence.  Really, I don't think I ever
met such a dull person in my life before."

"He's one of the few men I know, Lucy, whose opinion
I respect.  Also, he's the only fellow in the army from whom
I ever learnt anything."

"Good gracious, Hector," said Lucy, surprised, for such
commendation of a military superior was something very
novel.  "I didn't know you'd ever seen the man.  Tell
me about it."

"Oh, it was after that Mortlock affair, he spoke to me
then, snubbed Schofield too—did it jolly well."

"That was nice of him, Hector, and of course I only saw
him for a few minutes; he didn't even know my name.
I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll invite him to dinner."

"Certainly not, Lucy," was the unexpected answer,
"why, he's Adjutant-General."

"What does that matter?  He'll come, and you must
have somebody to talk to besides me, we'll ask him for
to-morrow night; it's your birthday, you know, though I
suppose you've forgotten that.  Had you, Hector?"

"I had.  I'm a fool about dates, as you know; but,
Lucy, please don't ask Quentin."

"No, I won't please, I'm going to; you like him, and that's
enough.  Oh, look, Hector, the sun, a break in the rains
at last.  Now I'll write the note, and you shall take it; the
ride will do you good, and you can meet me at the Swaines."

"Lucy, I'd much sooner stay here with you."

"No, I've got things to do, I must get on with my sewing,
and I can't do that while you're here."

"Why not?  I'm interested in that sewing.  Oh, I do
wish, Lucy, you'd let me know a little more about—about
the infant.  I really want to, and you never will talk about it."

"Of course not, such things are not for a man to know
about.  I intend to keep everything of that sort from you,
dear.  When he or she comes it will be different, but till
then you mustn't ask questions."

"But, Lucy, can't you understand——?" began Hector.

"Perfectly, and it's sweet of you to be interested, or
rather appear to be, for of course you're not really; no man
could be in such details, and a woman would be a fool to
expect it.  Now go, like a good boy, and order the pony
while I write the note."

She turned away and sat down at her writing-desk,
leaving Hector standing looking at her, with a baffled
expression on his face.  For a moment he remained irresolute,
then walked slowly away to order the pony, and presently
returned to Lucy.

"Here's the letter, Hector," handing it to him.  "You'd
better go to the Military Offices, you'll find him there now;
and I wonder, would you mind getting me some ribbons
at Lace's when you pass?"

"Yes, I'll do that for you gladly, Lucy, but not the other."

Lucy looked at him, and then suddenly her eyes filled
with tears.

"Very well, Hector.  It's only a little thing I ask of you,
but of course if you won't; and I understand, you—you'd
rather your friend didn't see me like this.  I—I know I'm
dull and plain, but—but——"

"Give me the note, Lucy," said Hector quietly.  "I'll
take it, and enter the Military Offices for the first time since
I've been here."  He went out, and, mounting the pony,
departed on his mission.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



As Lucy had said, there was a break in the rains, and for
a while the dense canopy of cloud burst asunder, and lay
in sullen banked-up masses girdling the horizon.  A blue
sky glared overhead, from which shone a bright sun, its
rays burning down on dripping tree and sodden ground,
forcing from the latter a thick steam, odorous of damp earth,
reeking fern, and rotting leaves.

The sound of running water filled the air, from the faint
murmur of tiny rills, threading their way through emerald
moss and tangled undergrowth, to the roar of swollen
torrents thundering down the hillside on their way to
parent streams below, faint gleams of silver appearing at
intervals through the luxuriant vegetation clothing the
valley depths.  Beyond gleamed the mountains, no longer
parched and bare as three weeks before, but clad in velvet
green, veined with silver threads glittering in the sunlight,
as they too danced on their way to the river below.

Graeme noticed none of these things, for the depression
of the morning had now deepened to heavy gloom, and with
it had come a sense of foreboding, the feeling of being driven
on by destiny, which, struggle as he might, he was
powerless to resist.

Two or three times, in obedience to a faint far-off and
in some way strangely reproachful voice, he reined in
his pony and paused, the inclination to return strong upon
him, but then, cursing himself for an irresolute fool,
he rode on.  As he passed through the Mall, crowded
with folk, who, like butterflies, had emerged from seclusion
to desport themselves in the welcome sunshine, the feeling
of foreboding grew, till, on reaching the Military Offices,
so loud had the voice become that he then and there
determined to obey it and return.  Arriving at this decision, he
experienced a sense of great relief; the cloud of gloom
lifted from his mind, and, feeling strangely light-hearted,
he was turning his horse about, when the animal suddenly
stumbled, recovered himself, and then went on; but he
was dead lame.  "Picked up a stone," muttered his rider,
and, dismounting, was proceeding to extract a sharp,
three-cornered flint wedged between the frog and shoe, when a
voice hailed him.

"Good morning, Graeme, what are you doing here?"

"Nothing," answered Hector, "a ride, that's all.  Just
going back.  Curse this stone."

Captain Pushful, for that person it was, winked solemnly.

"'Nothing,'" he said, "'only a ride,' just so, that's
what I'm here for, that's what we all come to the Offices
for; it's no use, though, Golliwog won't see you, none of
'em will.  I ought to know, for I've tried most of 'em.
Going to have a go at his Excellency, though, this
afternoon; we'll see what that will do.  Another choking off,
I suppose, but no matter."

"What on earth for?"

"Same old thing, to get out to South Africa.  I'll do it
yet, though, in spite of 'em all."—It may here be remarked
that Captain Pushful was eventually sent out; De Boudoir,
indeed, offered to pay his passage to get rid of him—"But
surely you're not having a shot?  It's no earthly use for
you, believe me, you're married.  He won't see you, I tell
you," as, the stone extracted, Hector moved away.

"He certainly would, if I wanted him to," said Graeme,
stopping; "but, as it happens, I don't."

"I'll bet you he doesn't."

"Oh, all right then, we'll see," and Hector, tying up his
pony to the rails, mounted the steps leading to the Offices.

"Which way?" he asked; "d'you know?"

"Do I know," answered Pushful, with some scorn,
"couldn't I draw a plan of the whole rotten place by now?
You come with me; I'll have another try too.  I'll ask him
if he's got my application."

"Hang it, we can't both go."

"Oh yes, we can," and, regardless of Graeme's protests,
Pushful led the way to the door of De Boudoir's room,
and, without knocking, entered.

"Can I see——" began both simultaneously.

"No, you can't.  Oh Lord, it's you again," said De
Boudoir wrathfully, seeing Pushful, who had thrust
himself ahead of Graeme.  "By the Poker, but I'll have you
out of this double quick," and, springing up, he seized
Pushful, who was stealing past to the Adjutant-General's
door, by the collar, and after a short but sharp struggle
succeeded in putting him outside.

"And now for you," he began, turning to the other
visitant.  "It's no use, I tell you beforehand; the Chief won't
see anyone.  Oh, it's you, Graeme; I beg your pardon.
I was just writing a note to you, asking you to come round.
The General wants to see you.  That door; go in quietly;
he's a bit upset this morning."

Upon which Graeme knocked, and a testy "Come in"
answering him, entered.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX

.. vspace:: 2

"Well, what is it now," said Quentin, not
looking up from his papers as Graeme
entered, "and what the devil's all that
row about?  Damn it, De Boudoir, if you want to play
'Box and Cox,' you must find another....  Oh, good
morning, Graeme; I didn't see it was you.  Glad to meet
you again.  How are you?"

"All right, thank you, sir.  I'm sorry to disturb you; I
only came to——"

"Yes, yes, I know; I sent for you.  Wait a minute, will
you, till I've finished this letter, I've something to say to
you.  Sit down; smoke if you like; there are cigarettes."

Graeme took one from the box pushed towards him, and
lighting it sat back in his chair and waited till the other
had finished.  What on earth, he wondered, could the
Adjutant-General have to say to him?  Surely it didn't
mean that Colonel Schofield had already submitted his
application for leave home, and it had arrived at
Headquarters, only to be refused?  Yes, that must be it, and
Quentin had now sent for him to inform him of the fact.
At the thought, Graeme was seized with anger, and he
braced himself for fight.  He wouldn't stand it, not he; he
would speak his mind, and tell this Jack-in-office,
Adjutant-General though he was, that he had made up his
mind ...

Suddenly he became aware that the scratching of the pen
had ceased, and that Quentin was regarding him with the
same unwinking stare with which he had favoured him
three years before at Fort Hussein.

"Have you ever met a Colonel Bradford, Graeme," he
asked abruptly, "now commanding at Gurrumbad?"

"I think I have, sir; he dined with the regiment last
manoeuvres," answered Graeme, his anger giving way to
surprise at the unexpectedness of the question.  What
was the man driving at, he wondered.

"Does he know you?" was the next and equally abrupt query.

"I don't think so, sir, by sight possibly, but that's all."

"Hum ... pity."

A pause, then Quentin went on.

"He's one of the rising men, Graeme, one of the cleverest
they ever had at the Staff College, they tell me; did well,
too at last cold weather manoeuvres."

"Indeed, sir," muttered Graeme, his perplexity increasing.

"They've just given him the command of a brigade in
South Africa, and he has written to me asking if I know of
a"—a pause—"a suitable A.D.C."

Enlightenment at last, and with it the blood rushed to
Hector's face.  His forehead grew wet, and the room reeled
before him.  Far off he heard Quentin's voice continuing:

"It's a great chance, Graeme, for any soldier, and after
consideration I've determined to offer the post to you."

"But, but ... sir, I'd give my soul to go, but——"

"You're thinking about the recommendation, I suppose,
from your Colonel.  He won't give it; is that what you
mean?"

"No, he would not, sir," said Graeme, snatching at a straw.

"Hum, that's a pity, a very great pity.  A Colonel's
word, you know, Graeme, goes for a lot in these matters.
Still, this is a purely personal appointment, and if I
choose to take the risk of recommending you in spite of
unfavourable reports, well, that's my lookout.  And I'm
prepared to take it, Graeme."

Silence.

"I'm prepared to take it, Captain Graeme," repeated
Quentin, his eyes now like lamps.  "What's the matter,
aren't you well?"

"Yes, sir, only—only rather taken by surprise, sir."

"I hope you'll do me credit, Graeme."

"I—I'll try, sir.  Thank you."

"I'm sure you will, and now I must ask you to leave me,
I've got a good three hours' work here," laying his hand
on the papers before him.  "I'll wire to Bradford at once,
and let you know his answer this afternoon; but I think I
can tell you beforehand it will be all right.  You'd better
go home now and pack.  Good-day."

"Good-day, sir," and Graeme stumbled out of the office
and along the stone-flagged passage leading from it, till he
found himself once more at the steps, on the top of which
was seated Pushful, pensively smoking a pipe.

On seeing Hector he sprang up, with inquiry in his eye,
but the other passed by unheeding.  Declining an offer of
his company in a manner that even Pushful recognised as
final, he unhitched his pony from the rails, and rode
off—Lucy, ribbons, and the Swaines' luncheon party completely
forgotten.  Arrived at home, he entered the house, and
deaf to the bearer's offers of lunch went off to his room,
where, locking the door, he flung himself down on the bed
and tried to grasp the reality of what had happened.  "I
am going out to South Africa; to-morrow at this time I
shall be gone," he repeated to himself for the hundredth
time.  But in vain—the words conveyed no meaning, and
his thoughts wandered off into a confused labyrinth of
trivial matters.

Finally, in desperation, he sprang up and hurried out
to the garden, where for a time he walked up and down the
sodden paths, and then gradually realisation came, and
with it an intense feeling of remorse and unavailing regret.
Oh, cursed unstable fool that he'd been, thus to allow
himself to be driven into the very thing he had vowed to
avoid.  Where was his boasted strength, where the
resolutions of the last three years?  Gone, all gone.  At a word
from a stranger, he had betrayed the only being who loved
him.  From a weak-minded inability to refuse, he had
accepted a thing for which he had not only no wish, but
actual loathing, and brought misery on one whose only
thought and wish were for his happiness.  To leave her
now, alone here amongst strangers, to get home as best she
might, oh God!  And, thoughts crowding thick upon
Hector, he clenched his hands and cursed.

Then suddenly through the darkness shone a gleam, one
of those that always come when the hour is blackest: the
hope of the coup that haunts the ruined gambler; the
dream of reprieve to the criminal on his way to the scaffold—false,
always false, mere Will-o'-the-wisps, but clung to and
believed in always.  Perhaps he might not be sent after all,
Quentin must have seen his disinclination, he had thought
his manner cold when he said good-bye.  No, he would
choose someone else, someone who wanted to go, like that
fool who was sitting on the Office steps—not him.  Why,
two hours had already elapsed since he left; if a wire had
been coming it would have been here by this time, and
Lucy ought to be back by now from the Swaines—good
heavens, he had forgotten all about the luncheon party.
Never mind, he would make it up to her, he would show
her a devotion that would surprise even her, would make
her so happy, and this time there should be no mistake.
He had had his last lesson, and, once home, in would go his
papers and ...

"Chitthi sahib, Faujdari dufta say aya,"[#] said a voice
at his elbow, and looking round he saw his bearer holding
out a salver on which lay a letter.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] "Letter from the Military Offices, sir."

.. vspace:: 2

"Jao,[#]" said Graeme, and snatching up the document
strode away with it, the man looking curiously after him.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Go.

.. vspace:: 2

At the far end of the garden he stopped and looked at
the envelope, with dread in his heart; then, suddenly
clenching his teeth, tore it open, and seizing the paper
within, read at a glance:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"DEAR GRAEME,

.. vspace:: 1

"It's all right.  Colonel Bradford agrees.  Report
yourself to him at Gurnimbad to-morrow night.  You
needn't wait for official orders.  Good luck.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Yours,
      "C. QUENTIN."

.. vspace:: 2

As he stood staring at the words, the sound of rickshaw
wheels was heard coming along the road towards the house.
It was Lucy returning from the Swaines'.  For a moment
he remained listening.  Then, crushing the letter into his
pocket, he ran towards the house, gaining its sanctuary just
as the rickshaw men trotted briskly up the drive.

"Where is the sahib," he heard from where he stood
hovering within, "and what has he had for lunch?" much
outspoken indignation greeting the bearer's answer that
the master had not deigned to eat the meal provided.

"Of course he'd eat, it's your fault and the cook's if he
didn't.  Hector, where are you?  Oh, there you are, why
didn't you come out to meet me as you always do?  Oh,
Hector, I'm so sorry about your lunch, those stupid servants;
and there was a guinea-fowl and the ham and——"

"It—it wasn't their fault, Lucy.  They had the—the
things ready, but I refused; I didn't feel like eating."

"Hector, you're ill; your voice is different somehow;
come into the light, dear, and let me see," but Hector
hung back.

"I'm all right, Lucy," he said hurriedly.  "I've got
rather a fit of the blues, that's all."

"And no wonder, being without food all this time.
We'll have tea at once.  Abdul, bring tea and two eggs for
the sahib.  And now sit down, and I'll tell you about the
Swaines.  Oh, Hector, why didn't you come?  I was so
disappointed."

"I—I was rather late getting back, Lucy.  I—I—who
was there?"

"Lots of people, and we'd such fun, not a bit like a
farewell party.  Captain Dance was there, you know, the
man who does the comic parts at the theatre.  And he was
really most amusing, quite cheered me up, and—and oh,
Hector, dear, he's given us a box for the theatre to-morrow
night; you will come just for once, won't you?  He's got a
new song about Kruger, and I believe it's too funny.  Oh,
heavens, though, I forgot, General Quentin, don't say
he's coming, please, Hector."

"He's—he's not, Lucy; he's rather busy just now, and——"

"Thank goodness, I should have been so disappointed,
and we'll have a nice little dinner here together, just you
and I, and go on to the play afterwards.  Oh dear, I feel
quite excited about it, I hope you do too, Hector."

"Lucy, my dearest."

"And Omar shall have a blue ribbon.  Oh bother——"

"Omar?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to tell you, dear, not till to-morrow;
but I've got a cat for you, my birthday present, Hector.
He's a Persian, that's why I call him Omar, not very
brilliant I fear, but I'm not clever, as you know only too
well."

"Clever, you're the dearest——"

"But not clever, Hector, don't say so, because I know.
Oh, I'd love to be clever like you."

"Me?  Good heavens!"

"Yes, but about Omar.  I know how you missed poor
Fop, and I've meant to get you another in his place for a
long time, but couldn't find one good enough.  He's white,
Hector, and rather nice, come along now and inspect
him."

"Lucy, wait.  I—I've something to tell you, something
terrible, dear, has happened, and—and—oh, my God, how
can I say it?"

"Hector, what do you mean?" the smile dying away.

"I ... they ... I'm ordered to South Africa, Lucy."

For a moment she stood staring at him, with no
comprehension in her eyes.

"South Africa," she repeated; "you—are going to—South
Africa," and then suddenly she rushed forward and
flung herself on her knees before him.  "Hector, Hector,"
she said wildly, "it's not true, tell me it isn't.  You can't
leave me, you can't, do you hear?"  She tried to drag his
hands from his face, but in vain.  Then her mood changed,
and she rose and stood before him, her eyes blazing in her
white face.

"So—so you've volunteered like the rest, you whom I
called only this morning 'the best husband in the
world.'  You'll go off and leave me as I am, helpless and alone,
oh, what are men made of to do these things?"

"Lucy, I did not volunteer.  I was weak, criminally
weak, if you like, but that I did not do; the thing was
forced upon me.  Will you listen?"

"Go on."

Hector told her, and, as is usual with such recitals,
suppressed the evidences of his own weakness, insisting on the
fact that, as Quentin had put the matter, he had no choice
but to accept, that it had been less an offer than an order.
He didn't want to go, he repeated again and again, he never
had had any wish to go, and let Lucy but say the word, he
would wire to Bradford this minute to refuse.  He would
say he was ill, he would be ill, there was stuff in his
medicine-chest upstairs.  And then he stopped bewildered,
for Lucy was smiling at him, a smile oddly in contrast with
her white face and despairing eyes.

"No, Hector," she said, "you mustn't do that; you
must go, dear."

"I won't, Lucy, what do I care for what they say?"

"But I do, dear; and—and, Hector, I was wrong in
what I said just now, but I thought it was your own doing,
and that you had volunteered.  It was that which hurt me,
dear, and made me say what I did; and—and I know you
despise Mrs. Swaine and those other people, but they
taught me a lesson this afternoon.  She felt her nephew's
going—I know that, because I found her crying afterwards
in her room—but she never showed it to him.  She was all
smiles before him and the others, as I shall be when—when
the time comes, Hector.  When is it, dear?"

"To-morrow morning, but——"

"To-morrow?  Then—then we've very little time; I
must go and see to your things; and we'll keep your
birthday to-night, dear, instead of ... and Omar shall
have his blue ribbon."

"Lucy, for God's sake listen to me before we decide.  I
have a feeling about this.  I know somehow I ought not to
go, that if I do, it will be an irrevocable step.  Oh, I can't
explain, but—but I feel that—that this is my last chance.
Something is dragging me, Lucy, I am being driven, God
knows where!  I have felt it before, I felt it only this
morning on my way to those cursed Offices, and I know too
that you and the baby alone can save me.  Oh, Lucy, if
you love me, tell me to stay."

"It's because I love you, Hector, that I now ask you to
go.  It's everything to me your wanting to remain; but,
dearest, I cannot let you—I should be wickedly selfish if
I did; and what you say about that feeling is wrong too,
dear; it is morbid and unhealthy.  Fight it down, Hector;
it is nothing, and—and soon you will come back to me, and
there will be the baby, and we—we shall be so happy, and
we couldn't be if we were to shirk our duty when it's come.
But I must leave you now, no, you stay here, dear;
you—you would only hinder me," and she went.

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Next morning, with the rain pouring down upon him,
Hector rode away, and, as he reached the gate opening on
to the main road, he stopped and looked back at the still
figure watching him from the dripping verandah.  For a
moment he stood fighting the strange, wild impulse to
return, and then, mastering it once and for ever, galloped
away through the downpour.





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.. _`CHAPTER X`:

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   BOOK II

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   CHAPTER X

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Many thousands of miles away from high-perched
fir-clad Chillata—now no longer rain-drenched
and sad, but a white fairy-land of glistening
ice and snow—a large column of mounted men was
slowly toiling its way through a waste of rocky mountains.
A weary-looking column it was, the men silent and
sullen-faced; the animals dull-eyed, with their ribs showing
through tightly-stretched coats.  On they crawled, mile
after mile, now breasting the side of some stony
mountain, now sinking into the airless depths of gloomy gorge
or desolate valley.  Lower and lower dropped the sun, and
then, with one last blinding flash of light, was gone, leaving
the western sky aflame with specks of burning cloud.

Rapidly the light began to fade, a veil of hazy blue blurred
the mountains, a few stars twinkled feebly overhead;
and then at last came the welcome order to halt.  The men
clambered wearily down, and led the horses away to where
a staff officer was standing, looking dubiously down at a
few pools of muddy water, the remains of a sometime
rushing torrent.  Directing and objurgating the sullen men, he
remained till the last beast had drunk and gone; and then
he too turned away in search of such cheer as he might hope
to find in the Headquarter Mess.

For weeks past the present day's work had been but a
repetition of its predecessor: the rise before the dawn; the
eventless trek through veldt and mountain; the bivouac
in some hot valley, where alone water could be hoped for;
the dreamless sleep, hard upon the unappetising meal; and
then once more the awakening and profitless resumption of
the march.  For profitless it seemed, this pursuit of the
elusive Dutchman, Van der Tann, rebel and murderer,
whose capture many had attempted, but all, so far, failed
to achieve.

Six weeks before, full of hope and confidence in their
leader, despite the gloomy prophecies of those who had
attempted the task before, this column had started on its
quest, and so far not one man of the hostile commando had
they seen; apparently at its ease, it kept just one march
ahead, which distance, strive as he might, Colonel Bradford
found himself powerless to lessen.

Gradually, in the column, hope had died out, and with
its death came the longing for the comforts of civilisation:
hot baths, whiskey and cigarettes for the officers, beer and
tobacco for the men—luxuries that for the past three weeks
they had been without.  The former grew slack and dispirited;
the latter sullen, in the last few days, indeed, almost
openly mutinous, a state of things of which their leader was
only too well aware, and which in his heart, secretly as
hopeless as theirs, he knew himself powerless to combat.
He was thinking of these things, and even meditating the
abandonment of his quest, as he sat on the hillside
overlooking the bivouac, and gloomily noted the air of
unwillingness pervading the men below.

Surely it was justifiable to give up now, he thought; he
had done all that a man could, but the task set was beyond
him or anyone else; better to accept the inevitable and go
back.  He was but wearing out men and horses in a vain
quest, and to force the march on was to risk the
catastrophe of mutiny and consequent ruin of his career.  His
authority, he knew well, only hung by a hair, and the mere
writing out of orders for the next day had become a
torment, so fearful was he of a flat refusal to obey; only, last
night their issue had been received with "booing"—a
sound that had filled him with nervous dread.  Despite
his present despondency, Colonel Bradford's reputation
was that of a good and able commander; and since landing
in the country five months before his career had been one
of unbroken success.  Cool in action, ready of resource,
and deeply read in military lore, he had, as a brigade
commander in the main body, won high opinions from superiors
and subordinates alike, and it had been in the full hope
of a successful issue that to him had been entrusted the
capture of the notorious and hitherto undefeated Van der
Tann.

Unsuspected by all, however, in Bradford's character
there was a weak spot, which events so far had failed to
discover, and that was the inability to hold on his way,
unmoved by the opinions of those around him.  Give him
a willing army to lead and all was well, but, let the men
become discouraged and show hostility to authority, he
also, only too soon, came to share the one feeling and fear
the other.  The double task of overcoming them as well as
the enemy was beyond him—as it is to all save the
Marlboroughs and Wellingtons of history—and in the present
crisis, instead of rooting up the sprouting weeds of
insubordination, his sole desire, and that the most fatal of all,
was to conciliate the malcontents, with the inevitable
result that the murmuring grew daily louder.

There was one, and, probably the only one in the
column, who was not only unaffected by the general
depression, but rather stimulated by it, and that was
Captain Hector Graeme.  So far, in his novel *rôle* of A.D.C.,
he had failed to justify his selection for the post by General
Quentin; indeed, Bradford had many times thought hard
things of the Adjutant-General to the Indian Forces, for
providing him with a staff officer so negligent and ignorant
of his work.

On more than one occasion he had had just reason for
complaint, Hector's arrangements as to messing and the
transport of his chief's baggage having only too often
proved defective, while his cavalier treatment of senior
officers had brought more than one rebuke on his careless
head.  His sartorial eccentricities, too, were a source of
constant irritation to Colonel Bradford, for now that he
was no longer a regimental officer he had given free rein to
his taste for original garments; and, bizarre as were many
of the uniforms worn at that time in South Africa, Hector,
in unconventionality and strangeness of attire, eclipsed
them all.

Several times Bradford, stung by the remarks of distinguished
visitors to his Mess, had debated the advisability
of sending Graeme about his business, or at any rate
palming him off on some unwary new-comer, but somehow he
had never done so; and in the last fortnight had come to
be glad of his forbearance.  For during that time a
surprising change had come over his A.D.C.  In proportion
as the spirits of the rest went down, his went up, and no
matter how long or profitless the day Hector never seemed
tired or depressed, but, on the contrary, cheerful and full
of fight.  And gradually Bradford, harassed by doubts
and the unresponsiveness of his followers, began to turn to
his erstwhile obnoxious A.D.C., whose confidence in
ultimate success seemed to increase daily, and who alone
amongst his fellows appeared to be thoroughly enjoying
the present expedition.

He looked at him now as he lay on his back close by,
calm and content, the end of a "Pinhead" cigarette—given
him a the rate of one daily by his servant from the
latter's scanty store—between his teeth, and, as he looked,
he sighed.  He wished that he too could feel like that.
Hector heard the sigh, and, instantly opening his eyes, sat up
and gazed meditatively at the mob of men and horses below.

"Hard as nails, those horses," he observed cheerfully,
"do their thirty miles a day easy now; never so fit in their
lives before."

"I don't know what you call fit, Graeme," was the moody
answer, "they're all skin and bone.  Worn out, that's
what they are; look at the way they're standing."

"Only healthily tired, they'll be bucking after a night's
rest.  The men seem a bit sullen though, the brutes.  What
the dickens do they want, I wonder?  Fine weather, grand
country, and quite enough to eat.  Damn it, they've not
fed those mules yet.  I'll soon see about that," rising as he
spoke.

"Better leave the men alone, Graeme; poor devils,
they're tired too.  For heaven's sake don't hustle them,
they'll only lose their temper and answer back."

"Lose their temper, will they?  So will I, then, and I'll
warrant mine's worse than theirs."

"There's a time, Graeme, you know, when it's better to
shut one's eyes—the velvet glove, you know;" but Hector
had gone, and was now making his way to where a group
of men were sitting in a circle, at some distance from the
famished mules.

"Velvet glove be hanged," he muttered as he went;
"that's all right when the steel hand's inside, not the
flabby digits your gloves contain.  Damn, you may be a
devilish fine tactician or strategist, but you don't
understand men.  I do, and always have," and he strode on,
the light of battle in his eyes.

Sick with nervous apprehension, Bradford watched him
approach the group, and, as he reached it, say something to
one of its members.  The man, turning his head, looked
up without rising, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders,
was resuming his conversation when Hector rushed at him,
seized him by the collar, and dragged him to his feet.
The others jumped up and gazed in astonishment at the
intruder; a murmur of anger arose, but was almost instantaneously
silenced, quelled by a fury such as staggered their
dull souls.  For a few minutes the winged words flew, and
then Bradford saw Hector wheel round on the first man and
point to the mules.  Slowly the fellow was slouching off,
when for the second time Graeme was on him, and, whirling
him round, again spoke, when the man's hand went to his
cap in a salute, and he stood stiffly at attention.  Another
order was given, on which the rest ranged themselves into
line, were numbered off by fours—the proving being
repeated three times before the requisite smartness was
attained—and the men were marched briskly away to the
waiting mules, which they proceeded to feed, Hector
supervising.  This operation completed, he rejoined his chief.

"Bit and spur, not sugar, for a tired horse," he observed,
resuming his seat on the ground.  "It's not the men's
fault, though; they'd be all right if properly managed."

"What did you say to them, Graeme?  It seems to have
been pretty effective, whatever it was."

"Cursed them well, sir, called them every name I could
lay my tongue to.  That big fellow I promised to shoot if
he spoke again.  I'd have done it too, devilish near thing
as it was."

"What?"

"Certainly I would, it was him or me.  Obedience I
meant having, and if he wasn't going to give it, he'd have
got hurt, that's all."

"This is not the German Army, Graeme."

"No, if it were we shouldn't keep the useless devils we
do in command.  Old Carthew, for instance; I wish you'd
let me have a go at him, sir."

"Kindly remember, Graeme, you're speaking of a senior
officer."

"Well, if I am, sir, I'm only saying what every one in
the column knows.  Why, last night at dinner, before his
officers, he said that our present expedition was hopeless,
and that he had reason to believe you thought so too."

Bradford was silent.

"Of course, he ought not to have said that, Graeme," he
answered after a pause, "but I'm afraid he's only
expressing the general feeling."

"What does that matter, sir, if it's not yours?"

"But ... perhaps it is mine, Graeme; it's certainly
that of my staff officer, Major Godwin."

"Godwin?  An old woman."

"Graeme!"

"So he is, if he advises giving up; and it's all very well
for him, he won't get the blame—you will.  He'll probably
say afterwards too, he was all for going on, but you
wouldn't."

Again Bradford was silent.  From what he knew of
staff officers, he thought that this was more than likely to
be true, and the idea was unpleasant.  And then a fatal
and ever-to-be-regretted moment of weakness came over
him, and he turned to Graeme.

"What would you advise, then?" he said.  "I don't
mind owning I'm done."

"Try for a bit longer, anyway," was the instant response.
"Look here, Colonel, I, as you know, am not much of a
tactician, but this is not a question of tactics; it's a question
of our will against Van der Tann's and my—ours is stronger
than his; I know it."

"I don't follow you, Graeme," said Bradford, looking
puzzled, for to him psychology was an unknown region.

"Simply this, we've been after this fellow now for six
weeks and one of us must give, and that soon.  The strain
is too great to last.  Our lot may be bad, but think what
his must be, with us always hanging on to his heels, and
never knowing when we're going to pounce on them.  I
know he goes as fast as we do, faster perhaps, but so does
the rabbit than the stoat, yet the stoat gets him in the end,
because the rabbit's nerve goes and he chucks it."

"Yes, but the rabbit can't turn round and fight the stoat.
Van der Tann can; a nice plight we should be in if he were
to attack us to-night.  Regular *cul-de-sac* this place we're in."

"Not much attack left in men who've been pursued for
six weeks; besides, they're probably thinking the same
about us."

"Hum, can't say I think much of your argument, Graeme.
Let's go and have tea.  I suppose we've not run out of that,
have we?  Coming?  No?  Well, don't go beyond the
sentry line, these Dutchmen are always prowling about;"
and Bradford rose and walked slowly away, leaving Hector
seated on the ground.

For a few minutes he remained there, and then, his Chief
out of sight, sprang up, and, evading the none too alert
sentries, made his way across country till he struck a rough
sheep-track leading into the heart of the mountains.  "I'll
think this out," he muttered.  "I'll get him on somehow,
the faint-hearted fool, only another day or two, and we'll
have this fellow Van der Tann.  He's close by somewhere.
I don't know why I think so, but I'm sure of it.  I wish to
heaven I was in charge; give me a day only, and you
wouldn't know that column.  I'd..."  And here his
thoughts wandered off, as Hector's were wont to do, into
a picture of personal achievements.

He had just worked out the capture of the Dutchman,
having seen every detail of the march and subsequent
fight vividly before him, and was proceeding to give orders
for the disposal of the prisoners, speaking—a habit to
which he had of late become prone—half-aloud as he did
so, when, striking his foot violently against a stone, the
pain brought him straightway back to earth.  With a
sudden shock, he became aware of the darkness and deep
silence around him, and hurriedly striking a match looked
at his watch, which by good luck he had not forgotten to
wind the previous night.  It was close on eight, and at six
he had started, which meant that he was now, at the pace
he had come, well-nigh seven miles from the bivouac.

By this time dinner would be over, and a search-party
probably out after him; he must get back at once, that is,
if he could find his way, which he rather doubted, for he
had been too deeply engrossed with mental visions to take
much note of the road he had come by.  He looked behind
him, in the hope of seeing the bivouac lights, but in vain—a
wall of mountains lay between.  He turned off the track,
and clambered up on to a peak of rock, thinking he could
possibly see better from it.

For a few minutes he stood there, straining his eyes into
the darkness, but no fires were visible, only the shadowy
shapes of mountains on three sides, and on the fourth a
black abyss, falling sheer from his feet.  Suddenly he
started, a thrill of excitement running through him, for
far down below him a faint spark of light was visible; it
flickered, disappeared, and then shone out once more.

In a flash, Hector's imagination had rent the veil of
darkness.  The light stood revealed as a camp-fire, its
disappearance caused by the figures of passing Dutchmen,
and a faint far-away sound from the depths the neighing of
a horse.  It—it was—it could only be—Van der Tann's
bivouac.  Quivering, he stood staring down, but all was
black once more; the glimmer had gone, and the sound,
whatever it was, had ceased.

Visionary as the glimpse of the light had been, it was
enough for Hector.  He had asked for a lever to move
Bradford, and here was the handle thrust out for him to
seize.  He then and there determined to work it.  After
all, he was the sole witness, and what he said no one could
dispute.  It would force his Chief on, that was all that
mattered; and if, afterwards, he should be proved wrong,
and no commando was to be found, well, what of it?
Bradford would possibly say hard things, might even
dismiss him from his staff in disgrace, but that could not hurt
him much.

He was obscure enough now, and were his Chief allowed
to carry out his present intention of returning, a failure
self-confessed, the cloud that, in the future, would assuredly
overhang Bradford's name, would also serve to blot out
altogether that of the failure's personal staff officer.  No,
this was his chance, the last he would have, and take it he
would.  His eyes shone, his jaw set, and, clambering down
from the rock, he regained the sheep-track, and set off at a
run for the bivouac.

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"Where the dickens has the fellow got to, d'you think,
Godwin?" said Bradford, laying down the battered-looking
novel he was reading by the light of a camp-lantern.

Dinner was long since over in the Headquarter Mess,
and the two were sitting there alone, the rest of the party
having retired to bed.

"Goodness knows, sir," answered the other, a long-nosed
individual with a high forehead, who was generally
supposed to be the ugliest man in South Africa: "he's
nowhere in camp, for I've sent all round to see.  Must have
got through the sentries and been captured, or shot, or
something.  That jacket of his would be rather a prize for a
Dutch lady, make her a nice combing-jacket."

"I particularly ordered him to keep within the boundaries,"
said Bradford irritably.  "Damn the fellow, he's
been more trouble to me than the whole of the rest of the
column.  But never mind about him now; about those
orders, you understand, that we remain here to-morrow to
rest, and the next day start back?"

"You think it's no further use, sir?"

"None, I——  Hullo, who's this?  Why it's—where the
dickens have you been, Graeme?  We've been hunting all
over the bivouac for you, disobeying my orders again, I
suppose, and——"

"I've found Van der Tann, Colonel," panted Graeme.

"What!"

"He's in a valley about seven miles away; his whole
commando's there, I saw it."

"North, south, east, or west?" asked Godwin, his
green eyes fixed on Hector's face.

"Oh, over there," pointing into the darkness.

"That's west," said the Chief of the Staff, "in which
case we passed within a few miles of him to-day.  Sure
you saw him, Graeme?"

"Positive.  I was quite close, crept down the mountain-side—almost
a precipice it was, too—and got within a hundred
yards of them; there were about five hundred, I should say."

"That coat of yours make you invisible, Graeme?"
resumed Godwin, glancing at Bradford.  "You must have
gone through their sentries as you did ours.  Van der
Tann's commando, sir," to Bradford, "is, as you know,
a thousand strong, at least."

"Major Godwin, do you mean that I'm a liar?"

"Oh, be quiet, Graeme," said Bradford wearily.
"remember to whom you're talking.  Do you mean seriously
to tell me you have seen Van der Tann's commando?"

"I do."

"You're quite sure you weren't deceived by the darkness,
didn't mistake cattle for horses, for instance?  It's
a thing anybody might do, you know."

"I'm quite sure, sir."

Bradford stared hard at him for a moment, and then
looked towards his Chief of the Staff.

"What do you make of it, Godwin?" he said.

For a few seconds the long-nosed man made no answer;
his green eyes were fixed upon Hector.

"I think, sir," he said after a pause, and a rather curious
quaver was in his voice, "I think it might be worth
trying."

Another pause followed, and Bradford rose, and taking
a map from his haversack spread it on the table.

"Now, Graeme," he said, "show us as nearly as you can
where this fellow lies."

"There," said Graeme, putting his finger on the map.

"Could you guide a column to the place, do you think?"

"Yes, blindfold."

Another pause, then Bradford spoke, with restored
confidence in his voice—here was something tangible to fight,
not an atmosphere—"Send to commanding officers at
once, please, Major Godwin," he said, "and tell them to
come here."

Godwin left, returning a few minutes afterwards.

"We shall want three columns," continued Bradford,
"one here, one there, and another where Graeme was
standing.  You'll take one, Godwin, I another, and—and
Carthew, I suppose, the third."

"For heaven's sake not him, sir," put in Graeme quickly.

"Kindly hold your tongue, sir, and don't interfere,"
answered Bradford, his assurance growing.

"But he won't get there, sir; it's a beast of a road, and
he'll turn back for certain.  It's courting failure to send
him.  Let me have the third column, sir, I found the man."

"You, a Captain, utterly impossible," Bradford was
beginning, when Hector received quite unlooked-for support.

"With all respect, sir," said Godwin, "I think, if it could
be managed, Graeme's wish should be indulged.  As he
says, sir, he found the man, and——" but here once more
the odd quaver sounded in the speaker's voice; he paused,
and then continued, "Apart from everything else, he
alone knows the track."

"But how the dickens can I?  He'd be junior to the leader."

"I think I could arrange that, sir.  Keep Colonel
Carthew with you, and give Graeme the Colonial troops.
There are less than a hundred of them, quite enough for
the third column, if what he says is right about the ground.
He said, didn't you, Graeme?" turning to the latter, "that
you were standing on the edge of a precipice, so they're
hardly likely to break that way.  Let him have Rufford's
lot, sir; he's only a Captain too, and won't mind, I know."

"He's a Major by now, though his name is not in the
'Gazette' yet; besides, even as a Captain, he's senior to
Graeme."

Godwin, however, stuck to his point.

"Send him a note, sir, telling him to act under *Major*
Graeme's orders to-night.  You can rectify the mistake
to-morrow."

"Oh, damn it, Godwin, what for?"

"Because," burst in Hector, "Major Godwin knows that
I can carry this thing through.  I'll have my lot in position,
sir, at any hour you like, if I have to carry them there.  I
don't think you know me, sir," he added quietly, and
Godwin, watching his face, suddenly realised that this
statement was possibly correct.

Between the two, Colonel Bradford gave way.

"Very well," he said slowly, "I'll write the order, though
I don't like doing it.  You give it, Godwin, or, better still,
as he might ask questions, you take it yourself, Graeme,
to Rufford.  If you like to lie about it you can, I won't,
nor shall my staff officer."

"Here's the order," writing it out as he spoke and
handing it to Hector.  "Now be off and make your arrangements.
You must be in position overlooking that valley before
dawn.  Understand?"

"Perfectly, sir," answered Graeme, and hurried away
through the darkness to where the Colonial troops were lying.
Here he found Rufford, and to him handed the order.

"What's the game now?" said the latter, opening the
envelope and reading its contents.  "Oh, command my
beggars, is it?  All right, you're welcome to, if you can,
though it's pretty hard cases you'll find 'em.  Sit down,
and tell us about it.  Have a fill," handing him his pouch;
"got no whiskey to offer you, only baccy, and that mostly
dust."

"Call up your officers at once, please, Captain Rufford,
and rout out the men."

"Oho! coming the old soldier, are you?  Can't be done,
old chap; you'll hear something if you try it.  They're all
dossed down and asleep by now."

"Rout 'em out, I say.  Oh, damn it, man, don't sit gaping
there, here, give me that lantern, now, where are they?
The officers first, please," and, followed by the grinning
Rufford, Hector hurried away to where a row of blanket-covered
figures were lying close by, and thereupon proceeded
to rouse the slumberers, with an energy and flow
of words, which speedily changed their feelings of wrath
at the awakening into respect and desire to be up and doing.
This achieved, he flew down the men's line, cursing,
exhorting, joking as he went, till all were astir and busy with
bridle and saddle.  Then, leaving them to their work, he
hurried away to Headquarters, where his own horse was
now waiting.  This he mounted, galloped back, and,
quickly marshalling his small force, was away, at their
head, on his mission, a good half-hour before the other two
columns had begun to turn out.

Through the black night he drove them on; now dismounting
to lead up some steep boulder-strewn hillock,
now plunging down into the depths at a pace which made
even the careless Colonials hold their breath.

"The devil's in the fellow," muttered Rufford, from his
post in rear, whither he had been despatched to whip up
stragglers.  "Slack, casual beggar I always thought him,
and here he is hustling my crowd along as I'd never dare,
well as I know 'em.  Damme.  They seem to like it too,
rum thing.  Wonder what he's after?  Choked me off to
rights when I asked him, thought for a moment he meant
braining me with that old knobkerrie of his.  Well, I don't
care, let him run his own show; he seem to know all about
it.  Now then, close up, will you, what the hell are you
hanging back for?  Oh, 'halt,' is it?  What's that?
Pass it on, confound you—oh, 'officers.'"  And thereupon
Rufford hurried up to the front, where he found Graeme
surrounded by the rest of the officers.

"Keep back from me, will you," he was saying, "now
then, listen," whereupon, in quick sharp sentences, clear
as daylight, though couched in somewhat unmilitary
phraseology, Hector proceeded to give out his orders.
"Now, be off," he concluded, and the group broke up and
hurried away.

The tramp of feet followed soon after, and then, in single
file, up came the men, rifle at the trail; two columns of
them, one on each side of the track.  Arrived at where
Hector was standing, the leading files of each column
wheeled off to the right and left respectively, followed by
those in rear, till all were gone, swallowed up in the
darkness.  Now and again the clatter of loose stones was heard,
a stifled oath in answer, and then these sounds, too,
ceased, and all was still and silent as before.

For a few minutes Hector stood, his heart swelling with
exultation at the good work accomplished.  In less than
two hours he had brought his force eight miles through the
heart of the mountains—and this on a pitch-dark
night—exactly to the spot desired.

They were not men of his own regiment either, but
Colonials, who were notoriously independent and difficult
to manage, and yet without the slightest difficulty he had
managed them.  From the time when, in face of their own
commander's warnings, he had roused them from their
beds, there had not only been no murmuring, but, on the
contrary, a willing obedience and confidence in his
leadership.  And to-morrow, or rather to-day, when the fighting
began...

Suddenly realisation came to Hector, and from the
heights he fell headlong to the depths, the certainty of
disappointment upon him.  Fool that he was to have
forgotten; fighting, there would be no fighting; there was,
there could be, no one in that valley below.  No, the
darkness would lift, the emptiness be revealed, and all his
labour would be gone or nothing—worse still, unrecognised.

Hector did not fear the consequences to himself once the
fraud was discovered, for that was the gamble, and if
he lost, he was prepared to pay, but to know himself a
leader of men, and for that knowledge to go unshared by
all save him, that to Graeme was bitterer than death.  A
dreary laugh broke from his lips as the realisation of the
giant hoax he had played upon all, himself included, came
home to him.  He pictured Bradford and the long-nosed
Godwin struggling over the mountains; their cautious
injunctions for silence in the ranks, the eager anticipation
of the officers as they posted their men, and impressed upon
them the necessity of straight-shooting.  God! how absurd
it all was, how damnably absurd.

Then, as hope never dies in human hearts, a thrill of
excitement ran through him, as he became aware that the
solid blackness was loosening and the hour of revelation
close at hand.  With heart wildly beating, he watched the
shapeless masses around him take form and become the
tops of mountains, blurred at first, and then sharply defined
against a sky fading from violet to green.  And suddenly
it was light, and a still grey world stood revealed.

Straining his eyes downwards, he lay till the last patch
of shadow clothing the valley below had melted away,
when, with a sudden cry of exultation, Graeme flung
his helmet into the air, and rolled over and over on the
grass, laughing hysterically at what he had seen.  In the
centre of the valley, or, rather, horseshoe-shaped indentation
in the mountains, stood a rough farmhouse, with a cluster
of large cattle kraals close by, and around the house and
filling the kraals were dark masses of horses.  It was Van
der Tann's commando beyond a doubt.

No sooner had one hope been realised, and anxiety
relieved, than another equally insistent took its place—the
fear of the escape of the quarry lying so unsuspectingly
below.  True, the main entrance, that on the side farthest
away from him, and leading into the open veldt beyond,
would be certainly held and barred by now; nor was flight
possible up the mountains on either side, for these rose
sheer from the valley's level.  No, it was not there that
the danger lay, but at his end; for Graeme had made a
mistake, and a bad one, the previous night.  He was not
standing at the edge of a precipice, as he had imagined,
but on a neck or depression between two hilltops, whence
the ground sloped gently to the farmhouse, forming a
natural causeway at least two hundred yards across, and
easily accessible to Boer ponies and horsemen, who, finding
other exit barred, would assuredly turn about and make
straight for where he stood.  And to stop them, to block
that two hundred yards, he had but seventy-five men all
told—a weak obstacle, truly, to the rush of desperate
fugitives.

Thinking hard, he lay there, but no solution of the
problem came, and then through the still morning air a shot
rang out from the far end of the valley, and at the sound
the dark figures below awoke to instant life.  From the
ground they sprang up, out of farmhouse and kraal they
poured, swarming in and among the crowd of horses some
few fevered minutes, and then, mounting, streamed off at
a gallop, heading for the entrance to the open veldt.

Immediately the roar of musketry arose in greeting, and
from the rocks on either side a sleet of lead beat in their
faces, but for a moment they held on, till, recognising the
impossible, they rushed headlong back the way they had
come, straight to where Graeme, with his seventy-five
men, was lying.

"Bang!" went a rifle close beside him, and at the sound
seventy-four others also began to speak, disjointedly;
and then were suddenly silent, for their leader was up and
running down the line, shouting for the fire to cease and
the men to rise and fix bayonets.

"The fellow's mad," muttered Rufford, "never mind,
I'll follow you, old chap, and, God! see, the men, after him
like hounds," and Rufford sprang up and ran, wildly
shouting, after Hector, who was bounding over the stones,
swinging his knobkerrie as he went.

Onward rushed the opposing forces, the one a galloping
mass of horsemen a thousand strong, the other a weak
ragged line of khaki and steel.  And well ahead of the
advancing commando a man on a white horse led the way,
a big, bearded man, white-faced and shifty-eyed; and on
those shifty eyes Hector's own were fixed unwaveringly,
his pace increasing as the distance between them lessened.
Either he or the Dutchman must give in a moment, he
knew, and the giving of the one meant the giving of his
followers.  They were nothing: it was between the leaders
the issue lay.

Not twenty-five yards divided them, and still the big
man came thundering on, his followers and Hector's
checking themselves involuntarily to watch—and then
suddenly the end came.  The white horse, obeying his
rider's mind, and not the merciless lash, swerved, reared
and then began to rein back.  Up went the big man's
hands, "I surrender," he said, his shifty eyes roving from
side to side.  "I surr——"  And then with a choked
scream he fell forward, his face a red, featureless mask from
the smash of the knobkerrie; a second time the club rose
and fell, a dull crushing sound was heard, and Cornelius
Van der Tann rolled sideways from his horse and fell on
the ground dead.

"On, men, on," shouted Hector, "now's the time to
drive it home," and he rushed on, waving the bloody
knobkerrie as he went, "Ah!" and a shout of exultation
burst from his lips, for again the horsemen had turned,
and were galloping back to the farmhouse and kraals,
where they lay for a while undisturbed.

Only for a time, for, on the mountain overlooking them,
figures soon began to appear, cautiously picking their way
among the rocks.  A burst of firing from the buildings
below greeted them, whereupon, crouching low, they came
forward at a run, dodging from stone to stone, and then
suddenly sank to earth and were gone.  A moment's
pause followed, and then came the sharp sound of shots
directed straight down into the crowded kraals.  It swelled
to a roar, was answered by a burst of screams, and then up
went the white flag.  Bugles rang the "Cease fire," and
silence once more.

From the far end of the valley a knot of horsemen came
galloping, a red triangular flag waving in their midst.
At the sight the mountain slopes around awoke to life, and
brown figures started up from the ground, their white
faces glaring in the morning sunlight.  A ripple of
movement went through their ranks, helmets flew off, and were
raised aloft on rifle-barrels; a murmur arose, which swelled
and grew until it merged into a roar of triumphant cheering.

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"I have sent for you, gentlemen," said Colonel Bradford,
addressing the assembled officers some two hours
later, "to thank you all for the loyal support and assistance
you have given me this morning.  There is one thing,
however, I should like to say, there is one great lesson I
hope all of you have learnt in the campaign, which has just
been so successfully brought to a conclusion, and that,
gentlemen, is the necessity of never yielding to
despondency.  I am aware—I must say it, though I regret
to—that amongst both officers and men there has been of late
a certain tone of discouragement.  That, gentlemen, was
wrong and unsoldierlike, where, I ask you, should we be
now had I too showed those feelings?  Back home,
gentlemen, back home, in disgraceful retreat.

"No, gentlemen, a soldier's motto must always be *Nil
desperandum*, for, as you know, 'the blackest hour is always
that preceding the dawn.'"  He paused, puffing out his
chest.  "That is all, I think," he added, "except to ask you
to convey my thanks to your respective commands, though,
of course, I shall publish an order on the subject.  And
now, Godwin," turning to that officer, "for breakfast.
Graeme, where the deuce has that fellow got to?  What,
breakfast not here?  Oh, damn it, man.  Ah, I forgot though,
you were guiding Rufford's column, and devilish well you
did it too.  By the way, that was a nasty rush you stopped,
killed Van der Tann too, I hear, how did you do it?  I
couldn't see clearly from where I was."

"Went for them with the bayonet, sir; didn't wait for
them to come to us, but attacked.  They couldn't stick it,
and went."

Bradford whistled, his face grown suddenly disapproving.

"Gad, but that was a risky thing to do, Graeme, why,
you had but a hundred men."

"Seventy-five, sir, to be exact."

"And you charged them with that.  You're a very
lucky officer, Graeme, that's all I can say.  Still, it turned
out all right, though I'm hanged if I can understand how.
And now for breakfast, we'll draw the Rutlands, I think,
Godwin," and Bradford, humming a tune, walked gaily away.

"And that's just one of those things you never will
understand," muttered Hector, looking after him.  "They
don't teach that at the Staff College.  Oh, Godwin, I
didn't see you.  Do you want me?"

"I do, rather," answered the long-nosed man, and then
was silent, staring at Hector until he grew restive.

"What is it?" he asked sullenly.

"I should like to say, Graeme," replied Godwin, still
staring, "that I consider you one of the pluckiest officers
I've ever met."

"You—you mean that charge, sir?" said Hector, his
face lighting up.

"I don't mean anything of the kind," was the unexpected
answer.  "I am alluding to the information you
brought in last night, and on which we—providentially
acted."

"I don't understand you, sir."

"Oh yes, you do, and so did I all the time, and that's
what I mean when I say you're the pluckiest man I've ever
met.  And on that pluck I congratulate you, Graeme,
only, if I were you, I shouldn't try it again, it mightn't
come off a second time, you see.  About that charge of
yours, though, that's a different matter, and, speaking
unofficially, of course, I say do *that* again; by *that* I mean
attack whenever and wherever you can."  He stopped,
looked at Graeme, and burst out laughing.  Then suddenly
holding out his hand, wrung Hector's in its clammy grasp,
and hurried away, leaving the other staring after him.





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.. _`CHAPTER XI`:

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   CHAPTER XI

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Laden with trophies, bright-faced and triumphant,
the column started on its way back to civilisation,
and in ten days' time, to the strains of the
local band, sent forward to meet it, was marching
proudly through the poplar-lined street of Gethsemane.
This town is inhabited mostly by Colonial Dutch, whose
loyalty or the reverse rose or fell according as the fortunes
of war inclined to one or the other contending party.

The death of Van der Tann and capture of his commando
having brought about a fall in Dutch stock, they were now
loyal British subjects, and consequently from every hotel,
private dwelling-place, and shop the gay bunting streamed.
Functionaries, in civic robes, came forward to greet their
preservers with hands outstretched in welcome, as they
bade them enter and feast themselves on the good things
made ready in their honour.

Nor were the prisoners forgotten, a forbidding
wire-enclosed zeriba having been prepared in their honour, and
here, the whole town turning out to watch the operation,
they were speedily deposited, and left till such time as the
authorities saw fit to arrange for their removal to Cape Town.

A time of relaxation ensued, the officers revelling in
late hours, clean shirts, and the social delights of tennis,
croquet party, and dance; the men in unlimited beer,
tobacco, and well-nigh nightly "sing-songs."

Colonel Bradford made speeches, roared lion-like at
social entertainments, and spoke of the British flag, and the
well-known loyalty of Gethsemane inhabitants, sentiments
greeted with loud and unanimous applause by his
hearers.

On all faces were smiles, in all hearts joy, save in the case
of Hector Graeme, who was, as usual, in antagonism with
his fellows.  "Confound it, man," said Bradford to him one
morning, Hector having been more than usually unresponsive
to his Chief's good-humour, "what an ungracious fellow
you are, one would think, by Gad, you were sorry instead
of glad at our recent success, why, last night at dinner
you were infernally rude to the Mayor.  I tell you I don't
like it, Graeme, and, what's more, I won't have it," and
Bradford stalked away in dudgeon, another black mark
registered in his mind against his unsatisfactory A.D.C.

Had it not been for Major Godwin, events would long
before this have come to a head between the two, for,
since the capture of the commando, Hector had once more
relapsed into his former irritating ways of slackness and
inattention; and had, moreover, recently added another
fault to the list, that of almost continual absence, passing
his days, to the neglect of his Chief, in long solitary rides
about the surrounding country.

This in itself was not distasteful to the Colonel, rather
was it a relief, for his former feelings of annoyance at
Hector's ignorance and casualness had of late become
replaced by another—that of dislike, even hatred, for his
subordinate.  He felt that peculiarly bitter hatred we feel
for those to whom, in a moment of expansion, we have
revealed some jealously-hidden weakness, and who have
responded to the revelation by a counter-display of strength,
comforting possibly at the time, but becoming an
intolerable and rankling memory once that hour is passed and
security attained.  To all save Hector—and perhaps one
other—Bradford was a hero, one who had accomplished
the hitherto impossible, and daily the longing grew, not so
much to get rid of this one witness of his hour of
humiliation—for that, for reasons of his own, he shrank from
doing—as to crush him, stamp on him, and load him with obloquy.
This he did to the full extent of his power, depriving
Graeme of the smallest show of independence, ruthlessly
snubbing him, and countermanding even such orders as in
his position he was entitled to give, fearful lest they should
be construed by those outside into his management by a
subordinate, and that this suspicion would finally culminate
in the belief that it was not he, but Hector, who had
in reality brought about the recent capture.

If Bradford, on his part, cherished these feelings towards
his aide, Hector was even more bitter against his Chief,
the main reason for this being the Colonel's refusal to
acknowledge or even allude to the services rendered to
him by Hector on that momentous occasion.  "Damn
it," he muttered, watching the hero's gracious
acceptation of congratulations on one occasion, "it was I,
not you, who caught the beggar; but for me, you
would have slunk back with your tail between your
legs, and instead of addresses and flags, it's hooting would
have met you from this same loyal town of Gethsemane.
Lord," yawning and turning away, "how infernal slow
that honours' list is in appearing, six weeks, at least,
since the names went in.  I wonder what they'll do for
me?  Brevet, I suppose, and probably a D.S.O. as well;
can't very well do less, they might give me a column
too, and then, Bradford, you ass, you can run your own
show, and we'll see what sort of success you'll have.  Gad,
what a show-up it will be for the impostor, doing all
right when I'm there, but coming to grief once I'm gone,"
and Hector, comforted at the thought, called for his
horse and rode away into the mountains.

At last the long looked-for honours' list arrived, in which
Bradford's name appeared as a Major-General and C.B.,
and Godwin's as Lieut.-Colonel and C.M.G.  Many others
were rewarded with Brevets and D.S.O.'s—amongst the
latter being Rufford, of the Veldt Rifles.  Of Hector Graeme,
however, there was no mention, peruse and reperuse the
list as he might; and, incredulity at last giving way to
certainty, his face grew suddenly livid, and a look came into his
eyes, which caused Godwin, who, with Bradford, was in the
room, to spring up, and, seizing Hector by the arm, lead
him outside, before the words trembling on his lips were
uttered.  "I know, I know," he said hastily, "but don't
be a fool, Graeme; there's time enough yet.  Go for a
ride; curse the veldt if you like, but not the..."  Hector,
obeying him, went, and riding fiercely away into
the mountain flung himself down on the ground, where he
lay, a prey to one of those secret wild fits of passion, the
first he had given way to for four years—in his room at
Fort Hussein.

Limp and white-faced, he returned to his quarters, to
find Godwin awaiting him; and a long conversation
followed, the first of many, for the long-nosed man had taken
a liking to Graeme, one of those occasionally awakened—which
are almost invariably strong and lasting—by the
universally unpopular.  This liking, however, was in no
way returned by its object, who considered the other a
bore, the more so as he was continually harping upon one
subject, that of the necessity of military reading to a
soldier, a pursuit for which Hector had no liking, especially
for the class of literature recommended by Godwin.

"Two things are necessary to make a leader," his
self-appointed counsellor would urge, his pale-green eyes
lighting up with enthusiasm as he spoke, "one the natural
qualities of character, which cannot be acquired; the other,
knowledge of one's profession, which can, by books.  The
qualities—I may be wrong, of course—I think you have;
you're certainly aggressive, the great thing; but the
knowledge you have not; indeed, you're one of the most ignorant
officers it has ever been my fortune to meet.  And you
may be the strongest man in the world, Graeme," he
concluded, "but, if you can't box, the fellow, with half your
strength, who can will knock you out in the first round."

"Not necessarily," was the answer, "the cleverest professors
with the gloves are often useless in the ring.  Their
hearts are wrong, they don't mean smashing their men, and
never lead, only wait to be knocked out.  And it's just
the same, I imagine, in war.  Take this last show, for
instance; you know as well as I do, Godwin, that——"

"That but for the—information you brought in that
night," interrupted the latter hastily, "Van der Tann
would probably still be at large.  That, of course, is a matter,
Graeme, I must decline to discuss, and if you take my
earnest advice you'll forget the episode as quickly as you
can.  Believe me, you'll ruin your career if you don't.
But what you say, about the finest boxer being useless in
the ring, proves nothing beyond the fact that character is
the most essential of the two things I spoke of.  Make
the two boxers equal, or, as that's impossible, make them
nearly equal in that respect, and the victory goes to the one
with most science.  Take Blücher, for instance, as strong
a character as there has ever been, but, because he was
ignorant, he lost army after army till Gneisenau took him
in hand, and, acting as his brain, told him what to do.
He, a general, Graeme, had to rely on another man's
knowledge; he admitted it himself when he said, 'Ah, Gneisenau,
what a general I should have been had I only read!'"

"I'd read fast enough, Godwin," said Graeme, "if I'd
got any incentive to do so.  It's recognition I want; give
me a start, I'll do the rest."

"Bah!" replied the other, "some men go without recognition
all their lives, and still struggle on.  And it may come
yet, who knows?  Be prepared for it when it does, that's
my point; don't handicap yourself with ignorance.  Now,
I've got nothing to do for an hour, and if you like I'll——"

"Oh, thank you very much, Godwin; it's awfully good
of you, but I'm afraid I can't stay now.  There's my pony
waiting outside, another time I shall be delighted," and
here the conversation, as such conversations invariably
did, ended in nothing.

Then a fresh disaster befell Hector, his one friend being
called home to take up an appointment at the War Office,
and with his departure the rapid decline of Graeme's
fortunes began.  With no mediator to intervene between
them, Bradford's treatment of his A.D.C. became daily
harsher, till at length his animosity began to be remarked
on, and to give rise to the very comment he was so
morbidly anxious to avoid; the juniors wondered how Hector
could put up with his Chief's bullying; the seniors, why the
General persisted in retaining on his staff an officer who,
by his own showing, was so altogether incompetent and
objectionable.

Bradford, accordingly, found himself in a quandary, for
were he to dismiss Hector now, he might find his way to
the staff of some other column leader, who—jealous as
were most at that time of their kind—would be only too
ready to listen to a tale belittling Bradford's recent
achievements; while, on the other hand, did he keep Hector where
he was, the suspicion would certainly arise that he had his
reasons for doing so, those reasons being that his
A.D.C. knew too much to be allowed to leave.

His whole frame of mind was an instance of the curious
childishness that saps the intelligence of men, often deemed
the strongest, who, while listening to the admiration
expressed by the public for some edifice constructed by their
hands, are all the time conscious of a flaw in its foundations,
which at any minute may cause the building, and with it
its architect's reputation, to crumble before their eyes.
None of the spectators know of the flaw—probably never
will know—but the architect does, and the alarming, though
quite natural, cracking of the new edifice is to his mind the
voice of the flaw, shouting its existence to all present.  He
hears it, they must too; and the slightest word—a careless
suggestion uttered without reason or meaning—tells
him that all is discovered, and he will be proclaimed an
impostor.

Thus it was with Bradford.  The most casual observation
anent Hector and his doings on the fateful night
would throw him into a fever of anxiety, the culminating
point being reached on the occasion of a visit from the
Commander-in-Chief to Gethsemane, when, in the course
of conversation, he remarked that his host's A.D.C. certainly
cultivated a somewhat remarkable style of dress,
but to which, from what he had heard, other staff officers,
notably Gneisenau, were similarly addicted.  It was an
unfortunate remark, and on hearing it Bradford grew hot
with agitation.  Gneisenau?  He, then, was Blücher, and
the Commander-in-Chief knew everything.  Someone must
have talked; someone in the column—probably Graeme
himself.  At the last thought a fury of hatred seized him,
and, his distinguished guest having departed, he summoned
Hector to his room, where he accused him point-blank of
gossiping about him, his Chief.  Graeme denied it.  Bradford
called him a liar, upon which Hector's pent-up rage broke
loose, and he told Bradford what he thought of him.

With horrid accuracy he dissected his General's mind
before his eyes, holding up the pieces for him to see, and
concluded with a direct accusation of jealousy of one to
whom alone he owed his recent honours and reputation.

"Yes," he said finally, "I lied that night, I own it, I
did it to save you, and it did.  It was the only way to get
you on; you were all for going back, but I made up my mind
you should not.  Now you have it."  He stopped, panting.

"Your ... quarters ... sir ... consider yourself..."

"Only too glad, and I'll tell the court-martial the whole
story," answered Hector, going.

"Come back."

"Ah!"

"I said, 'consider yourself dismissed.'  Don't come
near me again, d'ye hear?"

"Where am I to go?"

"I'll arrange that, go."  Hector went, leaving Bradford
white and shaken, as he saw in his mind's eye his late
A.D.C. hurrying from Mess to Mess, and stripping, as he
went, all his new-born reputation from him.  Like most
mental visions, it was altogether baseless, for, whatever
other faults Hector possessed, pettiness was not among
the number, and despite his threat to reveal all at the
court-martial, he would, nevertheless, had such taken
place, kept scornfully silent on the subject.

Bradford, however, had little or no understanding of
human nature or character, and consequently sat where
he was for hours, fearing to go out lest he should read in
men's faces the knowledge of his own undoing.  At last,
wearily rising, he moved across to the writing-table, and,
sitting down, proceeded to indite a letter to Headquarters,
in which he stated that, for purely personal reasons, he was
desirous of changing his A.D.C., and asked that his present
one might be transferred to a post elsewhere.

He suggested the Transport, an unpleasant smile on his
face as he wrote, and having finished the letter sealed it,
and summoned the orderly, whose face he watched narrowly
as he handed him the document.  With sinking heart, he
noted a cloud on the man's face, the consequence, it may
be observed, of a misunderstanding with Martha, the
Mayor's parlour-maid.

The result of the letter was Hector's appointment as
transport officer to a small column working in the
Transvaal, and to that place he departed, after a short
leave-taking with his late Chief, who wished him good luck in his
new venture, and regretted that the arrival of a nephew
from England necessitated Hector's removal.  He also
regretted any differences they might have had, and—and
he hoped that—that ...

"I am not a gossip," answered Graeme coldly, "though
you were good enough to accuse me of it once, nor am I
small," and, ignoring the outstretched hand, he turned his
back on his well-wisher.

Mounting the Cape cart, he drove off, and a few hours
afterwards was in the train jolting on his way north.  In
the novel *rôle* of transport officer, however, he proved
himself even more unsatisfactory than in that of A.D.C.;
indeed, thanks to him, the column he served well-nigh
starved, and this fact, in the form of a peculiarly damaging
report from its leader, having been brought to the notice
of the authorities, Hector was relieved of his duties, and
relegated to a stool in a commissariat office.

With the decline of his fortunes, his ineptitude seemed
to increase.  A further and even more damaging report
having been received, Hector again started on his travels,
and this time for the last and lowest stage of all—a
blockhouse on the lines of communication.  The months passed,
the War slowly dragged to its close, but no further notice
from authority did Graeme receive; and with the flitting
of the days his sense of grievance and injustice increased,
till his whole mind was consumed with bitterness and hatred
of his kind.

At times he even meditated, should the chance occur,
the throwing in of his lot with the enemy, and taking what
revenge he could on his persecutors; but, fortunately for
him, the chance did not occur—no enemy showing themselves
within a hundred miles of his dreary abode.  Day
after day he sat staring moodily out on the bare brown hills
and monotonous stretch of scrub-clad veldt, praying for
the enemy to appear; but in vain, and at last this hope
died.  Another scheme took its place in his mind, that of
leaving the army, once the War was over, and joining that
of some other nation, his eventual aim being the leading
of that army against his own country-men.

It would be a delight, indeed, he thought, to show to
those who now ignored him what manner of man it was they
had dared so to treat.  How he would crush them, gloat
over them, remind them of the despised transport officer
and commissariat clerk; and perhaps, if fortune were
kind, Bradford might be in command against him, Bradford
brought in a prisoner before him.  He wouldn't hurt the
creature, oh no, he would be rather nice to him, and let
him go, asking as a favour that he should continue to lead
the opposing forces, so as to make his task the easier.

How mad they would all be, traitor they would call him,
and so he would be, and glory in it and their hatred.  Even
Lucy would turn from him; no, she wouldn't, though.
Lucy would be heartbroken, but never turn; and after all
she would have had her wish, for she wanted him to retire.
She was as bitter as he about the injustice he had received.
He took from his pocket her last letter, and read it again,
and as he did so his face assumed the puzzled expression it
always wore on the perusal of her letters.  "Again no
mention of the child," he muttered; "nothing but the
postscript, 'Ruby, poor mite, is well enough.'  Well, it's
mail-day to-day, perhaps she will say more.  There is the
mail too," watching a small cloud of dust rapidly approaching
along the sandy track.  "Here, you," to the orderly, who
had now reached the blockhouse, and was handing a bundle
of papers and letters to the Sergeant, "bring mine out here.
Hum! three; one I don't know, one from Lucy, and a
London paper, addressed to me in her handwriting.  I
wonder what for, home news does not interest me at all."

Faintly curious, he stripped off the wrapper, and, unfolding
the newspaper, ran his eye over the pages, till at length
he found the marked paragraph he expected.  For a
moment he stood staring; then his face grew suddenly
scarlet, and a shout of jubilation burst forth from his lips.
Sergeant Newcome and the men, running out to ascertain
the cause, beheld their erstwhile apathetic officer throw his
helmet into the air, rush at it as it reached the ground, and
dance upon the headpiece till it lay a mangled mass of
khaki and cardboard.  "Orderly," he shouted to the
retreating figure of the postman, "come here, take this fiver,
and order up beer from the commissariat, gallons of it;
we'll make a night of it, Newcome, my friend, or rather
you and the men shall, while I do sentry go."

"Sir?" said the astonished Sergeant, while the men
stared vacantly at the transformed figure before them.

"Read that," shouted Hector, handing him the paper; "not
there, you fool, oh, give it to me then, and listen."  He read:

"'To be Brevet Lieut. Colonel.

"'Hector Archibald Graeme, Major'"—Hector's
majority was but two months old—"'1st Lancers.'"

"A bloody Colonel, d'ye hear that, Newcome?  Now go.
I'm off to that kopje, and if you come near me I'll brain you!"

Hector, the paper in his hand, hurried away, and, reaching
the kopje, flung himself down, his heart singing and
pulses leaping with exultation.  Gone, dispelled in one
brief moment were the rancour and bitterness of the last
twelve months; and in their place, though but ephemeral,
was a feeling of kindliness towards those very military
authorities, schemes for whose downfall had so recently been
occupying his mind.  They had made amends, tardy, it was
true, but nevertheless they had made them; they had
recognised his merit at last, and that in no unsubstantial way.

Colonel Graeme—he a Colonel, snap his fingers now he
could and would at all, Peter Carson amongst the number,
Peter, who had always been so damned superior over his
seniority to him, and yes, by the Lord, he would be senior
to Royle, now a fortnight old Colonel.  No, he wouldn't
though; Royle's promotion had been antedated, which
brought him on top by a few months.  "Swindle, that
antedating is," he muttered, a cloud coming over the
shining sky of his happiness; "takes half the pleasure away.
They might have given me a D.S.O. too while they were
about it; three ribbons is a beggarly show for a Colonel,
must have five or six at least.  I ought to have five too, if
I'd had my rights: the V.C. for that Mortlock business;
the Jubilee, which would have gone with it; the frontier
and the two they are certain to give over this.  Never mind,
I'll soon add to my three.  I'll volunteer for every blessed
show; they won't refuse me; they daren't now I'm known.

"Lucy ought to be pleased too; it's a lift for her as well,
and, oho, won't her old uncle, the General, be furious?
Thought me a waster, did he?  Well, it will show her that
what I always said, and she refused to believe, was right,
that he's a prejudiced old fool.  Hang it, I think I'm more
pleased at scoring off him than anything else.  By the way,
my other letters, I'd forgotten them, let's see what Lucy
says first.

"Hum, hum, 'So glad, so very pleased.  I always knew
it would come in time, and how much nicer to retire as a
Colonel.'  What, *I* retire, and settle down like a cabbage in
a field, now that I've just begun?  No, Lucy, not for the
wide world; that idea is dead; you had your chance, and
wouldn't take it.  Funny to think how I might have
missed it though; one word from her that night at Chillata,
or even the next morning, and I'd have stayed, I wanted
to, too, I wished to sink myself in husband and father,
though I'm hanged if I can understand it now.  Ah,
Lucy, there are bigger things in store for me, now.  A
Colonel, what's a Colonel, after all?  But, to go on ...

"'The very loveliest place in Norfolk, an old hall, just
what you've always wanted—' yes, but not now, Lucy—'2,000
acres rough shooting, partridges, ducks, and a golf-links
close by.  Oh, do please make haste to retire and come
home.'—Partridges ... ducks ... a golf-links
... Bah!—'Ruby, poor mite, is anxious for your coming...'"

Again the puzzled look came into his eyes.  "Why
always 'poor'?" he muttered, "it irritates me rather;
I've no doubt she's the same as other children, fat and
bouncing.  'Daddy' I suppose she'll call me, want me to play
bears, tree at Christmas, and all the rest of it.  Doesn't
appeal to me at all, I'm afraid, though, in my folly, I
thought it would at one time.  Now for the other letter,
hullo," turning it over, and looking at the signature, "it's
from Godwin, what on earth can he have to write to me
about?"  He began to read:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"MY DEAR GRAEME.

.. vspace:: 1

"It's come at last you see—congratulations.  I,
regret to have heard of your recent successive misfortunes,
but, as they are entirely your own fault, I confess to feeling
no pity for you.  If a man not only refuses to learn the
rudiments of his profession, but, in addition, takes a curious
pleasure in putting up his superiors' backs, he must expect
to go to the wall.  I hope, however, that eight months in a
blockhouse may have been beneficial, and now that you
have been so unexpectedly fortunate you will change your
ways, and also read.  'If I had only read, Gneisenau, what
a general I should have been!'  Write these words out and,
stick them up on your looking-glass, where, I should say,
they run the best chance of being seen.

.. vspace:: 1

"Yours, EDWIN GOODWIN.

"On reflection it may occur to you that the tardiness
of recognition in your case may not be without its advantages."

.. vspace:: 2

Hector sat staring at the postscript and then suddenly
a light broke in upon him.  "Kept it back, I see," he
muttered, "till I was a Major, thus giving me double
promotion.  Lord, but they must think something of me to do
that, I wonder who it was?  Godwin, I suppose.  He
wasn't quite such a fool as the rest; he could see what they
couldn't.  How the old fellow, though, hammers on about
reading.  I've done pretty well without it, so far, and yet
I don't know—he might be right.  Hang it, I've a good
mind to give the thing a trial; there's nothing else to do
here, and the War may go on for months.  I'll send for
some books to Cape Town.  I'll do it now, by Jove!"  And,
one of those sudden imperative desires coming over him,
he left the kopje, and, hurrying back to the blockhouse,
wrote out an order for all the military books he could think
of, sending it off by mounted orderly the same afternoon,
special messengers being daily despatched to the
post-office till the literature ordered arrived.

From that time the transformation of Hector's blockhouse
apartment into a library, and himself into a book-worm,
proceeded apace; weekly consignments of military
works thenceforth arrived, and, the heart having been torn
out of them, were thrown aside and looked at no more.

In his youth Graeme had been sickly, and on that account
had not been sent to a public, or even a private, school, his
mental training having been entrusted to governesses and
tutors, whose instructions were on no account to force the
lad's inclinations, with the result that he grew up
practically uneducated.  He had managed to scrape through the
necessary army examinations, but this was due rather to a
certain "crammer's" uncanny knowledge of his art than
to any proficiency on the part of the pupil, and a few months
after the undergoing of his ordeal Hector's mind had once
more relapsed into its former happy state of ignorance, in
which condition it had remained till the present time.

Fortunately for him, the mental ground thus left fallow
had never been weakened by the rank growth springing
from the assiduous reading of novels, and the soil
was ready and hungry for such seeds as he might
choose to sow.  In a very few months—though yawning
at times over their dulness—he had easily mastered
the contents of the dry and unimaginative text-books.
This done and duty satisfied, he thereupon indulged to the
full his own peculiar bent for character study, as exemplified
in the biographies of the world's great commanders.

These he read from cover to cover, no longer yawning, but
eagerly taking in the smallest details; indeed, it was chiefly
on the trivial incidents of childish life—revealing,
nevertheless, the true unalterable character of the subject—that
Hector would dwell, marking as he went the paragraphs
in which these particulars were described.

Now, to read with the object of acquiring information is
one thing; but to read in order to discover a resemblance
between yourself and the subject of a biography is quite
another, and a most dangerous one, especially for those to
whose nature the abnormal appeals, the inevitable result
being an unconscious desire to make the resemblance
complete, even to the smallest and most objectionable details.

This is what Graeme now began to do.  Since he had
received recognition, and with it the birth of ambition, he
had become firmly convinced that he was destined to join
the ranks of the great, and the more he read about them
the surer and more exultant he grew, for in the story of
their lives he recognised a hundred traits of character
similar to his own, particularly in their oddities and
eccentricities, on which his mind eagerly seized.

There were some among them, it is true, in whom no sign
of himself was to be met with, these the eminently sane and
methodical characters; but such he passed over as lacking
in the true fire of genius, and their biographies, once scanned,
were thrown aside and looked at no more.  Of the others,
however, there was one in whose character he especially
delighted, that one being Prince Suvarov, the great Russian.

His power over his soldiers, eccentricity of attire,
recklessness of consequences, and, above all, the ingrained
determination to attack and never wait on the defensive,
all these characteristics he felt himself to possess; and
inasmuch as Suvarov not only scorned to conceal, but gloried in,
the revelation of mental peculiarity, so now did Hector do
the same, giving full rein to that passion for difference from
his fellows which hitherto, chiefly from the wish to please
Lucy—to whom such was anathema—he had to a certain
extent concealed.

The immediate result of this was, as usual, in the army,
the bestowal of a nickname, Graeme soon becoming known
as "Mad Jack," a designation which stuck to him till the
day of his death.  This, far from annoying its recipient,
delighted him, and fired by the sensation he was causing
he went further.  One of his habits, that of riding down
the line of blockhouses in a state of nature save for a
towel, having come to the ears of the General commanding
the district, the result was a sharp reproof and request that
Colonel Graeme would in future comport himself as an
officer and a gentleman.

To this Hector replied in rhyme, which so infuriated its
recipient that he reported the matter to Headquarters,
and for a time Graeme's career was in serious jeopardy.
Providentially, at this crisis the enemy at last thought fit to
put in an appearance, their assembly at a farmhouse three
miles distant, with the avowed object of capturing Hector,
who as a colonel was worth something, being reported to
the latter by an English farmer living in the district.

Thereupon, without waiting for the expected onslaught,
and in defiance of standing orders, Graeme called up the
garrison of every blockhouse under his command.  Leaving
these empty save of scarecrow dummies, he sallied forth the
same night, and surprised and captured the sleeping
commando at dawn.

The following day happening to be Palm Sunday, he
despatched his prisoners to District Headquarters under
an escort decorated with long grass and reeds, his despatch,
giving an account of the affair, being couched in the form
of a hymn.  This the escort were forced to practise for an
hour before starting on their mission, their Chief conducting
their efforts with his knobkerrie, with which he threatened
instant death to any man who sang out of tune or laughed.
His labours were in vain, however, for, despite the most
stringent orders and threats of dire punishment did they
disobey his orders, the escort's courage failed them at the
eleventh hour, and the prisoners were handed over in silence
by a crimson-faced, grass-decorated subaltern.

For this exploit Hector received nothing except a reproof
for impertinent levity, and, the War shortly after coming
to an end, he was despatched to Blauboschfontein, to
await the arrival of his regiment.  This took place some
few weeks later.  Royle was in command, and over him
Graeme soon established a complete ascendency.  Carson,
the one man who might have proved an obstacle in his
path, having retired shortly before, disgusted at the
regiment's non-participation in the War.  Hector thus succeeded
to the position of second-in-command—that is, nominally,
for to all intents and purposes he reigned supreme.

He conducted the training of the troops; introduced
startling innovations; and, in short, did what he liked, his
confidence in himself and contempt for superiors growing daily.
A constant and, to his fellows, unaccountable sequence of
successes in field-days and manoeuvres followed, Hector's
methods when confronted by an adversary being so unusual
as to render useless the ordinary stereotyped means of
defence, and though generals and other superior persons shook
their heads and talked of wild schemes, still these plans
somehow always came off, despite their gloomy prophecies.

Graeme's schemes were not quite the wild ones they
were supposed to be, but, on the contrary, were formed
on a perfectly sound basis, namely, on his knowledge
of his opponent's peculiar character, and thus proved
the safest.  Well he knew the process of the ordinary
military mind and its adherence to text-book principles.  These
and the answering moves they understood, and were consequently
never confronted with them, being paralysed at the
outset by a cut to which no text-book gave the correct parry.

Give him the wild, hairbrained adversary, however—and
on one occasion such a foe was put up against him with a
view to his discomfiture, by General Banks, officer
commanding the district, and his bitter enemy—and
straightway Hector's tactics became of the most ordinary and
stereotyped description, the result on the occasion in
question being the rout of the harebrained one without his
opponent having moved from his original position.

Graeme moreover, by now, knew his text-books as well
as and probably better than, his most learned adversaries,
and was consequently well aware of the risks he ran, and
from which quarter danger was likely to come; and, this
being so, half the peril he incurred was gone.

Altogether Graeme prospered, and was happier in
Blauboschfontein than he had ever been before; and with
happiness came physical well-being and health, things that had
been practically unknown to him till now.

He loved the country too, spending hours roaming about
the veldt till nightfall, when, with cheeks aglow and eyes
alert he would return to his quarters and bury himself
in his reading till dinner.  A most respectable meal
consumed—for him—he would seek his room once more, read
again for an hour, and then tumble into bed and sleep
dreamlessly till dawn.  With reveille he was up, and away to the
riding maneges to take his place amongst the young horsemen, a
situation for which, to speak truth, Graeme was not qualified,
being as a rider deficient in both "hands" and patience.

All this time Lucy's letters were weekly growing more
insistent for his return.  Did he not want to see her again,
she wrote?  The house too, Cuddingfold Hall, she had
taken, relying on his coming, though only for a year, in
case he should not like it.  She had, however, the option
of a long lease, though goodness knew when another
prospective tenant might appear.  If he did not, after all, now
wish to retire, and from his last letters it seemed he did
not, at least he could come home on leave; they would not
refuse him that after three years' absence.

Lucy's appeals remained disregarded, and probably would
have remained so but for another event that took place
about this time, namely, the sudden death of his father.
Hector thus becoming owner of a small property in Scotland.

The announcement of the death was accompanied by a
letter from his lawyers, requesting his immediate presence
at home; and though this also was for a time ignored,
Messrs. Quill & Screw became so urgent in their
demands—hinting at serious pecuniary loss did he fail to return at
once—that Graeme was at length forced to comply, and
submitted an application for six months' leave of absence.

This was gladly forwarded by Colonel Royle, who had
secret hankerings after the control of his own regiment,
and equally gladly approved by General Banks, who jumped
at the chance of getting rid of Hector, if only for a time;
and a week later, his passage secured, Graeme was
comfortably seated in a first-class compartment of the famous
*train de luxe*, on his way to Capetown, where the mail
steamer, *Dunrobin Castle*, 12,000 tons, was already waiting
alongside the quay.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII

.. vspace:: 2

Through the shining tropic sea sped the
*Dunrobin Castle*, homeward bound, a speck of
scarlet and grey in a waste of still, oily blue.
Canvas awnings glared white in the morning sunlight;
pitch bubbled in the seams of the holystoned decks; from
metal-work and fitting, flashes of light smote blindingly on
the eye.  Over the towering oval-shaped funnels a faint
shimmer hovered; from clanging engine-room rose the
reek of oil and steam mingling with the hot air above; wire
stays quivered dizzily to the dull throbbing of the screw.

On one side of the ship, where a faint breeze blew, a
row of chairs stretched along the deck, their occupants
reading, chatting, or lazily looking on at games of deck
billiards, quoits, or bull, played by the more energetic of
the passengers; on the other, now invaded halfway across
by the glare of the slanting sunlight, there were only two
figures, the one that of Hector Graeme, the other—the
length of the deck away—of a girl, Stara Selbourne.

Both were apparently reading, but neither had turned
a page for an hour, their thoughts being of one another.
Stara wondered why, since this man was so obviously
interested in her, he declined to avail himself of board-ship
licence and speak instead of staring.  Hector revolved in
his mind for the hundredth time suitable words with which
to begin, and cursed the curious awkwardness that
inevitably assailed him when in her vicinity, impelling him to
pass her by without a word when he had approached her
with the object of commencing the attack.

This stupidity on his part, moreover, apart from its
novelty, was the more galling, as for the first time in ten
years he found himself desirous of talking to a woman other
than his wife; in fact, even in the short space of two days
this desire had begun to take possession of him to the
exclusion of all else, even to that of the perusal of a parcel
of new books with which he had intended to occupy his
whole time when on board.

It is perhaps unnecessary to mention, Hector's attention
having been thus aroused, that Stara Selbourne was
possessed of personal attractions, these being of that soft,
essentially feminine kind before which the strength of
men evaporates.

Looking at her now as she lay, lazily disposed among
a heap of pink-and-white cushions, the short-lipped,
sensuous mouth half open, and soft, dimpled cheek
resting on a tiny white hand; noting, moreover, the fineness
of cambric blouse and skirt, the sheen of tightly-stretched
silken stocking, and the amber combs in the elaborately
curled hair, one knew instinctively that this daintiness
was not mere outward show, but part of her nature,
and that, strip off the outward husk, no incongruities
would stand revealed, no monstrosities of wool and
flannel, the unseen would be a wonder of snowy and
beribboned delicacy.  In hunting parlance indeed, Stara,
even where no such catastrophe was to be apprehended,
was, and always would be, dressed "for a fall."

Nevertheless, despite this general appearance of femininity,
signs were to be observed of other characteristics,
signs of a somewhat startlingly contradictory nature.
The chin, for instance, though soft and white, was most
unfemininely firm, almost hard; while the eyes, long in
shape and black-lashed though they were, were not of blue, as
to be in keeping they ought to have been, but of light grey,
clear, steady and rather cold—in no way languishing.

These eyes she now kept fixed on her book, firmly
determined to run no risk of meeting even one of the frequent
glances directed at her from the other end of the deck; of
which glances, as also of Hector's mental restlessness,
she was at the same time perfectly aware.

"Let him come and talk if he wants to," she thought
impatiently; "ogling is a practice I abominate; it's a
servant-maid's trick."  And Stara at last turned another
page, forcing her attention once more back to the
relation of the adventures of one Mademoiselle de Maupin,
Hector at the same time returning to the theory of
heredity as expounded by Arthur Schopenhauer of
pessimistic notoriety.

"Physical qualities from the father's, mental from the
mother's side," he reflected, laying the book down again.
"Well, that seems true, my mother was clever enough,
though a bit cranky.  He's a bit out, though, about the
other, poor old governor was rather an ugly chap."

He yawned, stretched himself, and once more his eyes
wandered to the far end of the deck.  "Still there," he
murmured.  "Wherever I am, there she is too; must do it on
purpose; wants me to talk to her, I suppose; doesn't know
I'm married; if she did, her interest would very soon die.
Bah! what humbug it is, that a man should be debarred
from amusement because of a mere conventional tie.  No
wonder those other fellows, Nelson, Suvarov, and the rest,
revolted; they couldn't stand restraint any more than I can.

"Mustn't, you're married, family man and so forth, it's
just that makes one want to do things.  Damn it, for years
I've never looked at a woman except Lucy, and see the
result, I've become a fossil; don't even know how to begin.
I've been only half alive all this time, and I want to live,
and I think somehow that girl would help me.  She looks
as if she'd love well.  I've a good mind to try it, just for
the voyage.  I'm strong enough, thank God, to pull up
when I want to.  Hanged if I don't let myself go all I know;
no, I'm bothered if I do; she'd only laugh at me if she
knew and that I could not stand."

Again he took up his book and began to turn over the
pages.  "'Ethics.'  Don't know what they are, and don't
want to either.  'Man's need for metaphysics.'  Have none
myself.  Ah!  'On Woman;' that sounds better.  Oho!"
reading; "this is capital.

"'Injustice is the fundamental failing of the female
character.  This arises from the want of reason and
reflection, and is assisted by the fact that they, as the weaker
sex, are driven by nature to have recourse not to force but
to cunning, hence their instinctive treachery and irremediable
tendency to lying.  For as nature has armed the lion
with claws, the bull with horns, and the sepia with ink
which blackens water, so has nature armed woman with
powers of deception for her protection.'

"I'd like to read that aloud to you," muttered Hector,
again glancing up; "shake your conceit a bit, I should say,
or ought to."

He went on reading:

"'Only the male intellect befogged through the sexual
impulse could call that undersized, narrow-shouldered,
broad-hipped and short-legged sex fair, for in the sexual
impulse resides its whole beauty.'

"Beastly way of putting it," murmured Hector, who
possessed the ultra refinement that is usually a characteristic
of those in whom the moral sense is deficient, "and
it's not true either—she's neither undersized nor
short-legged.  I'll take a walk past her now and look, to make
sure, rather interesting this."

He rose, and moved slowly up the deck towards the
reclining figure, who, at his approach, turned another page.

"I really believe he's going to at last," she thought,
with a faint feeling of excitement.  "No, he's not, he's
shied again," as Hector went by looking straight before
him.  "Oh, this is too absurd, I must help him, I
suppose."  Whereupon away fluttered Stara's bookmarker, across
the deck, a low exclamation of annoyance escaping her as
she watched it nearing the ship's side.

Hector, turning at the sound and noting its cause, picked
up the errant bookmarker and brought it back, indulging
himself, as he did so, with a straight, steady stare into her
eyes, and, meeting them, one of the odd fits of giddiness,
which of late had been increasing in frequency, came over
him; the sweat stood out on his forehead and the girl's
figure was hidden for a moment in mist.  He reeled,
catching at the back of her chair for support; then fingers of
steel gripped his arm and he found himself in Stara's chair,
she standing looking down upon him, her eyes alert and
interested.

"Damn!" said Graeme, when the mists had gone and he
realised the situation.

"Certainly 'damn' if you like," was the answer in clear
tones, "but don't move, stay where you are; d'you hear me?"

"I certainly won't, why should I?"

"Because I tell you to.  I'm a nurse, and know what
I'm about."

"You ... a nurse?"

"Yes, but never mind about that.  Why do you sit in
the sun, if it affects you like this?"

"Because I like it, but I'm hanged if I'll sit here while
you're standing.  I'll fetch my chair and bring it over."

"No, I'll go," and Stara walked leisurely away, and
returned dragging the chair, in which she proceeded to settle
herself.

"What a beast of a chair," she said, wriggling; "not
nearly so comfy as mine.  Oh, there's a book here, what is
it?  Ah, Schopenhauer," picking it up and opening it, the
pages falling apart where Graeme had last been reading,
'On Woman.'  "Oh!"

"Don't read the stuff, please, Miss Selbourne; it's rubbish
from beginning to end, that chapter."

"Don't be alarmed, Colonel Graeme; I've read all his
works, and about this essay, personally I think it very
true, though perhaps a little violent.  I wonder, though,
whether he made it up with her afterwards."

"Her, who?"

"The woman that essay was written at.  Pique and
disappointment show in every line.  He was certainly in love
when he wrote it."

"Surely a man like Schopenhauer would be above such
weakness."

"Above humanity?  I think not, Colonel Graeme."

"You think, then, that every man must—must——"

"I don't think at all about it, I'm sure.  That's what he
exists for, and woman too, though she pretends not to.  I
should say I know my Schopenhauer better than you do,
Colonel Graeme."

"In that case, if we exist solely as prospective fathers
and mothers, and the attraction between the sexes is merely
the cry of the unborn child, the stronger the attraction the
finer the child.  Any two people who feel that attraction
should—should——"  He stopped, confused, for the light
grey eyes were on him, and the look in them brought him
to a standstill.

"If we were beasts of the field, no doubt we should be as
they are.  Rating ourselves, however—perhaps wrongly—as
higher, we recognise the necessity of social laws.  But
tell me, or don't if you like, what was the matter with
you just now.  I'm professionally interested."

"I don't know, it's a thing that has been growing on me
lately; whenever I'm excited it comes on as it did then.
It's a nuisance when I don't want it, though useful enough
when I do.  I can't control it, though, that's the mischief,
but I'm boring you."

"No, you're not, go on, tell me what you mean by not
controlling it."

"Why, this.  Whenever I'm in a difficulty, and don't
know what to do—have to fight a battle, for instance, and
can't think of a plan—I just shut my eyes and let myself go.
For the moment I seem to lose consciousness of my present
self and become another, and that other always knows and
tells me what to do.  Then I sort of wake and do it.  D'you
think I'm mad, Miss Selbourne?"

"I think," said Stara slowly, looking at him, "you're
going the right way to make yourself so.  That other self
you talk about is—call it the subconscious, if you like; and
let that—and you're encouraging it to do so—gain the upper
hand over the conscious, and madness results.  I should
stop it at once, Colonel Graeme; it's deadly dangerous."

"May I ask how you know all this?"

"As I told you, I'm a nurse, or rather going to be one.
Oh, don't look so astonished and stare at my clothes.  I'm
very frivolous and expensive-looking, I know; but once I
get to work, away goes all this into portmanteaux, and, with
it, the world, the flesh, and the devil."

"I don't think he'll remain long in the portmanteau,"
said Graeme, looking at her mouth and dancing eyes.

"I don't mean him to; he goes with me when I have my
day out, or whatever nurses have.  Then I shall become
frilly and pretty again, and make a night of it, see all the
wickedness I can.  That's my idea of life, Colonel Graeme,
austerity or debauch.  I love the veldt, I can saddle my own
pony, shoot buck and koran, and cook as well as most chefs,
but I must have a break-out sometimes; not a lady-like
break-out—tea, dancing and flirtation—but the real thing."

Hector frowned.  "You don't know what you're talking
about," he said shortly.

"I do, perfectly.  I said *see* the wickedness, Colonel
Graeme, not take part in it.  I'm not a man."

"You certainly could not go out by yourself; it wouldn't
be—safe or—right," answered Hector, the value of social
conventions dawning upon him for the first time.

"Nor proper, I suppose.  Thank you for telling me, but,
as it happens, I can take excellent care of myself, and if
you've got a pair of foils on board I think it possible I
might surprise you, though you are a soldier.  Oh, listen,
that's the 'Matschish,' which always thrills me, makes me
feel I should like to have a lover.  Oh, please, don't be
obvious, I should hate it really, I only like to think
about it, like Madeleine de Maupin, though that's not quite
a parallel case either," she added, reflecting.

"Who was Madeleine de Maupin?"

"Oh, you've not read the book, that's all right then.  I
can talk about her.  I'm afraid Madeleine was not a very
correct person, like me.  She too wanted to see life, and, if
she could, find a perfect lover—not one who pretended to
be, like most men, and talk afterwards when they're drunk,
but someone she could trust when away from her.  So she
put on men's clothes, which I should hate, though in my
fencing kit, white satin ... but perhaps you'll see me in
that if you're nice and don't make love except when I want
you to.  That time is not now, Colonel Graeme," another
look from the grey eyes arresting the movement of his hand
towards hers.

"I wasn't going to," he muttered sulkily.  "I don't
want to touch your hand, why should I?"

"I can't imagine.  But about Madeleine, she had all sorts
of adventures on her travels; women made love to her, she
fought duels and won them too, and then at last she found
him."

"And got married, I suppose?  Same old ending, why
can't they think of something different, I wonder?"

"Madeleine did; there was nothing banal or ordinary
about her.  She waited some time after she found him,
trying him, and then when she was satisfied he was what
she wanted, she put off her man's things and sent for him."

"Without her things.  I agree with you, Miss Selbourne;
Madeleine was far from correct."

"Don't be silly.  Of course she had a dress on, a woman's
dress; that's why she sent for him, to show herself in it, to
prove to him she was a woman after all."

"And what happened then?"

"Oh, nothing much; there the story ends.  She admitted
she loved him and next ... after that, left him."

"That was a poor sort of thing to do, why did she do it?"

"She didn't want to spoil it, I suppose.  I think she
was right too.  They parted, loving one another, anyway."

"I don't think much of the man for allowing it.  I
would not have——"

Stara looked at him meditatively.

"No," she said at last; "you, I should say, would have
followed it up till she'd really begun to care, not the mere
passion that she felt to start with, but the steady love that
comes with time, and only a woman, I believe, can feel.
Then you'd have got bored and left her."

"That's cheap cynicism, Miss Selbourne; there are
happy marriages."

"No doubt.  I was talking of what you'd do.  Very
rude of me, but you introduced the subject."

Graeme felt very angry indeed.  Analysis of character,
he considered, to be his own particular privilege, and to
have it applied to himself, especially when, as in this case,
the reading was so obviously false, was most irritating.
His whole life gave the lie to her words, he thought, and
a sudden feeling of loyalty to and affection for Lucy sprang
up, momentarily obliterating Stara's attractions from his
mind.

"As it happens, Miss Selbourne," he said stiffly, "you're
rather out in your prophecies.  I've been married for the
last ten years, and believe that, so far, I have shown none of
the symptoms you mention."

"I apologise, Colonel Graeme.  I didn't know, of course,
and you don't look married."

The frown vanished from Hector's face, for her words
were pleasing—no man likes to look married.

"I suppose," he said, "it's because I've been such a lot
away.  It's three years since I was last home."

"I wonder whether you ever met my brother, Richard
Selbourne, he was out with the Yeomanry during the war,
and settled down afterwards on a farm in the O.R.C.  I've
been staying with him and my sister-in-law."

"Place called Duikerpoort?"

"Yes."

"I have, then; my regiment camped on his ground last
manoeuvres, and your brother dined with us, I remember.
Where were you?"

"At home, with Polly, my sister-in-law.  We watched
you ride away.  Oh, look!" with sudden delight in her
eyes as they fell on a small fat child slowly toddling about
the deck some distance away, "quick, fetch her and bring
her here; she'll be gone if you don't hurry."

Graeme reluctantly rose and walked over to where the child
was playing.  Unceremoniously picking her up, he returned
to Stara, the little girl faintly whimpering in his arms.

"The idea of holding a child like that," said Stara
indignantly, snatching his burden from him; "no wonder the
poor mite was beginning to cry.  Oh, you darling,"
bending rapturously over the baby, who was now smiling up at
her, her hands playing with Stara's coral chain, "how
perfectly sweet you are, and how I wish you were mine.  Look
at her little feet and legs, Colonel Graeme; oh, you're not
interested a bit."

"I confess I'm not; babies have no attraction for me."

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself.  Every
man ought to love children.  Haven't you any of your own?"

"No," snapped Graeme, and walked sulkily away down
the deck, stopping at the far end to look back.  Stara was
still holding the child in her arms and talking baby talk to
it, obviously oblivious of his existence.

"Schopenhauer's right," he muttered; "they're
hypocrites, every one of them.  Night of it, Madeleine de
Maupin, and now baby talk—don't go together the two.
I've done with it, I know the sort: pose as fast and bite
you if you say anything.  I'll get some books and go on
the upper deck.  I shan't see her there."

He descended to his cabin, picked up a couple of books at
random, and went above, where he sat down amongst the
boats, and, ignoring the luncheon bugle, tried to concentrate
his attention on Lombroso.  "It's too hot for this stuff,"
he muttered, after reading the same paragraph half a dozen
times without taking in a word.  "I'll try the other,
Shelley; I don't know why I bought the thing except for
the short biography at the beginning."  He read this
through and lay back reflecting.  "Woman, always woman
in these fellows' lives," he murmured; "domestic
unhappiness seems inseparable from genius."  He began to turn
over the pages.  "*Epipsychidion*—now what does that mean
I wonder?"  He began to read, and, bored at first, soon
became absorbed, the flaming passion in the lines stirring
something within him that had been hitherto unawakened.

   |  "We shall become the same, we shall be one
   |  Spirit within two frames.  Oh! wherefore two?
   |  One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew,
   |  Till, like two meteors of expanding flame,
   |  Those spheres instinct with it become the same,
   |  Touch, mingle, are transfigured: ever still
   |  Burning, yet ever inconsumable."
   |

Graeme laid down the volume.  His eyes were shining,
and his face had become very pale.

"Nothing banal about that," he murmured; "no
married sameness, no dreary domesticity.  It's all free and
lawless, as it ought to be.  God, the thing's maddened me;
I can't keep still!"  He sprang up, hesitated for a moment,
and then hurrying below looked furtively up and down the
decks.  He searched the saloon, the music-room, the library,
but all to no purpose; that which he sought was not there.
Gradually he was seized with anger, then anxiety, and finally
a sick longing.  Restlessly he wandered about the ship,
now trying to read, now pacing the decks, till at length the
dinner-bugle sounded and he went below to dress.

"She shan't escape me afterwards," he thought,
watching her across the crowded saloon; "we'll sit together
away from the world, and the romance of our lives shall
begin."  Stara, nevertheless, did escape him, despite his
vigilance, and, wait though he did till after the decks were
in darkness, she appeared no more.

Sick with disappointment and a bitter sense of humiliation,
he at length went down to his cabin, and, flinging himself
on the bed, tried hard to sleep.  But the bells clanged
the hours away and sleep refused to come, till at last he
rose from the tumbled bed and sat up, irresolution in his eyes.

"Sanders told me not to," he muttered; "he said for me
it was fatal, but what am I to do?  I shall go mad if I
don't sleep.  I don't care—I will," and Hector switched on
the light, dragged out a dressing-case and took out a small
phial containing tabloids.

"Thank heaven," he murmured drowsily, half an hour
later; "better than all the natural sleep in the world.
Stara..."  His eyes closed, and he fell asleep at last.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII

.. vspace:: 2

The old proverb, "One man may better steal a
horse, than another look over the hedge,"
like most sayings of its kind, possesses a very
deep meaning, particularly when applied to the passions
and emotions by which human nature is swayed.

There are beings, for instance, to whom a little flirtation
is a pastime, enjoyable maybe, but never to be allowed to
interfere with the serious business of their lives; it is
taken up or dropped whenever it pleases them, for their
natures allow them so to do.  On the other hand, there are
others to whom a love affair, once entered upon, means a
temporary enthralment of body and soul; and to this class
belonged Hector Graeme.  Though but ten days had elapsed
since the episode of the bookmarker, he had managed, even
in that short space, to forget both love of wife and his
ambition, the one destroyed for ever, the other for the
time superseded by a mad unreasoning desire of
possession the more imperative because of the seeming
impossibility of fulfilment.

The small phial, hidden away in his dressing-case, was
by now almost empty.  Its contents had been drawn on
at the rate of three or four tabloids a night, and yet sleep,
save intermittently, failed him; nor could he eat, racked
as he was by the triple pangs of unsatisfied desire,
impatience of the wasted present, and jealousy of the future,
with its certain rivals.

Such love as this the brutal and plain-spoken call "lust,"
the more refined "earthly passion."  Scornfully they
contrast it with the sentiments they feel for their own
beloved, ignoring the fact that love between man and woman,
disguise it as you will, is that and that only—the sexless
guardians of the harem proving this in their insensibility
to the emotion—though it varies according to the nature
of him or her who feels it.

Thus the dull, material being is as dull and brutish in his
loves as he is in all else; the rare, steadfast nature,
knowing no satiety, loves on till death; the ardent and
imaginative invests his mistress with a halo of romantic fancies.
And so, Hector loved Stara, with an exalted, passionate
adoration, rendering him, for the time, ready and longing
for any manifestation of self-sacrifice, and, as he truly
believed, incapable of the very wrong to the accomplishment of
which his whole present energies were nevertheless directed.

It is men like Graeme who are the only really dangerous
lovemakers to pure-minded women, for apparently grossness
has no part in their minds, they place their divinities
on a pedestal and worship at it: not for worlds, they
declare and believe, would they sully her white purity with
suggestions of earthly passion.  Then the time comes, and
they ... do, and that far more effectually and
thoroughly than doer, the ordinary commonplace lover,
whose feeling, though obviously of the earth, is nevertheless
healthy, and not rendered unnatural and fantastic by a
fevered imagination.  And so Hector vowed that Stara
was, and would be always, sacred to him: he only wanted
her love, that was all, and to gain this he now concentrated
all the force of which his nature was capable.  But the
days were slipping by, the end of the journey was already
in sight, and still so far, apparently, his efforts were all
in vain; for, from the first, Stara had made it plain that
she would have none of his lovemaking.  Good friend he
might be to any extent, but nothing more; and to this
resolution she adhered, despite all his attempts at trespass
on ground forbidden, and thereby rendered imperatively
desirable.

The whole day long she would sit with him, and often
till late at night, when the decks were dark, and, save for
them, deserted; also she would dance with him, fence
with him, and on one occasion had even matched herself to
drink against him.  This last, however, like their fencing
bouts, had resulted in humiliation to Hector, who, with the
deck heaving beneath his feet and the stars dancing giddily
above him, had staggered away below, his steps being guided
by the soft, white, yet steel strong arm of his late antagonist.
Further, she would discuss love in all its aspects, but at
any attempt on his part to take advantage of her candour,
and turn the conversation to a personal issue, Stara would
round on him, lashing him with her tongue in a manner that
left Hector sullen and discomfited for hours afterwards.

Indeed, so far, with the woman lay victory, even in those
very intellectual attainments on which he had now come
to set such store; for his reading, compared with hers, was
as the veriest smattering, while in knowledge of subjects
called deep, and ability to discuss them, Stara was on
another plane.

Nevertheless, though hitherto baffled, Graeme's purpose
remained unchanged, rather it increased in intensity with the
passing of the days.  Nor did his confidence in ultimate
success lessen, for that Stara loved him he felt intuitively
certain, though at the same time he realised that she was
determined not to acknowledge that love, possibly from
pride, more likely because she did not believe in his,
thinking it to be but a passing infatuation and not the life's
passion it really was to him.

He must make her believe—that was all; not by words,
for they, he realised, would never convince her, but by
action, and that soon, for his own endurance, he knew, was
now well-nigh at an end.  The only question was, what
was that action to be?  Something big it must be; nothing
small would do.  Well, the bigger the better; he wouldn't
shrink whatever it was, even to the burning of the ship,
if necessary, and subsequent rescue of Stara from the flames.
He didn't care—the end was before him, and everything
must give way to the attainment of that end.

He was debating these things in his mind one afternoon,
as he lay in his deck-chair with eyes closed and brain
feverishly working.  From the other side of the ship, where
sports were now in progress, bursts of delighted screams and
clapping of hands came at intervals.

Close beside him sat Stara, reading; a somewhat pale-faced
Stara of late, with blue shadows beneath the long,
grey eyes.

Suddenly she smiled over her book, and, looking up at
her companion, spoke.  "Here's something for you, Colonel
Graeme," she said.  "Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't see you were
asleep."

"Asleep, how the devil could anyone sleep with that
row going on?  Oh, confound it all!" angrily, as another
loud outburst of hilarity came from the other side.

"You're very captious this afternoon, why grudge
those people their amusement?"

"Amusement!  Dropping potatoes into a bucket or
chalking a pig's eye on the deck?  The swine's an
unclean animal to most of them too, I should say.
Amusement—God!"

"Far better for you, Colonel Graeme, if you were to do
the same, instead of sitting all day reading unhealthy books.
I should like to talk to you seriously about those books;
I've been wanting to for some time.  Will you listen?"

"All right, if you'll listen too when I talk seriously, as
I shall ... soon."

"What do you want to say, nothing silly, I hope;
because, if so ... what is it?"

"Never mind now; go on."

"Well, then—oh, bother you, Colonel Graeme—!  I wish
you wouldn't interrupt; I've forgotten what I was going to
say."

"My books," watching her.

"Oh yes, don't stare, please.  Well, an unhealthier
selection than you have here on board I've never seen.
There's Edgar Allan Poe, for instance, imagination gone
mad.  Schopenhauer, a philosophy to justify wrong-doing,
hence its popularity; it's full of flaws too."

"How?"

"Here's one, at any rate: in his main argument for
pessimism, he says desire for anything means unhappiness."

"He's quite right."

"And because we're always wishing for something, we
must necessarily be unhappy.  He's quite wrong; it's that
which alone gives happiness and keeps us alive; for, take
away hope—the same thing, for what we desire we hope to
get—and suicide would inevitably follow.  Everyone, even
the most wretched hopes, don't you?"

"Yes, but don't rest content with hoping."

"Well, there's one flaw in your Schopenhauer, there are
many others too, but never mind.  Now for Lombroso, your
other favourite.  I see you have 'The Man of Genius'
there.  Throw it overboard, if you're wise."

"What's the matter with it?  It's science."

"Perfectly true, but you're neither a scientist nor a
doctor.  That book is as bad for you as the advertisement
of a quack medicine is for some weak-minded people.  You
find all your own symptoms, and, like them, are glad when
you do.  Drop such reading, Colonel Graeme; take up
something healthy."

"Like that thing you've got there, I suppose, 'The
Cow in the Morning,' isn't it?  It sounds as if it might
have been written by one of Lombroso's friends."

"Don't be cheap, please.  It's 'The Heifer of the
Dawn,' and, well, you may think it silly, but I don't.
Listen to this, and judge for yourself, though in the
interests of women I consider this particular paragraph ought
to be suppressed."  She took up the book and began to read.

"'She that is to retain her lover's love for ever must
possess, first, a body without a flaw, or his senses will stray
from her to other bodies, for it is their nature to seek their
proper object; secondly, intelligence, or his esteem will
depart elsewhere; and thirdly, goodness, or his soul will
abandon her in search of that without which it cannot do,
and without which the other two component parts are
worthless except for a time.  And as it is for the woman so
it is for the man, with this difference, that their bodies
and their intelligence and their souls are totally unlike.'"

"And, if she has all that, he's bound to be faithful, I
suppose?"

"In theory yes, but I'm afraid not practically.  You
see, the speaker, being a woman, looks at it from a woman's
point of view, which is not that of a man, their intelligence
being, as she says, totally unlike.  She thinks that, if she
is perfectly beautiful, her husband's thoughts will never
stray to one less so.  But that can't be right, for in many
cases men have left beautiful wives for ugly mistresses.  A
woman can't or won't see that—that—how shall I put it
nicely?"

"That in the sexual instinct lies her whole attraction.  Pah!"

"Thank you, though that's not nicely put....
And once that dies, her beauty ceases to exist for him.
She might be a picture on the wall as far as he's concerned:
the beauty is still there, and others see it, but the owner
has seen it too often and got tired."

"And the intellect part?"

"No good at all to keep him.  A man may like talking
to a so-called clever woman—which, by the way, only means
one quick to utilise men's brains, for no woman can
originate, only receive—but that doesn't prevent him from
kissing a pretty fool five minutes afterwards."

"According to you, then, fidelity is impossible to a man."

"Certainly not; however, it's not love that keeps him
faithful, but other things, a sense of honour, pride in his
family, and possibly a feeling of compassion."

"What damned nonsense!"

"Colonel Graeme?"

"So it is.  You sit there, knowing nothing at all about
it, and reel off yards of cheap clap-trap cynicism picked up
from rotten, morbid books.  Lord, talk of my reading doing
me harm!"

"My views are not gathered from books, but observation.
I know what I say is true."

"And may I ask how, if you do, you can contemplate
the idea of marrying one of us brutes, as you told me the
other day you did eventually?"

"Because I'm human, like everyone else, and when the
time comes, as it unfortunately must, I suppose, I shall be
like any other woman, or like—like you.  I shall recant
all I've said, and believe in undying love and the rest of it.
I can see now; then I shan't be able."

"Sure you can see now?

"Quite sure, Colonel Graeme, absolutely, perfectly sure,"
she added, somewhat unnecessarily meeting his eyes.

"'Absolutely—perfectly', why such emphasis, Stara?"

"Please don't call me 'Stara'; it annoys me."

"I shall call you 'Stara' from now."

"You will not.  Why—why should you?"

"Because——"

"Be quiet, here's someone coming.  Oh, it's that poor
creature Hayward, why doesn't someone look after him?
It's sad to see him."

"Drunken brute!  I'll bash him if he comes here.  I wish
he would, and insult you, I believe I'd kill him if he did."

"You'd do a very cowardly thing, then, which would
disgust me more than I can say.  It's not the destruction,
but the saving of life that appeals to me, Colonel Graeme."

The man, a harmless creature enough save for his one
failing, at this moment shambled by, smiled vacantly at
the two as he passed, and then, moving behind the wind
screen some distance away, perched himself on the rail,
where he sat rocking, his figure just visible from where
they sat.

"I've pity for that man, and pity only," continued
Stara.  "Why, where are you going, Colonel Graeme, to
see the sports?  All right, I'll come too."

"No, stay where you are," answered Hector rather
indistinctly, his face averted from her; "I'll be back in a
minute, I'm only going down to my cabin to fetch..."  The
rest of the sentence was lost, the speaker having
disappeared through the main companion.

Once more Stara returned to her book, and then a minute
later flung it down and jumped up, her face blanched and
every nerve quivering; for high and shrill in her ears a
scream of mortal terror was ringing and then was suddenly
hushed.

"Man overboard! starboard side!" wailed a voice
from the forecastle head.  The beating of the screw ceased,
and the ship quivered to the short, sharp bursts of the
siren.

A tumult of voices arose; the clatter of hurrying feet.
"Where is he, who is it, Stara?" and Graeme, coat and
shoes discarded, stood beside her.

"It's Hayward, he's no longer there, what are you
going to do, Colonel Graeme?  Hector, you shall not."

"Oh yes, I shall—but before I go—Stara, say it."

"Say what?"

"You love me, Stara—quick!"

"Oh, I do—I do, Hector—you—you shall not.  Oh,
Hector, there are sharks hereabouts."

"No shark can hurt me now, Stara, love; good-bye."
and springing on to the rail he stood for a second steadying
himself, looked back once and was gone.  With a crash he
struck the water, the blue surface seeming to rush up to
meet him as he fell, and then, like an arrow, flew down,
apparently for miles, down through a strange jade-coloured
world into the very heart of the sea.  Surely he must
strike the bottom soon, he must have journeyed for hours
already, yet still he was rushing on.  What would it be like,
he wondered vaguely, that unknown ocean floor—rock,
sand or oozy mud?

Ah, he was stopping at last, and yes, slowly, very slowly
rising.  The return to daylight had begun, but—what
a journey lay before him: those endless miles of water,
thousands of millions of tons of liquid crystal between him
and air.  Could he hold out, would his breath last?  No,
not unless he hurried, and a sudden desperate feeling of
anxiety seizing him, he began to fight, his hands tearing at
the dense green wall above him.  Frenzied, he fought,
heart and lungs well-nigh bursting, and in his head the
loud, wild clanging of bells; then, suddenly, the desire to
struggle ceased, and in its place he felt a sense of rest and
dreamy content.  In his head, now strangely clear and
light, a voice began to sing—only one verse, that of a
music-hall ditty, last heard at a soldiers' "sing-song" in
Dutch Gethsemane.  "I would I were a kipper in the
foam," it repeated for the hundredth time.  Well, that's
what he was—in the foam, at any rate; but a kipper—-a
kipper...  "I would I were a kipper in the foam."

He must think this out; it was clear as daylight
really—daylight—light—light; and then with a sudden stunning
roar the mists of death were torn asunder and the veil of
water gone.

Slowly back from death's gates he came, his dazzled
eyes blinking at the fathomless blue above, and labouring
lungs gulping down the salt evening breeze.  It seemed
hours that he lay there, though but a minute in all had
passed since his leaving the ship's side, hours of perfect
peace and rest; and then suddenly strength came rushing
back, and with it consciousness of his own being.  A faint
wonder at first, a chaos of mingled remembrances, and then
sequence of ideas and full realisation of his surroundings.
With a thrust of his foot he raised his head and shoulders
above the water and looked about him; there, a mile or
so away, floated the great grey shape of the *Dunrobin Castle*,
a faint haze of smoke showing above the scarlet funnels,
her decks black with figures, all faces turned to where he
lay.  And yes, that was a boat being lowered down her
side, and thereupon the last cloud of mist lifted from his
brain and he remembered what he had set himself to do.

Again he looked around, and saw some distance away a
white object, with pole attached, looming gigantic against
the sky, as it rose and fell to the lift of the waves.  Striking
out, he swam towards it, and, seizing the cork circle, held
on, his eyes searching the water about him, and then, with
an exclamation, let go and struck out to where a black
object had appeared for a moment above the surface and
disappeared.  Reaching the spot, he waited, peering down,
until it again slowly rose, and a steel claw shot up from the
depths, gripped his foot, and under went Hector in the hold
of a drowning man.  Then up once more, the two interlocked,
till wrenching his arm free, Graeme beat on the
other's head, and the frenzied struggling ceased.  Then
throwing himself on his back, and clutching the man's
coat-collar, he slowly towed his prize back, and, reaching the
buoy just as his strength was failing, held on gasping, the
other's head falling forward into the water, where it lay.

For a minute Graeme remained contemplating him, and
then hauling him up beside him, looked closely into his face.

"Dead, I think," he muttered, "and God knows I hope
so.  Anyway, I've saved what's left of you.  I'm a hero
now, thanks to you, you drunken sweep," and despite
circumstances hardly calculated for mirth, something
seemed to tickle Graeme, for he suddenly burst out laughing.

Suddenly he stopped, with a startled look in his eyes.
"Now what was that?" he murmured.  "I could have
sworn something touched my foot."  He looked down, and
below him saw hanging a dark shadow: a dull eye was
fixed upon his, and then the shadow was gone, hung poised
for a moment, and whirling round, came back.  A
monstrous shape gleamed white through the green beneath
him—a savage tug, and the burden he was holding was nearly
torn from his grasp, and then became strangely light,
trailed loose in the water, now no longer clear.

For a second, Graeme was seized with wild terror, a loud
shuddering shriek burst from his lips and went echoing
across the sea; a hoarse shout of encouragement, the rattle
and bang of feet upon boards, coming in instant response
from the boat rushing onwards.  Well its crew knew the
meaning of that cry, knew also that their efforts might be all
in vain, and where rescuer and rescued now floated nothing
might be found save a few torn rags and a swirl of bloody
water.

With this vision before their eyes, they bent themselves
to their work; rough hands closed on the great oars, and
corded muscles stood out on forearms, till the heavy boat
rushed through the water and foam flew up from her bows.
But the shriek was not repeated, for already rage had
conquered fear in Hector's heart, and with rage came not
only the fierce determination to hold on to that which he
had won, but to grapple with and destroy this new enemy
who had dared to attack him.

Feverishly he sought for a weapon, and in his pocket
found a small knife.  With eyes as wicked as those beneath
him he peered down, his arm drawn back to strike.  On
came the shape once more, down went Hector's hand, a
curse escaping him as the enemy turned and fled.  "Damn
you!" he shouted to his burden, "but for you I'd go after
him, I can't leave you, though; I've sworn to get you back
and I will.  Come on, come on!" he shrieked.

"It's all right, sir; you're safe now," sounded from close
behind, and Graeme and his prize were seized, hauled up
and placed gently in the boat, a horrified "Gawd!" rising
from the crew as they saw what Hector was holding in his
arms.  For, as he himself had said, it was only what was
left of Hayward that had been saved from the seas.

"Let me go, blast you, let me go!" screamed Graeme,
struggling with a burly sailor.  "I've not begun on that
shark yet, let me go!"

"Strike me, but you're a masterpiece!" muttered a voice.
"It's no use, though, sir; the bastard's gone.  Look," and
a hand pointed to a black triangle, swiftly moving through
the water a hundred yards away.

"'Ark, sir, to that," cried another; "they've seed you,
sir, from the ship," and for a moment the creaking of the
oars ceased, all listening to a dull roar rolling across the
water from the motionless *Dunrobin Castle*.  "They're
cheering you, sir; blow me if we don't cheer too," and seven
lusty voices set up an answering shout, Graeme the while
sitting frowning at the still open knife in his hand.

"Spoilt it all," he muttered, "that devil getting off."

Back across the sea the boat went springing, and, as she
neared the grey side, from the whole ship's company—crew,
passengers, stewards, even the white-aproned and
behatted cooks waving ladles and frying-pans—renewed
cheering arose, and then suddenly was hushed, for the boat was
now under their eyes and they saw the grim heap in its stern.

Up the lowered ladder went Graeme, the Captain himself
standing at the gangway to meet him.

"You're a brave man, sir," he said; "it's not your
fault it's been so ... little use."

Graeme said nothing, for again the ill-timed merriment
was seething within him, and only with the greatest
difficulty was held in check.

He hurried on, and then stopped, for Stara was before
him, a new Stara to him, the grey eyes misty with tears
and face white and quivering.

"I've brought him back, Stara, what's left of him, a
shark tried to get the rest, but I fought him and won."

"God bless you, Hector.  I—I——" and Stara burst out
crying, whereupon the cheering was renewed, and Graeme,
with exultation in his heart, went below.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



"Can't—can't you forget it, Hector, it was wrung from
me, is it fair to take advantage of a moment of weakness?"

Stara's form drooped before him, her whole attitude spoke
defeat.  Alone on the darkened decks the two were
standing; eight bells had just clanged through the stillness.

Hector looked at her, his eyes glowing into hers, drew nearer
and then suddenly bent and kissed her.  Maddened at the
touch of those soft lips, he caught her to him and repeated
the offence a dozen times, Stara resting passive in his arms.

"Darling, why struggle any longer?" he whispered.
"We love each other; it's no use fighting, Stara.  Oh, my
love my love;" and then stopped confounded, for the girl
had done the best thing she could, and was sobbing
violently on his shoulder.

At the sight, that which men call the better mood came
upon Hector, passion yielding for the moment to
tenderness, its child.

He laid his hand on the bowed head and stroked her hair.

"Stara, dearest, listen.  It's true I love you, and
you—it's no use denying it now—love me; but there's no harm in
that.  I won't hurt you, dear.  You're safe with me.  We
don't injure that which we love, Stara."

Stara looked up at him, the grey eyes tear-dimmed and
hair tumbled.

"It—it's not possible, Hector; I couldn't trust you
or—or ... myself."

"I'm strong enough for both, Stara."

Stara stared into his eyes, searching for that she wished
to find, and wishing, as always, found.

"I want to trust you, Hector."

"You can.  You're sacred to me."

"If I do, will you promise to—to be as you were, before
... you ... knew, you won't make love to me,
you—you'll never try to kiss me again, you'll be content
with my friendship?"

"More than content, Stara."

"If—if you really mean that, dear, if you won't take
advantage of what I've said, I—I ... will trust you,
and ... for the last time I will say it again, I love
you, Hector.  Good-night, dear."

"Good-night, Stara."  He turned away, his eyes looking
out seawards.  A touch on his shoulder roused him, and
looking round, he saw Stara once more before him, her face
scarlet and eyes shy.

"Hector."

"My dearest."

"I—I've come back to say ... good-night, dear; and
... as it's for the last time, and from now we're only
... friends, you may ... just for this once..."

For a moment she clung to him, returning kiss for kiss,
and then, breaking free, hurried away, leaving Hector on
fire behind her.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV

.. vspace:: 2

"What you venture to propose to me now,
Colonel Graeme, is, in plain English, a
double establishment, over one of which I
am to have the honour of presiding, and this, I suppose,"
tapping a slip of paper in her hand, "is my first quarter's
housekeeping allowance?"

Stara's voice was like the dropping of ice-cold water and
her eyes steely as she stood up, straight and slim, every
faculty alert and concentrated on the crushing of her
opponent, who was carelessly lounging against the ship's
rail, his half-closed eyes fixed on hers.

"The exact opposite, as of course you know; but 'even
as the sepia darkens the water with ink, so does woman.'"

The thin ice of Stara's composure flew into a thousand
sparkling fragments, the grey eyes darkened as she moved
towards him, her small hands clenched.

"You, you stand there and jibe at me!  You insult a
girl you professed to—to care for, and then laugh at her.
You ... devil!"

"I told you I loved you, if that's what you mean by
professing.  I say so now, and give you the greatest proof I can."

"How?  By proposing to degrade me, me who you said
was sacred to you, by a low intrigue?  Your wife one day,
I suppose, and me the next.  I'm to be your toy, an
amusement when you tire of her or want distraction from your
soldiering.  A proof of love, faugh!  This cheque's another
proof, I suppose you think."

"Hadn't you better be quiet and listen?"

The thicker ice of Graeme's self-control was now
beginning to crack ominously.

"I won't.  I hate you.  You took advantage of a moment
of weakness any other man would have respected, to—to
make me say things.  You swore I could trust you, and I,
like a fool, believed it, and against my own judgment let
things be as before.  I've sat with you, tried to amuse you,
dressed for you even, why, it was for you I put on this dress
to-night, because you said you liked it and this was our
last night together.  And all the time you were thinking,
planning ... this."

She stopped suddenly, for Graeme, all pretence of
composure abandoned, had seized her by the shoulders and was
shaking her.  For a moment she faced him bravely, and
then before his anger hers died.  She began to tremble,
and then broke down and sobbed.

"Now, will you listen to me?  If I have to keep you here
all night to do it, I'll make you in the end.  You're wrong,
altogether wrong."

"I won't.  I don't want to hear; and how—how can I
be wrong?  You said you wanted me to belong to you,
and how can I, except in—in the way I said?  You're
married, and—and ... you gave me money; it's
the money which kills me!"  And passion reawakening, she
flung the cheque from her over the rail.  For a moment it
fluttered in the breeze, and then was blown back again
to their feet.  Hector picked it up, smoothed it out, and,
after looking at it for a moment, put it in his pocket.

"Perhaps it's as well you did not present this, Stara,"
he said; "I forgot to date it, as I usually do.  Now, if
you're ready and won't interrupt, I'll explain."

"You can't.  Don't try to.  I shan't believe you
whatever you say.  Oh, go on then."

"I'll take the money first; that's a trifle, the other's not.
You remember some time ago, when I told you I was
always hard up, you offered me your quarter's allowance.
Fifty pounds it was—all you had."

"That was different."

"And you said that surely one friend could do a little
thing like that for another.  Did I fly out at you then?"

"But you didn't take it."

"Because I didn't want the money.  You do.  There
are those bills you told me about."

"I would never have told you, had I thought you'd
take advantage like this.  That's not what I did it for."

"I know that as well as you do, but all the same you did
tell me, and you said that, when you reached London,
they'd probably serve a writ on you.  Now, I'm not going
to have you bothered by beastly tradespeople, and so I did
the little thing you said one friend might do for another—I
wrote you a cheque."

"Hector, will you swear that was all you meant?"

"Certainly I will."

"Oh ... We'll let that pass, then, though I don't
say I believe it, mind.  And now for the other, rather
more difficult of explanation, I imagine."

"I'm coming to that presently.  First, you must take
this money."

"I will not, the idea."

"I'll give you another cheque to-morrow morning.
That's settled.  Now..."

"Oh, please, please don't ask me.  Well, if—if I do,
I won't spend the money."

"Please yourself about that; and now for the other."  He
paused, and then again seizing her by the shoulders
while the glow in his eyes became a leaping flame, went on:
"We love each other, Stara, and love such as ours must be
satisfied.  What do conventions matter to you and me;
leave them to the weak fools whose lives they trammel.
Belong to me you shall, not, as you think, by paltry deceit,
but openly, for the whole world to see.  It's marriage I
offer you, not dishonour."

Stara looked up at him bewildered.

"Are you mad, Hector, your wife?"

"What is she to me—what is anything to me?  Stara,
in the whole world I can see but one thing now, you, and
you I swear to have."

"I don't understand.  You're married; nothing can
alter that.  Oh, why talk about impossibilities?"

"There's nothing impossible to me.  There never was
from the time you told me you loved me.  Listen and I'll
tell you what I mean to do.  To-morrow I shall see her—I
will call her 'my wife' no longer, Stara—and I'll tell her it's
you I love and not her.  I'll say, too, I've come to break
with her, that the past is finished and a new life begun.
Oh, I've thought it all out; the thing's as good as done now."

"I won't be party to such a hateful bargain.  Besides,
what if—if she won't?"

"She will, she's a sensible woman; she will understand
and set me free, and then, then, Stara, I shall claim you."

"You shall not, I won't be a party to this, I say.  Oh
Hector, dear, this is madness.  Think what you're saying,
think what it means, to abandon a wife of ten years for a
woman you met but three weeks ago, the dragging of your
name through the mud of the Divorce Court.  Never,
Hector, never!"

"Such things are nothing to me, but you do what you
like, consent or not as you like.  I shall do it all the same.
Can't you see it's my love for you that has made it
impossible for me to go back to her?"

"But, Hector, we—you would forget in time; you will
come together again and—and be glad."

"Like they do in moral story books, I suppose, and why
should we?  We've got a chance of heaven now; we don't
get many.  D'you think I'm going to give up that for mere
paltry scruples?  Bah! you're but a weakling after all."

"I'm not, only I happen to have some sense of honour
and the ordinary feelings of humanity.  Oh, please, please,
listen to me."

"Spare yourself the trouble; my mind's made up.  It's
but a small thing lies between us and happiness, and now
you shrink from it, though you're not asked to do
anything but look on."

"A small thing, great heavens, you call this a small thing!"

"Anything's small that stands between you and me."

Stara was silent, feeling the futility of further opposition.

"What—what is it you want me to do, then?" she said
slowly.

"Marry me when I'm free."

"And if she refuses?"

"She will not, I tell you; but if she does, we'll have to
content ourselves with platonics, I suppose.  In any case
I break with her."

"You'd be satisfied with—platonics?"

"No, I should not, but I won't ask more of you.  I
promise you that, and I keep my word, Stara."

Again the girl was silent.

"You really mean to do this thing, Hector—nothing I
can say will stop you?"

"Oh, why go over old ground, Stara?  Now, about you,
will you wait in London till I return?

"No; I will go back to South Africa by the next boat.
My brother will think me mad, but he'll be glad all the
same.  He always hated my nursing schemes.  And
there's something I want to say now, Hector, before I
leave you."  She paused and then went on hurriedly:
"When—when it's over, definitely broken off, I
mean—and, oh, for my sake, dear, try to get her to divorce
you—you may come out to me then."

"Why do you say for your sake, Stara, isn't it for both
our sakes?"

"Because—because—oh, I won't tell you now, but perhaps
you'll find that I'm not quite the weak creature you think,
and if you make this sacrifice for me I too may ... make
a return.  And, Hector, one thing more.  Till then
I don't want to see you again, to me it would seem
like—like an intrigue.  When you come you must be free.  And
so, when we land to-morrow, don't look for me, you won't
find me if you do."

"How am I to give you that cheque, then?"

"Send it by a steward, if you must; and when it's all
over, wire to me the one word "Coming."  I shall
understand and be waiting.  Good-bye."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV

.. vspace:: 2

The north wind blew keen and lusty over the
Norfolk marshland, bending the lush grass and
sedge and ruffling the surface of dyke and pool.
Overhead there was a sky of pale blue dappled with white
and grey, from which shone forth the yellow ball of a
December sun.

Tossed in the wind, flocks of screaming plover and white
kittiwake flew aimlessly over the green flat; the plaintive
cry of a lonely curlew rang eerily as he scudded swiftly along
the foreshore.  Now and again a sturdy mallard could be
seen stoutly battling his way against the wind towards
some rush-covered sanctuary, quacking triumphantly as
he hung for a moment over it, and then, dropping, was lost
to view.  Away to the east a low, ragged line of sandhills
broke the green monotony, beyond which lay a foam-flecked
jade-coloured sea, streaked and mottled with ever-shifting
shadows of purple and ultramarine.

Some two miles inland the square, white shape of a house
could be seen nestling in a clump of trees, an
unpretentious-looking place, despite its appellation of
Hall—Cuddingfold Hall, to give it its full title—but solidly built
and comfortable, nevertheless.  This was the home of
which Lucy had written to her husband, and here for the
last four months she had been installed, living now in one
room, now in another, for painters, paperers and their
kind had been plying their respective trades, and life had
been full of discomforts.

Their work had been at last completed, and even to
Lucy's exacting mind Cuddingfold Hall had been
transformed from a ramshackle human warren into an almost
perfect dwelling-place.  In spite of the somewhat extensive
improvements carried out, it was only for twelve months
she had rented the Hall, but she had the option of taking
it on at the end of that time for seven, twenty-one, or
ninety-nine years, if she wished.

That, however, was for her husband to decide—the
husband who was arriving that evening after more than
three years' absence.  Of his decision she had no doubt
whatever, but Lucy, in her own way, was wise, and refrained
from signing any lease; she knew that to do so without
his consent would be more than likely to inspire him with
an instant distaste for the place—partridges and ducks
notwithstanding.  To bind Hector, meant for him to
chafe against his bonds and the certain rupture of them.

She would leave him to do it, and, if she knew him aright,
that very night would see a letter, nay, a telegram,
despatched to the land agent, to the effect that Colonel Graeme
would take Cuddingfold Hall for a term of ninety-nine
years.  Take it?  No, he would certainly insist on buying
it, and rush up next morning to his bankers, for the purpose
of raising the necessary sum.  She could hear him say,
"What's the good of paying rent, Lucy?  Much better
buy; it's always cheaper in the end."

Well, if he wanted to, why not?  He must certainly not
be allowed to raise the money, for that would not be
cheaper in the end.  It would only result in a financial
crisis, as had happened once before, and an ignominious
abandonment of their new home before the year was out;
and here, at the thought of her husband's business capacity,
an irrepressible smile stole over Lucy's face.

No, she had her plan, that being to buy the place herself
and give it to him as a present.  She had a little money
of her own, which had come to her from her mother, and
already Lucy had approached the trustees on the subject
of reinvestment.  They had demurred, it is true, her uncle,
the General, being strongly averse to any scheme giving
Hector control over his wife's property; but Lucy, as once
before, had conquered, and eventually he, with his
co-trustee, had agreed.  After all, they decided, it was house
property, this proposed new investment, and as such
allowable under the trust; and, at any rate, the General
would take good care that the place was settled upon his
niece and that that fellow, as he always designated Hector,
should have no chance of laying his hands on it.  And so
the matter had been left till Graeme's arrival.

On the afternoon of that event, Lucy was sitting on a
rush-covered bank, happily dreaming of the time when this
estate of marsh and sandhill would be their own.  Here,
she thought complacently, watching the wheeling birds,
they would settle down for life, and partings and war
scares would be nightmares of the past.  She would have
her rose garden, Hector his shooting, and later, she hoped,
a seat in the House, and perhaps in time they might—oh
Heaven, how she prayed for it—be given a son.  Here
Lucy's smile died and the blue eyes clouded.  A son, a
strong, straight-limbed boy, not like Ruby; and at the
thought of her, their only child, a sudden passionate feeling
of revolt came over Lucy and her eyes filled with angry
tears.

"Why," she thought bitterly, "should such a thing have
happened to me?  I was so looking forward to her coming
too, and was so very very careful.  It was not my fault,
or that of my ancestry; we have always been strong and
healthy.  Oh, my God, how am I to tell him?  I was mad
to keep it from him, but it looked so awful in a letter.
What will he say when he sees her—he so intolerant of
weakness and disliking children at any time?  And all
these years I expect he's been wondering what she's like,
picturing her as a round, rosy child, who'll want to romp
with him and pull his hair.  Ruby, romping!  Oh," a sudden
revulsion of feeling coming over her, "what a brute I am,
wicked and unnatural.  It's not her fault, poor mite; and
if I, her mother, run her down, who's to take her part?
And perhaps Hector won't take it so hardly; he'll be kind
to her, even if he can't love her—Hector could never be
anything else.  And he won't see much of her; she'll be in
her nursery all day; this cold would kill her at once, poor
child."

With a sigh, she rose from the bank and made her way
back to the house, when for the hundredth time that day
she ran through the preparations for her husband's coming,
and then, after a short visit to the nursery, went to her
room to dress.  The sudden chiming of the clock startled
her, and hurrying over the last stages of her toilet she flew
downstairs, impatiently calling for the pony-cart, though
it was not due for a quarter of an hour.  Rapidly her
anxiety was becoming a fever from waiting when at length
the trap appeared.  Hastily mounting, she took the reins,
and, whipping up the white pony, sent him along at his
best pace to the station.

Here, as she might have known, had excitement not
rendered reflection impossible, she arrived a good half-hour
too soon, a time of waiting that would certainly be
prolonged to at least one hour—the trains on that line being
remarkable for a monotonous unpunctuality.  However,
with the aid of a little conversation with the station-master,
a thorough perusal of the texts decorating the one dingy
waiting-room, and some twenty minutes of sentry-go up and
down the platform, the time was at length got through.

The sharp tinkling of a bell broke the silence, the sound
of wire rustling at her feet was followed by the clack of a
falling signal, and then a faint humming growing gradually
louder.  Far down the line a yellow point could be seen,
another shot out beside it, the humming swelled to a roar,
and with the rush of a whirlwind the train dashed past
Lucy, a flare of yellow lights flying giddily by.

"Heavens, it's going on!" she gasped, dismayed;
"they've forgotten to stop it.  No, it isn't, though," as the
rattle died down and the mass of wood and iron came to
a rest at last.  "There he is," and Lucy, dignity forgotten in
joy, ran up the platform to where a man was standing
gazing vacantly about him.

"Hector, darling, oh, Hector, at last, after all these
years!" she began, and then stopped suddenly, an icy finger
seeming to touch her heart, for this man who stood before
her, though bearing her husband's features, was surely a
stranger; yet, no, he was speaking to her, addressing her
by name, though the voice too was unfamiliar.

"Oh, Lucy," he said, "is that you, how are you?"

"Hector ... what on earth's the matter, aren't
you glad to see me?  Oh, darling, you're ill; you look half
dead," and conviction gaining upon her as she looked, the
sudden terror of the unknown died in Lucy's heart and was
replaced by a rush of protecting tenderness.  She took his
arm, her face looking up into his, a world of loving anxiety
in her eyes.

"It's nothing, Lucy.  I'm only tired; I've been up
since dawn."

"Of course you have, dear, I forgot; and I know I was
the same, Hector—so excited.  I thought the daylight
would never come.  And then the day, how it's dragged;
but it's all over at last, and your..."  Again a
sudden stop, again the icy finger at her heart, for her
husband had turned sharply away, and a ghastly silence
followed.

"Porter—where's the porter?" muttered Hector.  "Oh,
there you are, get my things out, will you?  Not that one,
you fool, where to?  God knows—I don't, when's the
next train back to town?"

"Ain't no more to-night, sir, Colonel, that is, beg
pardon, sir," said the man, staring at him and then
questioningly at Lucy, whom he knew and liked well, as did
already all the natives of Cuddingfold village.

"Take them to the luggage cart, Sims," said Lucy, her
voice become suddenly level; "the Colonel's tired with
his long journey; and you," smiling at Hector, "come
with me.  That's our trap standing over there with the
white pony.  Get in; I'll drive you; he knows my hand,
and he's always a little playful at starting.  Good-night,
Sims; tell your wife I'll be round to see the new baby soon.
Steady boy," to the dancing pony; "that's right," and the
two drove away.  For the first mile there was silence, and
then, like a pistol-shot, words burst from Hector's lips.

"What's his name, Lucy?" he asked, the triviality of
the question being in odd contrast to the voice that asked
it.  But triviality was now what Hector was fighting for with
all his power, conversation on purely ordinary matters;
for in that way only, he knew, could he keep off the
numbing sense of unreality that was creeping over him—a
nightmare feeling rapidly sapping the strength of purpose that
till then had burnt so strong and steadily.

"I have come to do this thing, and I will; I'll be firm,
firm, firm," he repeated to himself, and the word mingled
with the rattle of the flying wheels and were flung back at
him in meaningless echo.  Apparently miles away, he
heard Lucy's voice answering some question he had put,
and which now he could not for his life remember.

"His name, dear?" she said cheerfully.  "I call him
Whiting, because he's white; and when he's fresh his head
and his tail come together.  Not very clever, I fear; but
then I'm not clever, as I told you once..."  She broke
off, a sudden stab at her heart.  When had she said this
very same thing before?  Ah, she remembered, at Chillata,
that last night; what thousands of years ago it seemed
now.  "It made Tom laugh," she added hurriedly.

"Tom?"

"He's the groom, and the gardener and hoot-boy
and the keeper and all sorts of other things.  He's rather
a treasure, really, though not much to look at.  He's so
looking forward to your coming; we—we all are, Hector."

"How—how is——?"  God, he'd forgotten his own
child's name!

"Ruby?"—a pause.  "Oh, you'll see her presently, and
I—I hope you won't be disappointed, Hector.  A baby, you
know, very often at first is—is not ... But I want to
tell you about the shooting.  It's what you've always
wanted: miles of marsh, and such a lot of ducks, you
can hear them quacking every night; and to-day a flock
of widgeon passed over the house, within shot too.  And
there are partridges and pheasants, though not many; and
the house—oh, Hector, you'll like the house," and here
Lucy launched out into a description of her property, though
truth to tell, she had very little idea of what she was saying.

Only on two points was she clear: one, that at all hazards
silence must not again be allowed to fall; the other, that
she must hold back for the present from any questioning
of her husband as to what had brought about this change
in him.  God knew what the thing was that had come
between them, but, whatever it was, she would hear in
time, that was certain; for, thank heaven, whatever her
husband's other failings might be, that of deceit was not
among them.  Till then she must wait as best she could,
and, when it came, face and fight it with all the strength
in her power.  A great crisis was at hand, she knew
instinctively, one involving her whole life's happiness; and
Lucy was not going to give that up without a struggle.

She might not be clever—she knew she was not—but
she was the possessor of a fund of sound common sense and
the pluck and staying power of a hundred.  And so, as if
unaware that there was anything amiss, she chatted on
cheerfully, the light trap flying through the country lanes,
till at length a pair of white wooden gates were reached.
Passing through these, they rattled along a short carriage
drive, finally pulling up in front of the house, through the
open doors of which a stream of light shone out into the
darkness.

At the sound of the wheels a rosy-cheeked maid came
bustling out, all smiles and anxiety to help; while from the
stables close by a queer-looking creature hastened, wiping
his mouth with his sleeve—he had been disturbed in the
middle of his tea—and, having touched his cap and grinned
sheepishly at Graeme, seized the pony by the bridle and
led him away to stable and oats.  This person was Tom,
of whom Lucy had spoken, a Norfolk man born and bred,
and a stranger to towns and their ways.  Not a gentleman's
servant in appearance possibly—his multitudinous duties
forbade that—but an honest and devoted creature
nevertheless, and one who had already identified himself with
Cuddingfold Hall and its interests.

The arrival of his new master was an event in Tom's life,
one he had looked forward to for many weeks; for though
contented enough—as were all Lucy's servants—in his
present post, he had felt that a man was wanted about the
place, one who would be up and after those feathered
denizens of marsh and pool, the thought of whose
undisturbed serenity had of late begun to get on Tom's nerves.
But now that the master had arrived, the master of whose
prowess with the gun he had heard so much and often, he
felt, strangely enough, a bitter sense of disappointment.
This was not the hero he had expected, this white-faced
haggard man, who had not so much as looked at him or
noted his greeting, but without a word had descended
from the cart and walked stiffly into the house.

Something was also wrong with the mistress; the brightness
had gone from her face, and she had also omitted her
usual "good-night."  Tom was not given to fancies, but,
like most of those whose natural instinct has not been
stifled by a smattering of education, he, in common with the
beasts and birds he loved, knew things intuitively, and that
intuition made him aware of a strong feeling of repulsion
towards his new master.  In vain did he fight against
it—it remained; and Tom's ruddy face was strangely overcast
as he unharnessed the white pony and shook out his evening
feed of oats; nor was his whistle quite so shrill and cheerful
as it generally was when performing that operation.

Hector, meanwhile, was left standing alone in the
black-and-white tiled hall, for Lucy, on their entrance, had
disappeared and the maid was already busy on her knees
upstairs with the unpacking of portmanteaux.  But now
that he was alone and had time to marshal his thoughts,
for which he had been praying all through that nightmare
drive, the same deadening sense of unreality descended on
his mind like a pall, and he stood there, his brain a whirling
chaos.  Only a few hours before he had felt himself to be
of steel, inflexible of will and insensible to all human
emotions save that of love; he had even gloried in what he
meant to do, as marking him out as a man above his fellows,
in that for him conventional scruples had no meaning, and
bonds deemed unbreakable he could tear asunder without
a pang.

He had told Stara—and had believed what he said—that
this was nothing to him.  But in the exaltation of that
moment he had overlooked two things: the one, the power
of old associations over the human mind; the other—the
curse of natures such as his—nerves, a legacy bequeathed
to him, amongst other things, by his mother, and the revolt
of which means paralysis to the strongest will.  In vain
did Hector call upon that will, it would not answer; in
vain did he repeat that this was nothing; old associations
told him he lied, and bade him look around and see what
this thing was he was about to do.

They pointed to the thousand and one evidences of
womanly love and forethought: the spotless cleanliness
and comfort of the old firelit hall, the gleam of brass and
pewter ornaments, the polish on oak and mahogany.  The
scales fell from Hector's eyes, and he knew that this same
nothing was in reality a horror, growing in intensity with
the passing of the minutes, and at the thought of which
his coward nerves now quivered and shrank.

Only too well did he realise, standing here, what his
homecoming meant to Lucy; the care she had lavished on
this place to make it a home, such as he would like; the
pride with which she had looked forward to welcoming
him to it.  All this was his; he was the master here whom
all were anxious to serve; no longer was he a mere
irresponsible officer of cavalry, but the head of a household—a
man to be looked up to and respected.  Respected?  He?
Why, the very servants who now waited so smilingly upon
him would turn from him with loathing did they know his
purpose; and soon they must know it, and to-morrow all
would be changed.

At the thought, a sudden wave of hatred of himself came
over him, and with it a sense of moral uncleanness and
unfitness to be in this innocent, harmless household.  He bowed
his head and shuddered where he stood.  Nevertheless,
despite his present tortures, he knew that do this thing he
would; for his will was but paralysed for the moment by
shattered nerves, and it remained the while unchanged;
only it was harder, infinitely, immeasurably harder than he
had thought.  Then he heard the sound of Lucy's voice
from above, and, looking up, he saw her from the gallery
overhead smiling down upon him, and there was something
in her smile that made Hector wince.

"Come up here, will you, Hector?" she said, and the
cheerfulness in her voice rang false; "I have something to
show you."  Without a word, Hector mounted the stairs
and joined her.

"What is it, Lucy?" he said dully.

"It—it's Ruby; I want you to see her now, at last;
and—and, Hector, you will try not to be disappointed, won't
you?  She—she's not a very strong child, and there's
something ... wrong."

"Wrong, what do you mean?"

"Oh, I know I ought to have told you, and I tried to
many times, but ... couldn't.  Go in now and see
for yourself, and please try and not show you ... you
notice, Hector."

"Where is she?"

"That door there.  No, no, I won't come in with you;
don't ask me, Hector, for I can't," and Lucy hurried away,
leaving Hector standing before a red baize-covered door.
Faintly curious, he knocked, and a voice said, "Come
in."  He entered, and then stood staring.  In a high chair,
drawn up close to the fire, a small pale-faced child was
sitting, holding in her arms a yellow plush monkey, to
which she was softly singing.  As Hector entered, she
turned quickly, and at the sight of her eyes the new-comer
muttered "Good God!" and clutched at a chair.

"Yes, sir," said the nurse, watching him, "she can't
see you; she was born like that.  It's your father, Miss
Ruby, come to see you and say good-night to you.  I
think, sir," turning again to Hector, who was still standing
motionless, "perhaps you had better go now; she's not
very strong, sir, and if distressed..."  But the nurse
stopped, astonished; for Hector, unheeding, had suddenly
stumbled forward, and, picking up the little child, whose
thin arms closed round his neck, was crying over her like
a woman.

Hastily the nurse rose up, thimbles, needles, and work
falling unheeded on the floor, and rushed headlong from
the room and downstairs to the kitchen, where she was soon
sobbing loudly in the cook's arms.

"I'll never forget it, Martha, not if I live to be a hundred.
Him disappointed, him not love the child!  Why, from
the moment he set eyes on her, he just made one rush
and—and ... Oh, he's a good sort is that man, Martha,
a right down good fellow," and again she sobbed aloud, the
cook also weeping in sympathy.  Nor, may it be here
remarked, did the nurse ever subsequently change her opinion,
but, deaf to all argument and blind to proof, maintained
always that the master was a good master, let them say
what they liked, and, if some folk weren't rightly able to
understand him, that was their fault, not his.

Above, in the firelit nursery, father and daughter made
friends; for the incredible had happened, and Hector had
taken to this poor weakling as he would never have done
to the sturdy, healthy romp prayed for by Lucy.  Perhaps
in little blind Ruby he recognised the physical incarnation
of his own twisted soul, perhaps in some dim way he knew
that to him and him only her infirmities were owing, but,
be this as it may, his heart went out to her and hers to him.

Here, where he had least expected one, he had found a
friend, and forthwith his tortured nerves were calmed and
his working brain at rest; and he opened out his mind to
this baby as to one his equal in years and knowledge.
And the blind eyes were kept fixed on his own, and the
thin hands stroked his face, as she murmured words of
sympathy, possibly wondering what all this might mean
and possibly comprehending, for God and his angels alone
know what little children do understand.

An hour passed and still the two sat there, though in
silence now, for the sightless eyes were closed and Ruby
was happily dreaming; then the door opening noiselessly,
the snuffling nurse stood on the threshold, and
behind her Lucy, her eyes wide with wonderment and a
certain awe at the marvel Heaven had brought to pass.
In silence she followed Hector from the room, and when
the door had closed behind them, and they stood in the
passage outside, she turned and laid her hands on his
breast.

"Hector," she said very low, "you have taught me a
lesson.  I have been so wicked about her, dearest, so
unnatural; but from to-night I—I will make amends."  She
leaned towards him, but Hector started back, his eyes wild.
For a moment he stood staring at her, and then sharply
turning left her, and a minute afterwards was lying face
downwards on the bed in his dressing-room, his hands
gripping the iron frame-work and his face rigid with pain.

Here Lucy, entering half an hour later, all pale blue and
white lace, found him, but paid no heed, only rallied him
gently for being late the first night of his return, and said,
"Do you like my present?  Oh, never mind; to-morrow
will do, it isn't much really, only, oh, Hector, do please
look at them," and Lucy flew to a large brown paper
parcel lying ignored on the floor, and on which was
inscribed in large letters: "To HECTOR, WITH LUCY'S
LOVE."  "They're something you've always wanted," she ran on,
her slender fingers busy with knots as she spoke, "and I've
always wished to give you, but never been able to till now.
There—" as the last wrapping of paper was torn off and the
lid of a brown leather case revealed and lifted—"don't—don't
you like them?" looking rather anxiously at Hector,
who was staring silently down at a pair of shining Purdy
guns, delights which in the past he had often longed for
but had never been able to afford.  At least three years of
close saving on Lucy's part did this gift represent, for well
he knew that not one penny of the price had been taken
from his own money; out of her own small income alone
had these toys been bought.

"They're all right, Hector, aren't they?  They're
ejectors, you see," fingering the barrels of one as she spoke;
"and there are plenty of cartridges downstairs—Kynochs
brass.  No. 6, the ones you always used to use.  And
to-morrow we'll try them, won't we?  Oh, I'm so looking
forward to to-morrow, I do hope it will be fine, and then
you and I and Tom..."  She stopped suddenly, for
Hector had again turned away from her and was leaning
against the mantelpiece, staring into the fire.

"Hector," touching his shoulder, "won't you, can't
you tell me now, dear?"

"No—no, not now—later.  Leave me, Lucy; I'll join
you in a minute."  And Lucy without a word left him.

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Dinner was over, and wrath reigned in Martha's ample
bosom, for the skill and knowledge of a life-time had
gone to the preparing of this night's repast, and bitterly
she felt that all her talent had been wasted.  "Mark my
words, Eliza," she said to the kitchen maid, "there's
something wrong with a man as don't relish a beautiful
dinner like this.  There's that vol-o-vong, the souffly too,
came down untasted.  It ain't in nature, Eliza—it ain't;
and 'im too just back from furrin parts.  Oh, I've not
patience with him, nor yet with the Missus either," and
she shut the oven door with a bang.

Upstairs, in the softly-lighted drawing-room, Lucy and
her husband were sitting looking into the fire.  Silence
had fallen, for the woman's chatter, sustained uninterruptedly
during the meal, had ceased at last, and the time
had come for the one to hear and the other to tell.  Now
she sat waiting, with nerves braced and every faculty
alert and ready for battle.

The minutes ticked away, but still the silence remained
unbroken, for by now all coherence of thought had left
Hector, and, strive as he would, no sequence of thought
would come.  In vain did he try to call up Stara's face to
strengthen him; in vain did he repeat that this was mere
weakness, and that carry this thing through he must; he
could say the words as much and as often as he liked, but
no resolution lay behind them—they were but as ghosts.

The exaltation of the night before; the long train
journey; the meeting with Lucy; and then the final blow
dealt by a pair of thin baby hands—all had told; and now,
when he had most need of them, strength of purpose and
clearness of thought were gone.

Suddenly Lucy rose, and, moving swiftly across to him,
knelt on the hearth at his feet, her bright eyes fixed on his.

"Dear, tell me," she whispered, "as you promised; I
am your wife, remember, and have the right to know.  I
don't mind what it is, Hector, so that you tell me."

"Lucy, I can't, I meant to, God knows; but now the
time's come, I can't think—my head's whirling.  Give me
till to-morrow, Lucy, I will tell you then, I swear."

"And you think, Hector, I could wait till to-morrow,"
said Lucy passionately, "oh, how can you be so inhuman?
Surely, surely, it can't be so hard a thing as this, that you
can't tell me, your wife of ten years.  Oh, my dearest,"
and Lucy put her arms round his neck, "we have never
had secrets from each other, like most husbands and
wives."

"This is different, Lucy."

"Is it money ... gambling?  If so, I can help
you.  I have——"

"It's not money, Lucy."

"Something you've done in the regiment, then,
have—have they cashiered you, Hector?  If that's it, I don't
mind a bit.  I always hated the regiment; it was never a
good enough one for you."

"It's nothing of that sort, Lucy."

Lucy stared at him, her brow knit in thought; then
suddenly her arms fell from his neck and she sank, a
huddled heap, on the hearth-rug.

"It's ... another ... woman, Hector?"

"Yes."

Silence, and then the bowed figure straightened itself,
and the light of battle once more came into her eyes.
She would fight this out to the end.

"Tell me about it, Hector," she said steadily, "everything,
please.  I want the whole story, nothing kept back
whatever."

Hector began, a recital very different from that
arranged in his mind only a few hours before.  "Lucy,
when I left South Africa, three weeks ago, I could say,
what very few husbands can to their wives, that I had
never been unfaithful to you."

"You needn't tell me that; I know it.  Go on."

"But on the ship—the—the—I can't think of the
name—I met her ... and——"

"Her, who?"

"Never mind that, Lucy; it would do no good telling it
... and we—she and I got to care for each other,
and—and—that's all, Lucy.  Oh, for God's sake, don't
let's go on now."

"*Is* that all, Hector?  Was she—this woman—good?
There was no—no wickedness, you understand me,
Hector, don't you?"

"There was none."

"Thank God!" she breathed, and then a pause followed.

"Where is she now, dear?"

"I don't know—in London somewhere, I believe; she
returns to Africa in a few days."

"And you, Hector, what do you mean to do, to go
back with her?  If so, tell me now, and—and..."  Lucy
paused, and then went on, "if that's what you
really want, Hector, if it—it's not only a passing
infatuation, and you feel you cannot live without this woman,
I—I will help you, dear."

"What do you mean?"

"This, that I am too proud, Hector, to keep you tied
to me against your will.  I—I don't look upon marriage
as some do, as a chain which nothing can break.  Love's
the only chain I recognise, and if that is broken between
us I will set you free, Hector."

"You want to get rid of me, is that it, Lucy?"

"Oh, my God, Hector, if there is but a chance, the
merest atom of hope, I would cling to it, but I—I don't
think there is, somehow.  Hector, is there?"

Here was the way made easy, here were the obstacles
lying down of their own free will to let him pass, and yet,
strangely enough, it was this very ease that conquered
Hector now and dealt the final blow to resolution.

Had Lucy opposed him, had she but hinted that the
bond between them was indissoluble, Hector's soul would
have risen in instant rebellion, and with rebellion would
have come strength to act.  But Lucy's love for once
had made her subtle, and so, there being no opposition and
nothing to fight, the sword remained useless in the
scabbard.

"Hector," she went on, and her lips were now set in a
firm straight line, "tell me, are you going back with this
woman to South Africa or not?"

Hector's groping hands snatched at the dangling rope
and held on.  "She is going back alone," he muttered;
"there was never any thought of our returning together."

For a full minute Lucy knelt looking at him, her blue
eyes searching his soul; then again her arms went
around his neck, and she broke into a passion of weeping.

"Thank God, oh, thank God!" she murmured;
"you're my Hector still; forgive me, dearest, for having
doubted you.  I ought to have known that you, of all
men, would never be guilty of dishonour or treachery to
me.  Oh, it was hateful of me, hateful."

"Lucy, wait.  I—I——"

"No, you've been brave and true, Hector; you've fought
temptation and conquered it, and I honour you for it and
love you a thousand times more than before.  And—and
she, oh, don't turn away; I wouldn't speak ill of her for
the world.  I will pray for her, and ask God to comfort
her, for she—she must be a good woman, Hector, far—far
better than I am.  I would never have given you up had
I been her."

"For God's sake stop, Lucy; you—you're wrong."

"No, Hector, I won't; my heart's too full of gratitude
to God and her, and—and, dear——"

"Well?"

"I should like some time, if you'll let me, to write to her
and send her some little thing from me and Ruby to show
her I know and sympathise; for we, Ruby and I, owe her
so much—so much.  And you, you poor boy, I'll help you
through.  I will be patient and tactful, dear, and won't
expect things ... yet.  But it will all come back
again, won't it—your love, I mean—and I haven't taken it
so badly, have I?  Oh, for God's sake, dearest, don't you
break down," for Hector's head had fallen forward on his
hands and his whole body was quivering.  "Come upstairs
now and sleep.  To-morrow the sun will be shining
and we'll start afresh, Hector, you and I and ... Ruby."





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.. _`CHAPTER XVI`:

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   CHAPTER XVI

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The morning came, the white-rimed marshland
glittered in the morning sun, kittiwake and
plover renewed their battle with the wind.  The
daylight faded and was gone, a glow of pink and
yellow appeared in the west, green of sky deepened to blue,
the sound of unseen wings clove the violet dusk overhead,
and dim shapes stole phantom-like across the moon.  The
first day of the new life was past, and the gloom was not
lightened but had become deeper, ever deeper, with the
flitting of the hours.

With Hector's coming, the peace and happiness reigning
over that Norfolk home had spread their wings and fled.
There was something wrong, and everyone knew it,
despite Lucy's strivings after concealment; but the
instinct of the servant class is a hard thing to baffle, and,
ignore it as she might, only too well did the mistress know
that there was not one member of the household but was
fully aware that between her and the master all was not
harmony.

Further, she knew—and to Lucy's proud soul this was
perhaps the hardest of all to bear—that, with one exception,
they were with her and against Hector.  The exception, of
course, was the nurse, who maintained stoutly that they
were all a pack of fools, and if misunderstanding there were,
though for her part she could not see it, it was the fault of
the mistress, to whom in consequence her manner became
somewhat cold and distant.  And for this Lucy loved her,
and hated her self-constituted allies, snubbing their
advances on all occasions and showering unnecessary
favours on the haughty nurse.  In vain, however, for
in both directions did she fail: her allies continued to
smile and sympathise; the enemy declined to be
mollified.

Day by day the clouds thickened, and she realised that
that which she had thought but a rift between her and
Hector—an ugly rent maybe and one that, though healed,
must ever leave a scar behind—was in reality a chasm, the
depths of which she was unable to fathom.  Hard though
she fought to bridge it and cross over to where he was standing,
it was all in vain; for the planks she stretched out fell
uselessly from the farther edge, receding as they touched it,
and the figure on the other side grew daily smaller and more
indistinct.  And Lucy might hope to cross that yawning
chasm in vain, for that which lurked within it, pushing its
sides asunder, was a lie unconfessed.  If Hector would
only confess and pluck the lie from the depths, no longer
would the gulf widen, but remain fixed for her to bridge,
could she but find the plank.  If it were left, however, like
an iron wedge it would sink lower, ripping and rending as
it sank.

Of such a confession from Hector there was little hope now:
the lie was almost out of sight already, and he wished it so
buried.  His brain reeled at the thought of further
explanations, every jangling nerve clamoured for peace—peace;
for that odd paralysis, which had seized upon his will the
first night, had not lifted, as he had hoped, in the morning,
rather had it tightened its hold, till now all power of
resistance had left him and he had fallen to drifting without mast
or oars on a grey, horizonless sea.  Something would happen;
it was for that he lived now; not for ever could he wander
on like this; land must be viewed at last; and at the thought
a ray of hope would glimmer above the grey monotony, and
its beam for an instant strike warm on his heart.

Yes, sooner or later the end would come; Lucy
would see and insist on his going, and not only offer to let
him go, as she had done before.  He forgot, in his own
blindness, that Lucy too could not see, for he himself had
taken away her sight.  The days dragged on, grey and
purposeless, and at last Lucy also began to despair.  Do what
she would, it was all useless.  Unhappiness, unkindness
even, she had been prepared for and would have known how
to meet, but this dull apathy, this total lack of interest in
life, it was that which crushed her.

He was so changed, too, from the husband of former years;
his whole nature and tastes seemed to have undergone
some strange transformation.  All his assertiveness and
intolerance had left him: she might advance what views
she liked now—and often she did in the vain hope of
awakening the old Hector—it was all to no purpose; he never
contradicted or opposed.  Even the laudation of
newspapers, from which only had Lucy learnt of a certain
event on board the *Dunrobin Castle*, was ignored by its
object, and it was she, not Hector, as it would have been
in former years, who sent for every paper dealing with the
subject, and having read their contents to the assembled
household, cut out the paragraphs, and, tying them up with
stout ribbon, put them carefully away with a certain
honours' list and other treasures.

The shooting also, from which she had anticipated such
joy, failed to arouse any enthusiasm, and the peace of
marsh and pool remained almost undisturbed by the bang
of the Purdys.  True, on one or two occasions he had gone
out in answer to her frequent urgings, but he was all the
time obviously thinking of other things, and screeching
snipe and quacking mallard flew away only too often
unscathed, even unseen, by the erstwhile vigilant eyes.  Then,
while the sun was yet high in the heaven, he would suggest
a return home, and, once there, would shut himself up in
his room, and read uninterruptedly till dinner, and after
that silent meal till well into the night.

This, perhaps, was the most disquieting change of all, the
transformation of the former restless, energetic Hector into
a bookworm.  Such books too: no less than three works
on the doings of an uninteresting and seemingly insane
person called Suvarov; a collection of medical works, or
such they appeared to Lucy; and another, one she had
found on his dressing-table one morning, a thin daintily-bound
volume called "The Heifer of the Dawn."  What
a strange name, she thought and, taking it up, opened it,
and then stood rigid, with her eyes fixed on the title-page.
For a moment she remained looking, then with sudden
passion tore the book across, and, thrusting the halves into
the fire, stamped them into the burning coals with her foot.

"Oh, it's no use—no use at all," she thought drearily, and
from that day abandoned the struggle and left it to
be fought out by Ruby.  And in no better hands could
she have entrusted it, for indifferent to all else as Hector
had become there was yet one who, whatever his mood,
was always sure of a glad welcome, that one being his small
daughter.

"Miss Ruby, sir," the nurse would say, breaking in upon
him without ceremony, "and she's much better to-day,
sir.  I declare she's getting quite strong now her father's
come home," and down would go Schopenhauer or
Lombroso, and Hector, springing up, would rush at the little
figure groping its way towards him, and, placing her on
his knee, invent lame and improbable fairy stories, or carry
her off to the stables for inspection—if such it could be called
when one could not see—of the white pony and a certain
grey rabbit, bought for her by him in the village.

At other times, when the black mood was on him,
she would lie quite still in his arms, her hand now and
again stroking his face, while she murmured words of
sympathy and encouragement.  For Ruby always knew and
understood, and in those baby fingers lay a strength and
power, which were rapidly growing, till in time they might
have torn away Stara's grip on his heart, had the battle
been left to her and Fate not interfered.  As it was, she
made a good fight for it, and very nearly won; for Hector,
even thus early, had begun to ask himself the question,
"Ruby or Stara?"  And though the balance was still
down on the one side, yet daily the other was drawing up.

At last, one bitter January morning, as the two sat in
his room by the fire, she on his knee, the knowledge awoke
within him, that, quivering, the scales hung level, and,
knowing, for a moment he pondered, and then spoke.

"Ruby," he said.  At his voice the child looked up
quickly, for there was something tremendous coming, and
she knew it at once.

"'Oo's frightened, daddy, 'oo's frightened at something.
Tell Ruby."  Her hands groped their way to his face and
rested there.  The balance went clashing down.

"Would you like me to stay with you always, Ruby,
just you and I, and mother, and Peter?"  Peter was the
rabbit.

"James"—the yellow plush monkey—"too, daddy, and
'Iteing."

"James too, of course, and Whiting.  Would you like
it, Ruby, or ... shall I go away?"

"You're my daddy; I'se not let you go.  Oh, daddy,
daddy," and the thin arms were wound tightly round his
neck, and the sightless eyes filled with tears, "you can't go,
you shan't go.  It's my burfday soon, and you promised
to have tea wiv me, you and muvver."

"But, Ruby, dear."

"Oh, daddy, oh, daddy, 'oo promised."

Graeme rose and put her gently down.  His face had
grown ashen, but in his eyes shone a light such as none,
not even Stara, had seen there before, a light that none
ever saw again.

"I'll keep my promise, Ruby," he said, an odd ring in
his voice.  "I'll go now and tell mother.  You wait here,
dear, and take care of James till I come back," and Hector
left her, and went on his way to tell "mother."

She was not in the house, the maid said; she thought she
was in the garden.  The girl looked rather hostile as she
told him, more so than usual, he thought; but he paid no
heed, for all that was to be at an end now, and passed out
into the frozen garden, at the far end of which a figure
could be seen pacing slowly up and down the gravel path.
A bitter east wind was blowing, but neither hat nor wrap
had Lucy, and, for the first time since his home-coming,
Hector noted such things; a pang of self-reproach struck
him, and he hurried on.

"Lucy dear," he said, drawing near, "you're mad to be
out in the cold like this; come into the house and sit with
me over the fire.  I've got something to tell you, something I
hope you'll be glad to hear.  I've been blind, Lucy, but——"

"So have I been blind," and at the words Hector stopped,
staring, for surely this was not the gentle Lucy, this
white-faced woman, whose blue eyes glared at him?

"You liar! ... You unutterable liar!..." she
went on in low, trembling tones.  "Oh, don't speak, but
look at that," thrusting out a slip of paper towards him.
It was a cheque for £150, undated, and made out to the
name of Miss Selbourne.

"Where did you find this?"

"In the pocket of one of your coats, the one you were
wearing yesterday.  Like a fool, I was looking over your
things as ... as I used to do.  That fell out."

"Lucy, this ... this is nothing."

"Nothing?  You send this creature money, or were going
to send it, it's the same thing, from here, your wife's
house.  You—you cad, Hector!"

A flame of anger appeared for a second in the man's eyes,
his face grew white, but he mastered himself, and answered
quietly enough:

"I was not going to send it, Lucy; that cheque was
written six weeks ago.  I forgot to date it, as I usually do
my letters or cheques.  The money was refused."

"Forgot?  Refused?  That sort of woman refuse
money?  You expect me to believe a wild, improbable tale
like that.  Oh, but I understand, though you think any
lie is good enough for a poor trusting fool of a wife to
believe.  And it was, Hector, but—but not now."

"Wait, I've not finished.  It's true that cheque was
refused, but I insisted, and wrote another the same night,
did not forget the date, and this time it ... was
accepted."

"And you tell this to me, you stand there and
own your vileness?"

"Yes, for I wish to tell you the truth, Lucy."

"Spare yourself the trouble.  I don't believe you."

"As you please then, I don't care.  Five minutes ago I
did, but now——"  He stopped suddenly and, turning away,
stood with his back towards her, and then, the devil fought
under, tried once more: "Lucy, won't you hear me, if
not for my sake, then for ... Ruby's?  I did lie
to you that first night, or rather I let you believe what
was not true, but my nerves were all to pieces, and I couldn't
think or speak.  I'll tell you the whole story now.  It was
for that I came out here."

"Yes, now that you're found out and caught."

The devil conquered.  "Found out," before the fury
in his voice Lucy's died, and fear sprang to life, "what do
I care what you find out?  I do love this woman.  I thought
just now I did not, but I was a fool, I do.  I love her as I've
never loved you, and—and I'm going back to her now."

"Hector, you're mad.  You can't, you shall not—Hector?"

"You're too late, I came out with the full intention of
telling you all, and, cur that I was ... giving her up.
Oh, it was not for your sake, don't think it; it was
for..."  A spasm contorted his face for a moment,
but in an instant passed, and he went on:

"Yes, for the first time in my life I was weak, but of that
weakness you've cured me, and given me back my strength,
and for that, my wife, I thank you.  No more puling
sentiment now for me; no more 'mummy and daddy'—hell's
curse on you all!—but love ... life..."

"A life of sin, Hector, for, as God hears me, I'll never
set you free now.  Had you been honest with me from the
first, as I implored you to be, I would have done it, but
now—no!"

"Lucy, take care."

"Take care, why should I take care?  What have I to
care for now?  Kill me if you like, Hector, it's the only
way.  I swear it.  What stops you, my husband?  You
did it once before, and..."

"Twice."

"I dare say fifty times, and for far less reason.  Kill me,
I ask you, I'm not afraid to die.  You won't?  Then
... go."  And Hector went.

At the hall door an uncouth figure was standing, awaiting
him; it was Tom, bearing news of widgeon in the marshes
and woodcock in the spinny, blown in by the gale last
night, but the story was cut short.  "Bring the cart
round at once.  Damn the widgeon!" answered his master,
and hurried within.  There was barely time to catch the
train, but the devil was aiding him now, and ten minutes
later dressing-case and portmanteau had been carried below
and thrown into the waiting cart; and he was left standing
in the room he was leaving behind for ever.

Dully his eyes rested upon the new guns reposing in
their leather case, the wild grasses on the mantelpiece, and
on his bed the yellow plush figure of James.  For a moment
he stood staring at the monkey, and then, snatching it up,
thrust it away out of sight in his pocket, and hurried from
the room.  Down the stairs he went, through the
black-and-white tiled hall, creeping like a thief past a certain
closed door, and then into the cart and away at a gallop.

Rocking and swaying, they flew through the narrow
lanes, rounding corners on one wheel, and shaving
heavily-laden country carts.  On through the village, scattering
children and flocks of frightened geese, till at last the station
was reached.  Only just in time too, for the train was
already on the move, but one push from the gleeful devil
and Hector was across the platform and into the train; and
three minutes later was lying a huddled heap in the corner,
the flat green landscape around him sliding away into the
past.

Tom sat gazing after him, with a look on his face that
few had ever seen there before.  He climbed slowly
down, and, taking out a blanket, spread it carefully over
the white pony's quarters, streaked with rivulets of
sweat.  For a moment he stood contemplating his quivering
charge, and then his eyes fell on the golden sovereign
lying in his hand.

"Curse your dirty money!" he said violently, and flung
it far over an adjacent hedge into the field beyond.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Lucy remained, where they had parted, in the frost-blighted
garden, her heart as numb and cold as the ground
on which she stood.  With stony eyes she gazed out over
the marshland, shining in the winter sunlight; she saw
the foam-flecked, cloud-shadowed sea, and heard the
scream of gull and quavering cry of speeding curlew, and
knew that as she loved it all once so she hated it now.
For here, where she had looked forward to perfect
happiness and union with one beloved, she had found nothing
but a broken heart and faith shattered beyond recall.

As she stood there, a little figure came stumbling
towards her, its face blue with the east wind and a wild
terror in the sightless eyes.

"Daddy, daddy," she wailed, "'oo's gone, and 'oo's
promised to stay wiv me," and, still calling and running
blindly on, she struck an iron hoop guarding the border
and fell headlong, her cries dying to a feeble moaning.

Passionate indignation against Hector shook Lucy at
the sight, and, running forward, she lifted the child and held
her close against her heart.

"Daddy's left us, Ruby," she said, "but you have me,
your mother, still.  Oh, darling, why did you come out here
in the bitter cold?  It was very wrong of you, Ruby,"
and Lucy hurried away, her burden clutched tightly in her
arms.

"I want daddy!  I want daddy!"  And strive as she might,
no effort of Lucy's could still those cries, which later
became feebler, running off into snatches of song and prayers
to God.

"Send for her father, ma'am," implored the nurse, her
ruddy face white with anxiety.  "You ought to, ma'am; it's
criminal not to, and I say it, though I am only a servant."

Lucy bade her hold her tongue and not interfere, opposing
the same sullen obstinacy to the doctor when he came.

"You're taking a very great responsibility on yourself
then, madam," he said, being an outspoken man, though
fond of little children, and, seating himself beside the cot,
he fixed his keen eyes on the baby's face.

Then, at last, terror conquering pride, Lucy wrote out
a telegram and sent it off, only to receive it back an hour
later—it was too late, and the office closed.

A message, nevertheless, was next morning delivered to
where Hector was sitting in his dingy hotel bedroom, a
yellow plush monkey in his arms, and the devil vanquished
at last.  The message ran:

"Ruby died last night.—LUCY."

Hector stood looking at it, and then suddenly laughed,
high-pitched laughter, long and loud, till with a crack it
ended, and he fell forward on to the floor, where he lay
motionless.  And the devil beside him once more raised
his head, came nearer, bent down, and began to whisper
fast and low in his ear.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVII`:

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   CHAPTER XVII

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Richard Selbourne stood in front of his
South African home, blankly surveying the
cloudless heaven.

Over the white farm-buildings and tin-roofed kaffir huts
a slumbrous peace was reigning, for it was the hour of
noonday rest, and men and beasts alike lay placidly sleeping.

Clothing the shores of the great dam hard by—now
shrunk to half its usual proportions—the feathery willows
drooped motionless, as though in silent lamentation of its
fallen estate; even the restless windmill had ceased from
toiling, and save for an occasional dismal clonk, uttered
seemingly in its dreams, slumbered with the rest.

Stretching away on all sides from the small oasis of trees,
lucerne patches, and dam, forming Rosebank Farm, rolled
a sea of yellow grass, from which stuck up, like islands,
saw-like ridge and conical kopje, and beyond them could
be seen a giant ring of brown, paper-like hills, their outline
sharp-cut and rigid against a sky of hard vivid blue.

As he looked at the scene, a frown gathered on Richard's
handsome face, and in impotent anger he shook his fist at
the blandly-smiling heavens.

"Confound you!" he muttered, "why can't you hide
your face and rain for once in a while?  My lucerne's
withering, the dam will give out in a fortnight, the beasts
are dying in the fields.  Gad, I came out here to get away
from English mists and fogs, but I'd give something now
to feel one of those same old yellow fogs in my throat
again.  England, London, shops, Club, Savoy—oh damn!
I'll go in and sleep."  Richard shook his smart
person—for clad though he was in weatherbeaten garments,
patched and stained, Selbourne possessed that indefinable
air of "class," which ancient clothes but serve to
emphasise—and walked slowly back to the house.

On the stoep the figure of a girl was standing, clad in a
black-and-white homespun riding-skirt, a white drill
jacket, and a large grey Terai hat.  "Hullo, Stara," said
Richard, seeing her; "now, what the blazes are you up
to, not going out riding in this heat, surely?  You'll
get sunstroke to a moral, if you do.  Hullo!" suddenly
aware of something unusual in her appearance, "what
have you done to yourself?  Lord, you've got on a habit,
what's up?  Oh!" and Richard's mouth expanded into a
grin; and he winked at his sister, whose face straightway
became bright red.

"And why shouldn't I put on a skirt?" she answered
with dignity.  "I know I usually do not, but——."

"But now he's coming you do."

"Nothing of the sort, I put it on because it's cooler.
Don't keep me, please.  I'm going to meet the Cape cart, as
you're too lazy.  Where's Polly?"

"In bed and asleep, but I shouldn't worry if I were you.
The boy ought to know his way by now.  I'm afraid though,
old girl, this pal of yours will have rather a dull time,
nothing on earth to do but look at the sunset, and you, I
suppose.  What's the game, Stara, are you going to make
a job of it at last?  Tell your brother, my child."

Again the vivid blush, but with it now a sharp stab of
pain.  Make a job of it, yes.  Tell her brother, not for a
thousand worlds, though ten times a thousand would
Stara have given to be able to say, "I'm going to marry
him," instead of telling a lie—the first of many.

"There's nothing to tell you, Dick," she answered,
looking away; "he's a friend, that's all.  You know I have
men friends without any thought of other things."

"I'm aware you have, though the poor devils themselves
think differently, I should say.  Never mind, old lady,
you carry on and do what you like; it's no business of mine;
and it's dull enough for you here, God knows, with only
Polly and me."

"It is not, Dick, it is not, you must never think that,
I love being here, and I—I hope you will like Colonel
Graeme, though I'm afraid somehow he's not quite the
sort of man you would."

"Oh, I'll like him all right, Stara, don't you bother.  I do
most fellows, unless they're wrong 'uns, and I know you
wouldn't fancy one of that sort.  Funny I never saw the
chap when the '1st' came through here last year.  I
dined with them, you know, and can remember most.
There was a fellow called Porky, who never stopped talking
till he got blind, and Graves, and Carson—good fellow,
Carson—and old Royle, and yes, there was another chap
none of them seemed to fancy.  I didn't cotton to him
myself, either, though I don't know why.  He set my
teeth on edge, for some reason."

"What was he like, Dick?"

"Rum-looking fellow, long nose, pale face, black eyes,
not a bit like a soldier.  Wore a purple silk cap at dinner,
I remember, with gold bugs on it.  Never saw such a thing
in my life."

"Dick, it's he; but his eyes are not black, they're blue."

"Lord, you don't mean it, Stara?  Damn, but I'm
sorry, somehow.  I wish it had been Carson—never mind,
though.  I dare say I was wrong, I usually am, and, anyway,
your bringing him here is good enough for me.  I'm going
in to sleep now.  Bye-bye, old girl; don't overtire yourself;
you look a bit white.  Polly and I will be looking out for
you when you get back."

"Dick, if—you'd rather not have him here, I'll arrange
it.  I'll tell him you've sickness in the house, and that he
must put up at the hotel.  I could ride with him every day
just the same."

"Hotel be blowed, Stara, what, a guest of mine put up
at that Duikerpoort drinking shanty.  Thank'ye no, I
don't do that sort of thing.  Now be off.  Here's your pony,
and tell Graeme from me he's very welcome; don't forget,"
and Richard rather huffily pushed aside the cane blinds
and disappeared into the house.

Stara mounted and rode slowly away, the old antagonists
watching each other once more across the battlefield of her
mind—loyalty and straight-dealing on the one side, and
love on the other.  Of struggle between them, however, there
was now none, for the question had been fought out three
weeks before, on that day when the single word "Coming"
had been flashed to her across six thousand miles of sea.
Then indeed the battle had been fierce but final, for Stara,
unlike most women, did not, her antagonist once down,
lift him up again for the pleasure of renewing the combat
with the consequent certainty of ultimate defeat.

Slower than Hector in decision, for to her the throwing
overboard of honour and loyalty was a heart-wrenching
pang, she nevertheless, in this instance, showed herself
stronger than he, and the giving up of all once determined
on, the sacrifice would be made freely and unreservedly.
And so honour and loyalty were crushed down, and love
remained alone on the field.  Her mouth hardened, she
thrust aside the thought of what lay behind, and, striking
her pony with her spurred heel, hurried on to the destiny
rushing to meet her.

For miles she rode without drawing rein, her mount
lolloping easily on, as if impervious to heat or fatigue, till
at length, some eight miles having been covered, she pulled
up, and, dismounting, loosened the girths and led the pony
away from the track to a small rise a few hundred yards
away.  Here she left him, the reins trailing loosely on the
ground—Basuto-bred, he would stay there, she knew, for
hours—and, throwing herself down on the grass, lay there,
with her eyes fixed on the road ahead, a white thread
seaming the yellow plain, till, topping a distant rise, it
became lost to view.

Far below her, stretching across the track, a great herd
of blesbok were moving restlessly, their forms looking
vague and unreal through the gauzy veil of heat.  Save
for them and a wide-winged lammergeier hanging motionless
in the blue vault above, sign of life there was
none—veldt, kopje, and mountain slumbered undisturbed.

Suddenly Stara's body stiffened, her half-closed eyes
opened wide, and a look almost of terror came into them,
for the peace was broken at last, and the blesbok below,
like her, were startled.  Their aimless wanderings ceased,
the outlying groups drew in, till the herd became one solid
mass, and their heads were turned away from her towards
the rise, beyond which the road dipped and was lost to sight.

Something had frightened them, but what?  Then
Stara's eyes grew wild as she, too, saw what that something
was—a small cloud of dust topping the hill, and then
rapidly descending into the plain below her.  For a while
the herd stood staring, and then began to move away, at
a walk first, then at a trot, and finally in a headlong gallop,
bounding over the grass for some miles, when they stopped,
wheeled sharply about and again stood staring.

The cloud of dust drew nearer, taking shape as it came,
till a Cape cart drawn by mules could be plainly seen.  In
the cart there were two figures—one in black, with a conical
hat, sitting bolt upright and brandishing a whip; the other
seemed strangely misty and indistinct to Stara.

She rose, turned her eyes towards the browsing pony,
and moved away; then stopped, with her mouth firm-set,
and sat down once more.

"What a woman I am, after all," she muttered, "flight,
hide for him to pursue and find; we're all the same,
pretend as we like.  Heavens, how fast that cart's coming,
what does Jacob mean by driving the mules like that?
Ah! they've seen me; there's the boy pointing with his whip,
they're stopping, and it's come at last.  Oh, I daren't look
at him, I know he'll show elation, and I shall hate him."

"How do you do, Colonel Graeme?"

"Quite well, thank you, Miss Selbourne; that's the right
answer, isn't it?  Damned fit I am, look at me and see."

Startled, Stara looked up, and fear vanished in amazement,
for here was no triumphant conqueror, but a stricken,
haggard-eyed man.  "He has done it and regrets," she
thought, and instantly was in revolt.

"It's so very good of you to come, Colonel Graeme, such
a long journey in the heat.  Did you have a good passage?
My brother is so looking forward to seeing you, shall we
get on?  My pony's here, and——"

"Don't be a fool, I've not come eight thousand miles
to see your brother, sit down."

"I think perhaps, as it's getting late——"

"Do you want to hear, or don't you?  If not, I go back
now."

"That—that depends.  If ... you regret ... I don't."

"Bah!"

"Tell me."

"Kiss me first, not like that—properly."  He caught
Stara to him, and kissed her in a way that made her cheeks
flame.  She shrank back frightened and ashamed.

"Does that look as though I regretted?  Listen.  I've
broken with her, as I said I would.  Please God, I'll never
see her again, blast her!"

"Oh, Hector, hush!  Why?"

"Because she failed to ... No, that's not the
reason, because she won't divorce me.  That settles us,
you see, no marriage for you and me."

"I never expected it, Hector.  I was ready for it.
But ... there's something more.  What is it?"

"More, what more do you want, isn't that enough?"

"Hector, there is; there's something which has ... hurt
you.  It's not the parting from her.  I can see that.
Dearest, I must—I will know."

"There's nothing, I tell you, me hurt, by the death of
a blind brat?  Oh, God, curse me for a babbling fool!"

"Good—good God!"

Hector turned savagely on her.  "Why do you say that?
What right have you to assume ... Take your arms
away from me.  Oh, you must hear, must you, satisfy
your damned curiosity, I suppose?  All right, you shall.
I told you on the ship I had no children.  I lied; there was
one, I'd never seen her when I spoke.  She was blind and
sickly, but—God knows why—she ... liked me, used
to crawl over me, and call me 'daddy,' me, Stara, 'daddy.'  Laugh,
curse you, laugh, you won't?  Look here, then," he
dragged from his pocket the battered figure of James, and
held it from him, wildly laughing, "here's what I play with
at nights alone, croon and chuckle over it like the madman
I am.  Damn you, give it back—give it back, I say," for
Stara had snatched James from his hand and was holding
him against her breast, her tears raining on the plush.
Hector's hand fell to his side and he turned sharply away,
then once more went on:

"And when I left—I did suddenly, one morning—she
came out to find me in the garden.  There was an east
wind blowing, and she ... caught cold, I suppose,
and she," the expression of his voice made Stara shrink
back—"the nurse wrote to me, let her die without me; she
asked for me, but she wouldn't send till it was too late.
Oh, don't be a fool and snivel like that, who cares?  I
don't.  She wouldn't have lived, in any case.  Oh, it didn't
take much to kill my child, Stara, she paid in her body for
the rottenness of her father's soul.  For I am
rotten—rotten to the core."

"You're not, you're not, no man can be who can love
a child like that.  Dearest, I won't have you say it, for
you're mine, Hector, mine.  My love is all yours now,
and so am—I."

"Yes, with reservations.  Oh, I know the sort of love—pure,
no vile, earthly thoughts—thus far and no farther."

"No.  I am not like that.  I make no reservations.  I
give you all."

Hector stared, and, passion once more reawakening,
he caught her by the shoulders; but Stara held him off,
her grey eyes looking up into his.

"Wait, there is something you must promise me first.
It—it may be, Hector, that in time there might
come—another—oh, don't shrink away from me, it hurts so
much—and you'd love my—our child, wouldn't you, Hector?
But if ... that should happen, you must take me
away ... leave the army, forsake ambition for—for
love.  Could you do that?  Think well before you answer,
for it's a big thing, Hector."

Hector, however, was now in passion's grip, and reflection
had become impossible.  Had Stara at that moment asked
for the Southern Cross to wear in her hair, he would have
promised her that, or anything else; and without a second's
hesitation, he swore, if called upon, to do her bidding.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII

.. vspace:: 2

Thus Hector followed in the footsteps of those
with whom he claimed kinship, and, like them,
left the broad track of conventional duty to
turn aside into the by-paths of illicit love.  True,
behind him, trampled in the dust of the highway, broken
vows and the fragments of a woman's happiness were
lying, and, ever vivid and distinct, a tiny grave.  But
what of that, since he had carried through his purpose, and
proved himself above the human weaknesses by which
other men's lives are cramped and fettered?  Feverishly
he drank of the cup held out to him by Stara, and, his
thirst quenched but too soon, revived the dead craving
with the salt of imagination, and demanded more, ever
more.

A month passed, and he was no longer a stranger, but
one of the household; the hand of fellowship was held
out to him by all, and by no one more eagerly than his
host, whose cordiality was adopted the better to hide the
curious instinctive aversion of twelve months before,
which had but increased with fuller acquaintance with his
guest.  In vain did Richard assure himself that the feeling
was one of prejudice only; it grew in strength daily, till at
last, at Graeme's approach, Dick would make off, feigning
work on the farm, or any excuse to avoid being alone with
a man in whose presence he became so unaccountably
silent and embarrassed.

His wife, however, had from the first taken to the stranger,
though her only reason for such liking was, it must be owned,
the essentially feminine one of sympathy for a lover, for
that Hector was Stara's she had realised from the first,
though why undeclared was beyond her comprehension.

It must be her sister-in-law's fault, she had come to
believe, and was in consequence somewhat annoyed with
Stara, frequently pressing her for explanations.  If she
cared for Colonel Graeme, why did she not admit it?  It
was not fair to play fast and loose with a man's devotion.
Upon which her sister-in-law would smile, and assure her
she was altogether wrong and didn't understand; she and
Hector were friends, nothing more.  Friends! as if she,
Mary, was blind or a fool.  And with much indignation the
hostess would return to her housework, leaving the pair as
usual to their own devices.  They must settle the matter
their own way, she decided, and, if Graeme was but half
the man she took him to be, he would sooner or later
bring Stara to book, for of the latter's feelings, too, Mary
had no doubt, though Stara was far more successful in
concealing them than Hector.  Still, there was no mistaking
the improvement in her sister-in-law's looks, or the meaning
of the shedding of her former assumption of mannishness,
which, with the bifurcated riding garments, had gone
apparently for good, a modest riding-skirt replacing the one and
a soft womanliness and radiant happiness the other.

Stara was happy, despite the lie she was living, for this
had now become a habit, and troubled her not at all.  And
being happy, and loving, a change came over her: the
veneer of hardness and independence disappeared, and with
it, unfortunately, much of her former wit and brilliance.
She was all woman now, fussing over Hector, ministering
to his comforts, and exercising those small tyrannies dear
to most lovers' hearts.

The inordinate consumption of cigarettes she put down
firmly, retaining the supply in her own room, and doling
them out at the rate of five a day—no more, save as a special
indulgence.  Schopenhauer and Lombroso also went, while
the small phials were taken out on to the veldt the day
after his arrival, and carefully buried in the home of an
ant-bear, a solemn promise being exacted from Hector
never to touch such things again.  For Stara, wiser than
Lucy, had from the first seen in which direction Graeme's
peril lay, but while formerly she had regarded his
morbidity merely as an interesting study, now the suppression
of all encouragement of, and incentive to it, had become to
her a matter of vital necessity.

For a time she was successful, Hector apparently being
well content to idle the days away, roaming through the
hot grass veldt, lying down on it for hours, or lounging with
her in desultory inspection of farm-buildings, dam, and
lucerne-fields.  But, unknown to her, the poison was
already working, and Graeme, when he seemed to be asleep
on the grass beside her, was debating problems in his mind;
for Stara, though she never knew it, had been stabbed to
the heart by the unconscious hand of a blind child, who was
now lying in sleep eternal to the lullaby of wind and waves.

Hector loved her, it is true, but it was not the love it
had been, for, since the hour of darkness passed with the
devil in the dreary hotel bedroom, there had come a
difference.  The ideality and the golden halo with which he
had clothed his mistress were gone, and with them the
longing to serve.  Now he only saw her beauty, and in the
possession of that beauty he strove to find oblivion from
an undying memory; but in vain, for in the one pure
emotion Hector had known, or could ever know, his eyes
had been opened, and the real gold of the one showed
the other to be but counterfeit metal and base.  Thus
Ruby was avenged, and, as usual, not on the most guilty
fell the vengeance.

Hector began to ask himself questions, and critically to
analyse the love he felt—love to which analysis means
death.  Why was it, he pondered, that passion so great
as his did not act as a spur, but rather as a bridle?  Surely
Nelson was wrong when he said that "if the world held
more Emmas, there would be more Nelsons"?  For his own
love for Stara was equally great, and yet indulgence in that
love, so far from proving the incentive he had hoped, was
fast suffocating ambition and rendering him a mere
lotus-eater, content to idle away the hours on a God-forsaken
African farm.

Gradually, fight against it, blind himself as he might,
the bitter truth became known to Hector, that whereas
passion denied, even vexed or hindered, is the greatest
incentive to ambition man's nature can know, passion
indulged without let or hindrance becomes inevitably its
murderer.  And with this truth, unacknowledged though
it was, awakened in his mind, Hector became restless and
rebellious, the sense of revolt growing as he realised that
no sympathy was to be hoped for from Stara, but rather
active opposition.

She now always became silent when he spoke of future
greatness, or turned the subject to another future of
which ambition was not the aim, but those very domestic
joys which before she had been wont to deride.  Only the
other day she had put forward the same absurdity advanced
by Lucy years before, namely, the hope of military
renown without the disadvantages of his having to seek it
on the battlefield.  Nor was it only in her views that Stara
had changed, for gone too were her brilliancy, her cynicism,
the unlikeness to other women that had so fascinated him
on board the *Dunrobin Castle*.  He was now the cynic;
she the believer, bitterly resentful of sneers at domesticity
and marital fidelity.

As the days wore on, the monotony began to pall, the
long rides to lose their charm, for, lover of the veldt though
Hector was, solitude was also essential to his enjoyment of
it.  Silence and freedom to think undisturbed were what
he craved, not talk of trifles, which only passion's glamour
could render interesting.  But Stara saw nothing of this,
for she was blind, as she had said she would be blind, and
when he was lying dreaming of future greatness she would
irritate him with gentle caresses, asking him if he was
thinking of her; and, starting, he would answer "Yes,"
and fall to silence once more.

The varnish, too, of normality, so laboriously laid on him
by Stara, began to wear off; sleeplessness returned, and
his real nature reasserted itself.  Through the long night
hours he would lie thinking, strange, monstrous thoughts,
gradually weaving themselves into a fabric upon which he
saw himself depicted as great as those others were great,
and, like them, solitary in their greatness, for she whom he
loved was dead.  Stara had left him, and yet in some dim
way stood near, a radiant vision, beloved as never on earth,
guiding him on his lonely way.  In a rapture of adoration
he would be there talking to her, telling her of his undying
love, till, torn with remorse for his cruelty and neglect to
her when living, his eyes would fill and ecstatic grief wring
his heart.  And when the day came, Stara would greet
him, her eyes dark with a love to which his own felt no
response.

Nevertheless, strangely enough, in his dreams there
was never a sign of Ruby, for she lay buried in his heart;
the other only lived as a fantasy of fevered imagination.
At last the day came when he knew he must return to a
man's life once more, leaving her, the living and neglected,
to dream of her dead and beloved, and of this necessity he
told her one morning as they lay in the shadow of a lonely
kopje.

"Stara, I must go," he said suddenly, "your brother's
sick of me, and my regiment wants me back."

The girl looked up with startled eyes, her face grew
suddenly pale and scared.

"Hector, you can't—not—not yet.  Send them a wire."

"What's the use?  I must go some time."

"Why?"

"Why? ... Because it's my life, Stara.  I can't
remain on leave, idling here for ever.  Remember, I've
got a name to make, and as yet I've not begun."

"You're a Colonel, isn't that enough, why do you
want to make a name for yourself, Hector, aren't you
happy here?"

"Of course I am, but——"

"Hector dear, I've been thinking a lot lately, thinking that
perhaps the ambition we used to talk such a lot of is nothing,
after all.  I am sure now there is only one thing in the world
that matters—love; that's real, the other's only a dream."

"What do you mean, Stara?  This is against everything
you used to say.  Talk of inconsistency!"

"I know, but you mustn't expect a woman to be consistent.
Besides, I wasn't in love then, but now I am, and
can see things clearer.  Oh, I am ashamed when I think
of the nonsense I used to talk.  Dear, I don't ask it, but
couldn't you, wouldn't you like to give it up and be with
me always?"

"Stara ... you don't mean?  You ... can't.
Oh, God, there seems to be a curse on me," and Hector
flung himself face downwards on the grass.

A look of desperate pain came over Stara's face, as she
answered hurriedly:

"No, no, you need not fear.  I was only thinking, you
being so happy here with me, that perhaps you had for
gotten your ambitions."

"I?  Never, they're part of me.  Oh, thank God, but
you know, Stara, I'd have done it, don't you?  I'll keep
faith with you."

For a fraction of a second Stara hesitated, but, before she
could speak, Hector went on, and the chance was gone:

"You see, Stara, I must go back; they'll be finding out
things if I don't—fellows are so infernally inquisitive—and
then your brother might come to hear.  By the way, he's
no idea, I suppose?"

"None whatever.  I told him what you said, about being
here on leave when you're supposed to be in England, and
that if they knew there'd be trouble.  Dick won't say a
word."

"And Polly?"

"She knows, of course, that we love each other, Hector,
any woman could see that.  She's never told Dick though.
I asked her not to, but, Hector, she's always asking me
things, why we ... don't..."

"What did you tell her?"

"Oh, some lie, but she didn't believe it.  Hector, do
you know, I think if she knew the truth, and we were to go
away together, she'd stand by us two."

"Why are you always harping on this, Stara?  I've
told you the thing's practically impossible, though of course
I'd do it, if anything happened.  Why, do you know what
I have to live on now that I've given up my income to her?
Fool that I was!  Two hundred a year besides my pay, and
the last would stop once I leave, bar £120 a year."

"I don't think I should mind, Hector.  I'm a good
housekeeper, and we should have each other, which is
everything, and perhaps in time your wife might relent,
and we could marry."

"Damn her relenting, Stara; don't dream of it.  I
wouldn't do it for your sake, as much as mine.  Oh, why
can't you be satisfied, we are everything to each other now,
and—and it's possible that if we were tied like that, you—I
shouldn't—might tire, it's the freedom, don't you think,
that makes love lasting?"

"No, I don't, I hate those ideas.  They're wicked and
unnatural.  It's the advocates of immorality who start
such theories."

"I'm not so sure, but about going, I should like to leave
to-morrow, if it could be managed.  I can easily get leave
later, you know, and come back again."

"When?"

"Oh, in two or three months.  I'll come when I can,
you know that."

"Very well, Hector, if you think you ought to.  Oh,
it's hateful, this parting."

"It's only for a time, Stara, and, as I'm going, I think
we ought to return home now.  I've my packing to do,
and the train leaves early to-morrow morning."

"I'll do your packing; I should love to.  My brother
shan't see, and Polly won't mind, I know.  Come, as we
must," and together they rode home, Graeme for once
talkative, but Stara silent.

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Next morning, before the sun had risen, the woman's
dream had come to an end, and Hector was on his way back
to a man's life once more.  Within a mile of the station,
at the top of the rise, where Stara had first seen his coming,
the boy pulled up his mules, and pointed backward with
his whip at a speck on the road behind them, rapidly
growing larger.

"Missy Star," he said.

"We'll lose the train," muttered Hector, but the boy,
ignoring the hint, refused to move till the flying figure had
caught them up.

"Hector, I want you."  Stara's voice was desperate,
and her eyes wild.

Graeme, with one glance at the station ahead, climbed
down and went over to where she was waiting, the pony's
flanks heaving with distress.

"What is it, Stara?  Quick! it's sweet of you to come after
me, but the ... train."

Stara was silent, struggling with difficult words.

"Stara, you must hurry.  Lord! but there's the train in
sight."

"Hector, I—I, oh, I can't, I can't.  I'll write.  Good-bye,
my own dearest," and Stara, wheeling sharply about,
galloped away whence she came.

Hector stood staring after her, with a vague feeling of
uneasiness in his heart.





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.. _`CHAPTER XIX`:

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   CHAPTER XIX

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"Number One and All's Well."

The cry of the night sentry wailed through
the silent barracks, which no longer looked
bare and unlovely as when seen in the glaring African
sun, but had been transformed by the moonlight into a
city of silver walls and roofs of lotus pink.

"Number Two and All's Well," came in instant response,
and then there was a pause.

"Number Two and All's Well," rang out once more, this
time with the full power of lusty lungs, in the generous hope
of arousing Number Three, happily dreaming in his
nest of hay.  In vain, however, though Four and Five,
alive to the emergency, took up the call right quickly
Number Three did not answer, and the omission was at
once noticed by experienced ears.

The guard-room door opened hurriedly, and an irate
corporal, bearing a lantern, emerged, followed by two men.
The recumbent form of Number Three was found, and,
after being rudely awakened, was borne straightway to
durance vile, there to finish his slumbers.  A door banged,
a key grated in the lock, and then there was silence once
more.  This was broken now and again by a sudden savage
squeal from the stables, the sharp thudding of hoofs against
wood and iron, and the angry growl of a sentry.

In Number One block, Officers' Quarters, a light was
seen to flicker, disappear, and then shine steadily; a door
opened, and a figure, gorgeous in dressing-gown of yellow
silk and fur, came out on to the verandah, and, leaning his
arms on the rail, stood looking out over the sleeping
barracks.

"Lucky devil, Number Three, whoever you are," he
muttered; "it's cells for you to-morrow, right enough, but
you're a lucky devil, all the same.  You can sleep, you're
not racked and harried like me.  You thank God for your
brainlessness, my friend; if I'd been born like that, I too
should now be able to sleep.  Yet you have your troubles
too, I suppose, as great to you as mine are to me—one
hundred and sixty-eight hours' absence from the canteen,
that will be one of them.  Oh, but I'd do your one
hundred and sixty-eight cheerfully, stone-breaking,
shot-lifting, or whatever amusement the prison warder provides,
to have your peace of mind.

"Half-past three," as a sharp ting came from the room
behind him; "four hours before Murphy comes to call me,
four hours of thinking, trying to find some hole in the net
I have thrown over myself, a hole which doesn't exist.  I
could tear it, and break through it that way, but that I
will not do; I gave her my word, love-struck fool that
I was, and there's enough on my soul now without adding
perjury to the rest.  And yet to do it is ... hell!
I'd sooner shoot myself, infinitely rather, for that would
only destroy the carcase, the other means soul damnation.
And coming, as it does, now, now that war is almost
certain, and my chance staring at me at last, oh, it's too
wicked, too cruel."

He clenched his hands and paced restlessly up and down
the wooden verandah.  "My own fault too, all my own
fault.  I clamoured for freedom, and I got it, only to bind
himself hard and fast again.  I was better off with Lucy,
for she expected little, but Stara wants everything, my
whole life.  And she'll have it too, there's no escape, and
by to-morrow night the wire will have gone, and my career
be finished.  The regiment will go to war, and I shall not
be with them.  I shall be a retired officer, living on my
pension in some damned French watering-place.  I shall
read of the war, of Porky getting a D.S.O., Royle a C.B.
Oh, God!  God! surely there must be some way out, if
I could but find it.  I'll get that letter again and read."

He turned and walked slowly back to his room, which
was now in darkness, for the candle had burnt down and
gone out.  The open doorway gaped a black hole before
him; he hesitated, in sudden terror of the dark.  Then,
feeling in the pocket of his dressing-gown, he produced
some matches, and, striking one, hurried into the room,
where he snatched up a letter lying beside the bed, and
rushed out again, glancing fearfully over his shoulder.

"There are ghosts in there," he muttered.  "I've felt
them about me before, but never like to-night; not for a
thousand pounds would I go back again.  Here I stay till
dawn."

He opened the crumpled letter, and, laying it on the
rail, read it by the light of the moon, or rather imagined he
was reading it, for he knew every word of the letter he
now repeated by heart.

"'My brother has found out at last, someone at home
... last mail.  He is furious, Hector, I have never seen
him like it before, and he says I must either swear never
to see you again—as if I should!—or leave here at once
for ever.  That I don't mind; not for fifty thousand brothers
would I give you up, and would go away and earn my living
somehow, but, Hector, I can't, not now, for *it* has happened.
I meant to tell you that last morning three weeks ago,
that's what I rode after you for, but something in your face
stopped me; it was so hard and unsympathetic, not like
my Hector at all.  Darling, please don't say you're sorry.
I'm not, not a bit, I shall love it, for it is yours, but I must,
dearest, I have no choice, I must ask you to keep your
promise and take me away.  Is it such a sacrifice, Hector?
God knows I hate asking it of you, but perhaps it is for the
best after all, our life in the future will not be the lie it is
now.  And I will make you happy.  I will try to prevent
your regretting.  Oh, think of it, darling, always together,
you and I and ... her, for that I know you would
like best.  Don't worry about me, I know you will, but
you needn't, only send me a wire in answer to this, just
the one word "Yes," and let me have it by Thursday
evening.'"

"And to-day is Thursday," he muttered.  Then followed
a carefully-erased sentence, which, nevertheless, had
been made out by Hector, as such sentences, no matter
at what toil, always are made out: "If not by then I
shall know, and settle things in my own way."

Hector flung the letter down on the boards beside him,
and crushed it under his foot.

"Is it a sacrifice?" he jeered.  "Oh no, no sacrifice at
all; and you pretend to understand me, and think I'm a
man to be satisfied with the life you propose.  No; if I do
it—and do it I must, I suppose—it will be hell for both of
us.  I'll probably kill you in the end, and myself too.  That
will be the finish of our heaven, Stara, a heaven green
with absinth, most likely, that's the French remedy, I
believe, for despair."

Once more he took up the letter, and studied the sentence
erased.  "'If not by then I shall know, and settle things in
my own way,'" he repeated, and then his eyes darkened
with anger.  "A threat," he muttered, "to show me up,
I suppose, write to the Colonel, like forsaken sweethearts
do about their soldier-lovers.  Do it then, by all means.
God! but you make me laugh, Stara," and he laughed
harshly at the thought.

"No, I'm wrong, though," he went on after a pause;
"you don't mean that, I know, but what in the devil's
name, then, *do* you mean?  Nothing, I suppose, put it in
to add emphasis, and scratched it out on reflection.  Four
o'clock, another half-hour of Thursday gone, and still no
nearer solution.  Well, I may as well get it over, as it's
got to be, and, by heaven, yes, there's just one chance—they
may not accept my papers now war's only a question
of days.  It's a toss-up, let Fate decide; if I'm to be
great, nothing can stop me; if a derelict, then that I shall
be whatever I do.  I'll write that wire out now, and give
it to Murphy to take when he calls me; it's light now, and
the ghosts are gone."

He entered the room, grey and unreal-looking in the
approaching dawn, and taking up a telegraph-form from the
writing-table sat down and wrote: "Yes—Hector."

For a moment he sat staring at the words, with a peculiar
smile on his face.  "Good-bye, Hector Graeme, conqueror
of worlds," he murmured.  "Westminster Abbey is not for
you, my friend; it's in Boulogne Cemetery your bones will
rot, an example of what woman's love can do for a man."

Then a fit of despair came over him.  He rose, and hurrying
from the room, stood once more on the verandah, with
his eyes fixed on the dark blur of mountains appearing dimly
through the grey.  "Come down, come down, you black
devils yonder," he prayed; "begin your throat-cutting
to-day, and I'll bless you for it.  It's only a few hours I've
got—for the love of God, come down!"

For a while he remained watching.  Then suddenly a
great drowsiness came over him: he swayed drunkenly,
and, staggering back to his room, fell heavily on the bed
and slept.

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"Beggy pardin, sir, your tea, sir, you're for the field,
sir.  What time would you like the 'orse?"

"And why the devil shouldn't I drink the stuff if I
want to?  It's all I've got ... eh ... er?
Oh, Murphy, thank God!"

"What time would you like the 'orse, sir?  Field day at
nine, sir.  Rondyvoo, Grobler's Farm, two miles from 'ere,
sir."

Graeme sat up and drank the tea at a gulp.

"Horse at half-past eight, and ... take that telegram
there to the post-office.  You can ride the second
charger; and don't gallop him along the road as you always
do, you'll have him down if you do.  Bath ready?
Right—get out," and Hector dragged himself wearily out
of bed, and proceeded to dress for the coming field day.
"My last show this," he muttered, buckling on his belt,
"and I'll make the most of it.  I'll astonish them all
to-day, make Bumps open his eyes, the insolent, ignorant fool.
Murphy taken that wire?  Yes, it's gone; no hope now.
Only hope he won't show it about, though it wouldn't
matter much if he did, their thick heads wouldn't make
anything out of it.  Murphy's no Sherlock Holmes, thank
heaven; he's an unobservant beggar too, don't suppose
he's a thought in his head besides his dinner and beer.
Hallo, half-past eight, I must get on."  He went out,
mounted his waiting charger, and followed by his orderly
and trumpeter, set off at a canter for Grobler's Farm.

Murphy, from the verandah of the servants' quarters,
watched him go, and then returned to his perusal of the
telegram, a rather worried look on his unmeaning
countenance.

"Can't make nothing of it," he muttered.  "'Yes,' he
says, but 'Yes,' what?  Now, wot's 'Ector up to, I wonder?
I don't like it—I don't, Pen, straight," to Penrose, Ferrers'
servant, who was polishing a sword scabbard close by.

"What's up, Mickey?" said the latter; "bloke turned
nasty about yer bill or wot?  You take my tip and tell
him, as 'e don't seem to 'ave no confidence in you, you
prefer to return to yer dooty at once.  It's what I does
with Ferrers when 'e gits uppish, and I never 'as no further
trouble.  ''Course I trusts you, Penrose,' 'e says.  'I was a
bit 'asty, perhaps; we'll say no more abaat it.'  And 'Very
good, sir,' I says, 'uffy like, and goes off to the Orfcers' Mess
for a drink, which I puts down to 'im."

"'Ector never says nothing about 'is bills," answered
Murphy, still worried; "'e ain't got no cause.  This ere's
a tallygram to 'is girl Stara, and I can't make it out, that's
all.  You see, Pen, when a bloke's dotty about a girl,
there's no saying wot kind of foolishness 'e'll be up to.
She's a good-looking girl, I'll say that for her," continued
the unobservant one, thoughtfully.  "'Ere's 'er photograph,"
taking a card from his breast pocket and handing it
to Penrose, who, regarding it, said "Yum."  "But good-looking
or not, she ain't going to put the bloke wrong, and
that's all abaat it."

"But wot the 'ell can she do, Mickey?"

"I don't know, Pen, and it's that wot's worrying me.
There's 'er last letter I ain't been able to git 'old of, and
there's something in that letter wot's troubling 'Ector.
You see, I knows 'im, and I'll eat my 'orse if so be 'Ector
ain't going to do something wot 'e ought not.  It's all in
this tallygram 'ere, I knows, if I could only get at it."

"Ain't your bloke married, Mickey?" said another
servant, for a moment stopping hissing at a boot and
holding it up for contemplation, his hand acting as boot tree,
"Wot's 'e done with 'is own lawful box of bricks?"

"I dunno, Simmy, and that's a fact," answered Murphy;
"'e ain't 'ad no letter from Lucy since 'e come back.  It's
my belief she's needled and given 'im the bag—she would
do straight if she saw them letters of Stara's.  'Strewth,
them letters!" he added reflectively.

"What's in the letters, Mickey?"

"Never you mind, Simmy; that ain't no business of
yours.  A bloke's letters is 'is own, 'is servant's different,
of course."

"'E's a rum 'un, is 'Ector," said Penrose.  "Did you
blokes 'ear of the turn up between 'im and Tim Molloy
yesterday?  Tim was up before him for using disrespectful
langwidge to the room corporal, and 'Ector was a dressing
of 'im down—'e can throw it abaat too can 'Ector—when
Tim loses 'is 'air, and ups and tells 'im 'e wouldn't talk to
'im like that if so be 'e weren't an orfcer and 'im a private.
And 'Ector 'e larfs and stops the Sergeant-Major wot was
calling for a file to take Tim to the guard-room.  'Ho,
wouldn't I?' 'e says, like that, and 'im and Tim goes orf
together to the sick lines, when 'e orfs with 'is coat and the
two of 'em go at it, the Sergeant-Major keeping the time;
and 'Ector 'as Tim outed in the second round!  Larf fit
to bust theirselves did the squadron win they sees Molloy's
eye and 'Ector's ear."

"Didn't 'e wear mourning whin 'is cat died, Mickey?"

"Wot abaat 'is looting of the commissariat godown
whin the dinners was stinking?"

"An' the lifting of them cabbages off Botha's farm to
teach the men scoutin'?  'See without being seen,' 'e says,
as 'e pulls 'em up.  Ho! ho!"

"Botha was a Dutchman, an' 'ostile to the English,"
answered Murphy, "and as such 'is cabbages was liable
to be pinched.  But I ain't goin' to stop 'ere jawing no
longer.  'Send this tallygram at once,' the bloke says, 'if
not sooner,' 'e says.  'Ere Tomkins," to Graeme's second
servant, who was sitting on a iron bed-cot nursing a cat,
"nip up to the stable and fetch the chestnut 'orse, while
I change my costoom," and thereupon Murphy retired
to his room, where he proceeded to transform himself into
as near a representation of his master as the state of his
wardrobe allowed.

Having oiled his hair and fastened his collar with an
imitation gold safety-pin, he mounted the horse and rode
away on his mission.  He proceeded at a walking pace
till he was well clear of the barracks, but on reaching the
hard high road he shook the old horse up, and at a good
sharp gallop made his way to the telegraph office.

Hector, meanwhile, was rapidly nearing the place of
rendezvous.  On the way he overtook Graves—now
Adjutant of the 1st Lancers—also bound for Grobler's Farm.

"Morning, Colonel," he said, touching his helmet.
"Heard the news?  It's all up with the war, Mahongas
have caved in.  Rotten, ain't it?"  A curse was the only
answer, and Graeme rode on, disregarding his brother
officer's "Hold hard, I'm coming too; there's plenty of
time.  Surly beggar you are," continued Graves, looking
after him, "but you're up against it this time all right.
I'd have warned you too, if you'd been civil, for I've a
pretty good notion what to-day's 'scheme' is, after what
Johnson let out last night.  Deuced unfair one it is too,
got up by Bumps solely to floor Graeme; Johnson owned
as much.  Well, if he is floored, so much, the better; take
him down a peg," and, somewhat consoled, Graves cantered
on.  Turning off the path, he made his way across the veldt
to where a dark mass of men and horses could be seen,
assembled for what General Rivers was pleased to call
"Instructive Field Operations."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX

.. vspace:: 2

Major-General Rivers, C.B.—better
known as Bumps, from his seat on a horse—was
fond of describing himself as "a soldier
of the old school."

"I'm a practical man, sir," he was wont to declare,
"hard knocks and plenty of 'em for me; that's the
way we won our battles in the past—and we'll do again
in the future, mark my words—not by poring over books
and mugging away at map reading."

This prophecy of the gallant General may or may not
have been correct; his liking for hard knocks also was
doubtless genuine, though unfortunately it had never been put
to the test, actual fighting not having come Bumps's way,
but the theory is certainly a convenient one for those who
possess neither the ability nor inclination for study.  He
relied on himself solely; his views on warfare were his own
and borrowed from no man, and though at times they
were somewhat at variance with those of accepted authorities
on the Art of War, who shall say that Bumps was not
right when he declared that the opinions of Napoleon,
Wellington, and others were as obsolete as the uniforms
they wore?

One thing was very certain, however, and that was that
Rivers would tolerate no opposition, nor allow his
infallibility to be questioned.  Some generals there were, he
knew, who prefaced their remarks by "My opinion is."  Not
so Bumps; he despised such a concession as weakness;
his criticisms on military operations were no expressions
of opinion, but statements of facts, and, with this
conviction in his mind, no one was so scathing in condemnation
of, or sarcastic in comments on, what he believed to be
mistakes in strategy or tactics as Bumps.  Indeed, he was
an excellent instance of the truth of the saying that,
whereas few men think, all will have opinions.

Further, like most general officers whose service has
been passed almost exclusively with infantry, he held
especially strong views on the subject of cavalry.
Engineers and artillery he left alone, they could floor him with
abstruse details concerning cubic contents and
breech-blocks, but with the mounted arm there were no such
annoying technicalities.  He knew all about them, he
considered, and indeed it was a cherished article of faith
with him that, had not Fate ordained his march through
life to be in large square-toed boots instead of a seat in a
saddle, his career would have been that of a Seidlitz or
Murat—that is to say, if he had ever heard of these warriors,
which unfortunately he had not.

For Hector Graeme, as has before been mentioned,
General Rivers had a particular aversion, not that he
admitted this, for hatred means equality, and never would
he have allowed the existence of such between himself
and a junior.  Nevertheless, hate him he did, with that
virulent form of hatred a man bestows on one to whom,
though superior in rank, he is inferior in the very
qualifications of which that rank is the sign manual.

Graeme was his subordinate, and, as such, theoretically
bound to accept his dictum and teaching on matters
military, while practically, as he well knew, Graeme did
nothing of the kind, but on the contrary treated his lessons
with an almost open contempt, never missing an opportunity
of showing up his instructor and exposing his absurdities
to all present; indeed, an argument between the
two was productive of much innocent enjoyment to seniors
and juniors, with the one exception of Graeme's colonel, Royle,
to whom such moments were full of heart-felt anguish.

To-day, however, a supreme effort had been made by
Bumps to crush once and for always this insolent
questioner of his infallibility, and it was with a glow of
anticipatory triumph in his heart, revealed by the twinkle in
his small grey eyes, that he now beheld Hector's arrival
on the scene.

He returned his salute graciously, and said "Morning,
Graeme," a civility awakening instant suspicion in Hector's
mind and a muttered "What's Napoleon up to now, I
wonder, and what the deuce is the matter with Royle?
He looks half dead with funk."

"A little late," continued the General; "almost time to
start.  All your force is waiting for you to lead them
to—victory."

"All, sir?" answered Graeme, looking round.  "I don't
see the infantry.  There are the guns, a section (two) of them,
and the cavalry, three squadrons.  Those waggons, too, are
meant to represent a convoy, I suppose, but no sign of the
'feet.'  Am I to take on eight hundred infantry"—there
was only that number, as Graeme was naturally aware, in
the station—"with three squadrons, two hundred and
eighty men in all?" and Hector laughed, a suspicion of
the plot dawning upon him.  He was to be given an
impossible task, was he?  Right, then; so much the greater
score when he won, as he certainly would.

"You'll know all about it in good time, I've no doubt,
Colonel Graeme," answered the other; "but you ought
not to think of odds, you know.  Dear me, a cavalry
officer frightened of infantry—this is something new."

"Not at all, sir.  I only wanted to know what was
against me.  A somewhat usual knowledge, I believe, for
a commander to possess."

"The General has just told you, Graeme," put in Royle
hastily, "that you'll know all about it in good time.  Why
can't you wait till them?"

Royle was not quite at his best this morning.  Always
frightened of a General, he was especially terrified of
Bumps; and though ordinarily he had confidence enough
in Hector—indeed, he sought his advice on all regimental
questions—since seeing the scheme[#] his nerve had left
him.  Graeme would certainly be defeated, he felt, and on
him would fall the blame; for, as he was responsible for
the training of his officers, their downfall meant his own.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] A printed paper, given to each opposing leader, though naturally
differing in each case.  On these papers is described an imaginary
military situation, followed by the task to be carried out, the actual
execution of this being, of course, left to the respective
commanders.

.. vspace:: 2

Official censure was the one thing most dreaded by Royle,
and, though he had escaped it so far, the catastrophe was
in sight at last.  The sword hung but by a hair, that hair
being Graeme's ability to placate; and now, in sheer sport,
it seemed that person was making the blade to dance over
his head, till the hair must undoubtedly snap in a moment.

He looked imploringly at Graeme as he spoke, and was
conscious of a faint sensation of relief, for his subordinate's
face was confident as ever.  Why could he not feel the
same?

"I beg your pardon, sir," answered Hector; "I have no
wish to be unduly curious.  One thing, however, I should like
to ask, if I may, who's commanding the opposite side?"

"Certainly you may know that, Graeme," said Bumps,
watching him; "it's Colonel Wicklow."  And once more
Hector laughed, for his opponent was a Staff College
graduate, and reputed one of the smartest officers at that
time in South Africa.

"Thank you, sir," he replied; "I'm much obliged to you
for giving me a chance of defeating such a distinguished
officer."

"I hope you may," snapped the General; "but it's time
you saw the scheme; here it is," drawing a long blue
envelope from his pocket and handing it to Graeme, at
the same time again closely watching him, the twinkle
deepening in his eyes.

Hector, however, did not open it there, but walked some
hundred yards away, where he seated himself behind a
large boulder.  He then took out his case, lighted a cigarette,
and, having removed his helmet so that the sun beat full
on his face, leisurely proceeded to open the envelope.

"As I thought," he muttered; "the plot at last revealed;
he's got it up for me this time and no mistake.  But no
matter; there must be some way out, and I'll find it."

He stretched himself flat on the ground, the cigarette
between his teeth, and, closing his eyes, passed into
semi-unconsciousness.  A voice began to whisper in his ear.

The following was the scheme.  Hector's force, composed
of the 1st Lancers and two guns, was directed to escort a
convoy of waggons to Tafelberg Farm, a distance of about
six miles.  Between him and his destination lay a high
rugged ridge, the only openings in which were two narrow
passes two miles apart, and by now assuredly guarded by
Colonel Wicklow with his eight hundred infantrymen.
Other way round there was none, save by a detour of some
fifteen miles, and, even if the distance had not made such
a turning movement prohibitive, the country on that side
had been carefully marked "out of bounds."

The ridge itself Hector knew well, knew also that, save
by the two passes, neither waggons nor even horses could
hope to cross throughout its length; for many times on
his solitary rides he had made the attempt on his Basuto
pony, but had always been forced to desist.  Only on hands
and knees could a man scale those rocky sides, and even
then the task was difficult, more particularly about midway
between the two passes, where the ridge reached its highest
point and was well-nigh precipitous.

This, then, was his task: the crossing of a mountain
barrier, impassable for waggons and mounted troops—of
which his force was composed—the two gates being
guarded and held by infantry.  Truly, General Rivers
had been successful in his object.

Suddenly Hector stirred, sat up, and gazed for a moment
vacantly around him; then, springing to his feet, stood
rocking dizzily.  Slowly the mists cleared from before his
eyes, and they lit up; a flame of red appeared in his cheeks:
his knees ceased from trembling, and he was awake—with
the solution of the problem clear before him.

Taking out his glasses, he carefully scrutinised the
distant ridge, each stone of which could be seen through the
powerful Zeiss.  He noted the figures of men lining the
rocks at the sides of the passes, and then lowering the
glasses, remained motionless, thinking rapidly.

"Kinley," he called, "Major Kinley."

"That's the first thing," he muttered, "remove him
from command of the cavalry"—this position, being next
senior to himself, Porky was now occupying, Royle being
detailed as umpire, and he in command of the side—"He'll
sell me to a certainty if I don't."

"Kinley," he called again, no answer to his first summons
being forthcoming, and at length after some minutes'
waiting, Kinley having had to be aroused from his slumbers,
that person appeared, rubbing his eyes.

"Well, old chap," he said yawning, "bit of a teaser
this, eh?  Johnson's just told me about it, but never mind,
I've got an idea; tell you what it is if you like."

"Thank you, Porky, I should; can't make head or tail
of it myself.  You ride with me and we'll talk it over
together."

"Right-o—glad to escape the dust.  But what about the
bloomin' regiment?  I'm in command, you know."

"Hand it over to Graves, we'll send him on ahead while
you and I sit with the guns and watch.  Ask him to come
here, will you—the rest as well."

Porky departed, returning some few minutes later
followed by the other officers of Graeme's army.  These
proceeded to range themselves in a half circle before their
leader, their faces showing varying degrees of interest; for,
though to the majority field days had long since lost their
charm, there was always a chance of something sensational
happening when under their present commander, not to
mention the practical certainty of a row between him
and Bumps.

Nor were their expectations disappointed to-day, for
of the many mad schemes in which, under his leadership,
they had previously participated, the one now propounded
surpassed them all in sheer lunacy, and their faces grew
bright with interest as they listened to the plan laid before
them.

"Here's the game, gentlemen," he began, "we've got
to get that lot of carts to Tafelberg Farm.  Between us
and it lies an impassable ridge, only two openings, both
held, as you'll see if you look, by infantry and guns.  No
way through—or so thinks Bumps."  Here Graeme paused
to allow the impossibility of the task to sink into his
hearers' minds; for this was his way, to make out that a
thing was impossible and then to show his audience how
easy it really was for him.  It was a touch of theatrical
display in which he, like some other and more distinguished
commanders, delighted.

"He's out as usual, though, is Bumps," he continued;
"for the convoys are going through all right and will be
at the farm in three hours from now.  Against me is that
most distinguished officer Colonel Wicklow, who, as you
know, is a Staff College graduate.  Now, at that abode of
learning they read books, and those books teach them that
the way to defend a ridge is not to spread troops all along
it, but to hold the passes strongly, and keep one or two
reserves somewhere in rear, ready to come up to the
threatened point.  That, gentlemen, is what my opponent
is now doing, and on his so doing I make my plan.

"Here it is.  The cavalry under you, Graves—Porky
remains to advise me—will start off and head straight for
the western opening.  Then, when they begin to shoot,
and Wicklow's reserves have started to reinforce that
point, as they will, thinking we're going to rush the pass,
you'll turn half right and go, hard as God will let you, for
the centre of the ridge, that peak there.  At its foot you'll
dismount, swarm up it, there'll be nothing but a picket on
top—the reserve by that time will be a mile away—and
having settled them, work along the ridge to the left, and
come down on the western opening from above, and knock
that lot out too.  Then Jehu," pointing to the transport
officer, "and I will bring on the carts and run them through
and away to Tafelberg Farm.  The guns will bang away
as soon as the cavalry starts from here, their target the
western opening.  That's to keep up the delusion of
attacking them.  Now, you've got it.  Get away and be off."

All but Porky saluted and hurried away.  "Stand to
your horses!" was shouted, and, at the sound, sleeping
figures rose up from the ground and busied themselves
with bridle and loosened girth.  "Mount!" was called once
more, followed by "Walk march!" and then suddenly
"Halt!" from many voices, and the clattering mass came
to a standstill.

"What the devil are they halting for?" said Graeme.
"Go and see, Porky, tell them to shove on.  Oh Lord, if it
ain't that old idiot who's stopped them!  Here's Johnson
coming too," as Bumps's A.D.C. came hurrying up.  "What
is it, Johnson?"

"The General's compliments, sir, and Major Kinley's
to command the cavalry," was the answer.

Graeme uttered an oath, and consternation was displayed
on Porky's face, for here was a bombshell indeed.
The latter, as usual, was the first to speak.

"Look here, old chap, I'm not for this at all.  Taking
on mountains with cavalry!  Ain't goats, you know."

"What the hell do you mean, you fool?  You never
said a word just now when you heard the scheme."

"I know I didn't; but then, you see, I wasn't responsible—but
Graves.  It's another pair of shoes now.  If it comes
off, all very well; but if it don't, it's me who gets damned,
not him.  You know what Bumps is about cavalry."

"Oh, go to blazes!  I don't act to Bumps nor anyone
else.  Get away to your squadron, and don't talk."

"For heaven's sake come with us, then.  You see,
Graeme, if you're there, you get the damning, as is only
right.  It's your scheme."

"Of course I'm coming.  D'you think I'd let a
turnip-headed ... Oh, come on.  Trumpeter, my horse," and
Graeme mounted and was hurrying away, when again
Johnson was seen approaching.

"The General's compliments, sir," he said, "and he
wishes you to stay with him.  The cavalry under Major
Kinley is to go on at once and..."  And then the A.D.C. stopped
astonished, his ears listening to a flow of language
such as struck his simple soul with genuine admiration.

"You can tell your something something General," he
concluded, "to draw his something something face on a
something something blackboard and take a something
something sponge and spit on it and——"

"Will you obey orders, sir," interrupted a quavering
voice, and Royle rode up beside him.  "For God's sake,"
reverting to pleading, as he caught Graeme's eye, "for all
our sakes, don't put the General's back up."

Hector glared at him for a moment; his mouth opened
and then shut with a snap.

"Very well," he said, "I'll come.  Only don't blame me
for what's going to happen; or rather do, if you like, I don't
care," and thereupon he dismounted, and, handing his
horse over to the trumpeter, walked away to where Bumps
was sitting.

"Now, Colonel Graeme," said the latter affably, "we want
to hear your plans; but first, I must tell you, you were
wrong in proposing to lead the cavalry.  As commander
of a mixed force, your place is with the guns.  You've
told Major Kinley, I presume, what you meant to do?"

"I've tried to."

"Tried to, what do you mean?  Either you have or
have not, which is it?"

"I repeat, I've tried to; but my plan requires me in
person to lead."

"By that you mean, I suppose, a field officer in your regiment
is incapable?  What do you say to that, Colonel Royle?"

"I don't know what Graeme means, sir, I'm sure,
Major Kinley's a most excellent officer," answered Royle,
who but yesterday had lamented Porky's total want of
intelligence to Hector himself.

"I confess that is also my opinion," said Bumps, "he's
an officer, with ideas, too, is Kinley, and what's more is
both modest and unassuming.  Always ready to learn,
doesn't think he knows better than his superiors.  But
about your plans, what are they, Graeme?"

"To attack that ridge where it's highest," answered
Hector.

"Really, and how, may I ask, charge it with cavalry?"

"That's my idea."

"Graeme, you don't, you can't mean that," from
Royle.  "Sir," turning to the smiling Bumps, "I can
assure you this is directly contrary to my teaching."

"And mine too, Colonel."

"I meant yours, sir.  Why, it was only the other day,
after your last lecture on cavalry, that I had all my officers
up, and impressed upon them how right you were when
you said—said——"  Here Royle was brought to a
standstill, memory failing him.

"Say no more, Colonel, I believe you; but there are
some people too clever to learn.  Ah, they're off!  Sit
down here, Graeme, and watch.  I think, possibly, in the
next few minutes you may learn something, or the
experience of forty-five years goes for nothing."

"A mule that had been through all the wars of Frederick
still remained a mule," muttered Graeme, and, sitting down,
lighted a cigarette and closed his eyes.

That disaster was imminent he knew well, but now
cared nothing.  Let Bumps have his silly triumph if he
liked.  His own plan had been right, of that he was
intuitively certain, and that was all that mattered to him;
it would fail, of course, as it was, but that was to be
expected, Porky being in charge.

Sitting there, he could foretell, knowing that officer, what
was in his mind as he rode along, almost to the words he
was now uttering to Graves galloping beside him.

"Hanged if I get a telling off," he was saying, "for
Graeme or anyone else; my plan's much sounder, and will
pull him through, and then he'll be glad he didn't run his
own rotten scheme.  Look ye, Graves, we'll make for the
centre of the ridge now, straight away, that'll entice
those blokes away from the pass, and then we'll turn
and be through it like winking.  It's the same as his plan,
only the other way round."

In vain did Graves, who possessed intelligence, protest.
Porky was firm, and carried out his scheme, or rather the
first part of it, for in the last he was not so successful.

On they headed for the ridge, Wicklow watching them
through his glasses as they came, and for a moment doubt
arose in his mind, soon quelled, however, for his Staff
College teaching told him that cavalry do not attempt the
crossing of precipitous mountains.  "It's a transparent
ruse," he reflected, "to draw me away from the passes,
their only hope," and he called up his reserves till each
entrance was guarded by close on four hundred men.

A cry arose of "Here they are!"  Cartridges rattled in
breech-blocks, and Wicklow's heart was joyful within him,
when, a cloud of dust preceding them, a straggling mass
of horsemen burst upon them.  The storm broke, but on
they came, for Porky was valiant and by now reckless, till
at last, with guns thudding in their faces and withering
fire from Maxim and rifle pouring in upon them, even
he became convinced of the futility of further advance,
and halted his cursing, sulky-faced regiment in the centre
of the pass.  A loud shout of laughter greeted them from
the infantrymen looking down from the rocks on either side.

"We're in for it, Graves," he calmly observed, "but a
damning is no new thing to me."  Then Porky proceeded
to light his pipe, and, seating himself on a stone beside the
path, waited for the wrath to come.

"A pretty piece of business," said the General, as he
lumbered across the veldt towards the scene of disaster,
"very pretty indeed!  Oh for heaven's sake keep up
beside me, Colonel Royle, and stop talking to Graeme,
you can do that afterwards."

"Yes, sir; very sorry, sir," gasped Royle, rushing his
horse up and cannoning into the General in his haste.
"oh, I beg ten thousand pardons, sir, and you were
saying——"

"How the devil can I say anything when you damn near
knock me over?  Hold up, confound you!" pulling at his
horse's mouth, as the animal skipped cleverly over the hole
of an ant-bear.  "Nasty clumsy brute to give a general
officer.  Who chose him—you?"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] It is usual for the general and his staff, when not bringing their
own horses with them, to be mounted by the cavalry regiment in
the station they are visiting.  Amiability is a *sine qua non* in the
quadrupeds selected for this honour.

.. vspace:: 2

"No, sir, Colonel Graeme, sir——"

"Damme," roared the General, "it's always Colonel
Graeme, pray, does he command the 1st Lancers or do
you?"

"I do, of course, sir; but Graeme, being the second in
command, I usually leave such matters to him.  I thought
he was to be relied on, sir; but after to-day I see——"

"I hope you do, a nice show up for your regiment,
to-day's performance.  Now, perhaps, you'll believe what
I've always said about this officer."

"Indeed I do, sir, and if you like, sir, there are the
Confidential Reports to go in soon, sir, and——"

"Do your own dirty work, Colonel," snapped the
General, who found this servility even more exasperating
than Graeme's insolence.  "I should advise you to
remember, however, that you've always cracked the fellow
up till now; made him out a sort of Julius Cæsar."

"But, sir, that was before I knew, sir.  Now, sir, that my
eyes are opened, thanks to you, I see my mistake, and——"

"Oh, do you?  Well, here we are.  Sound the officers'
call, Trumpeter."

"Gad, but your trumpeters want practice," he snarled,
as the man, infected by the general demoralisation, blew a
cracky, discordant blast, "and look there, see the way
your officers are lounging up, like a lot of ducks shuffling
along.  For the Lord's sake, go and march 'em here yourself
properly.  All present?  Hum, yours too, Wicklow?  Sit
down there, please, closer, damn it!  I don't want to shout."

"Now, gentlemen—when you've finished arguing with
Captain Graves, Major Kinley, thank you—I think we've
had a most instructive morning, we've learnt, or I trust
most of you have, how cavalry should ... not be handled.
The scheme, I allow, was perhaps a little too difficult for
the 'Blue'[#] commander; but even so, that's no excuse for
the insane performance it has just been our privilege to
witness.  No attempt at scouting, no reports sent in, merely a
blind, headlong rush to destruction.  May I ask, Colonel
Graeme, on what information you acted?  As far as I know,
you had not the slightest idea of what was in front of you."


[#] On field days one side is usually designated the "Blue," the
other the "Red."


"There were two companies of infantry, with two guns,
holding either pass.  In rear, four companies in reserve,"
was the careless answer.

There was a murmur from the officers of Wicklow's
force—the diagnosis was correct.

"Really?" said Bumps.  "Stop whispering there, will
you!  What do you say to that, Colonel Wicklow?"

"It's correct, sir," he answered, "except that my reserves
came up as soon as the attack developed; they were
there in time to repel the cavalry charge."

"There you are, Graeme; four more companies than you
thought.  However, you've paid the penalty of disregarding
my own and your Colonel's teaching, and there's no
more to be said.  I hope it will be a lesson to you in the
future to be a little less cocksure.  It's a fault which has
brought many a better soldier than you to grief.  And
now I'll tell you what you ought to have done.  First, you
should have sent out patrols and scouted."

"To find out what I already knew, sir?"

"Kindly refrain from interrupting; besides, you did
not know; it has just been proved.  And then, having
ascertained the enemy's dispositions, reported to me that the
task was beyond you."

"I understood, sir, we were supposed to be on active
service conditions?" said Graeme.

"So you were, sir, what of it?"

"As far as I know, sir, there are no umpires on active
service."  At this remark a stir of anticipation ran through
the audience, despite disaster, Graeme was again not going
to fail them.

"Umpires, sir, what do you mean, sir?  I'm speaking
of the officer who would be your senior, and to whom,
consequently, it would be your duty to report."

"In which case, being my senior and on the spot, wouldn't
he have made the plan and given the orders?"  The stir
thereupon developed into ill-concealed mirth, at sight of
which Bumps's foot went down.

"I'm not here to answer foolish questions, Graeme, nor
yet to argue; kindly bear that in mind.  I've told you
what you ought to have done, and there's an end of it.
One thing more, however, I should like to say, and that
is, I in no way blame Major Kinley, though it's true his
action resulted in disaster.  He was given an impossible
task, and very rightly declined to run his head against a
mountain ridge, and instead did the best he could under
the circumstances.  He showed initiative, at any rate—the
great quality in a cavalry officer—and dash, though,
perhaps, a slight want of judgment.  That is all, gentlemen,
good-day.  You ride home with me, Colonel Royle; I
wish to speak to you."  The General rose, and, mounting
his horse, was soon lurching away over the veldt lunchwards.

Graeme rode back alone, no one showing any inclination
to accompany him.  He was down now, and the strong
man or animal down is a being whom all smaller creatures
shun; for such is the penalty those who claim pre-eminence
over their fellows have to pay if but for a moment they fail
to support their claim.  For though to all living creatures
a lord is essential, nevertheless they hate that lord and the
dominion he imposes, and, once fallen, are on him like
wolves on a disabled leader.  Only in the case of hereditary
kingship is it different—then it is the place and not the
individual to which they bow.

This came home to Graeme as he rode homewards.
Yesterday—this morning even—his brother officers, though
disliking and perhaps fearing him, would nevertheless have
followed his lead and accepted without question his dictum
on military matters; but now, thanks to a mere field day
disaster, or, rather, to the utterance of a Bumps, all this
had changed, and his former unbroken sequence of successes
had been obliterated from their minds.

While he was thus reflecting, the clatter of hoofs sounded
on the track behind him, and Wicklow rode up, stopping
for a moment as he passed.

"Hullo, Graeme," he said; "rotten job they gave you
this morning, no man living could have done it.  Funny,
though, at one time I thought you were going to pull it off,
but I think my reserves might have got there in time.
They hadn't started for the passes when you headed for
my centre.  There was only a picket of six men on top,
but of course I knew you wouldn't do an unsound thing
like that; besides your horses couldn't have got over."

"Supposing I'd dismounted and swarmed up, then moved
along the ridge and come down on you from above?"

"Glad you didn't, it's I who'd have had the damning
then—not you.  Bye-bye, I'm off to lunch," and Wicklow
rode on, leaving Graeme the bitterer at the knowledge of
what ought to have been and had not.

A feeling of despondency came over him, a sense of
futility, one of those black moods to which the self-reliant,
and consequently solitary, are at times prone.  What was
the good of it all, he asked himself, this laborious building
up of a name, which the slightest mistake of a subordinate
or momentary ill-luck could destroy in a moment.  Even
worse, perhaps, was the crass stupidity of those by whom
he was surrounded; their total inability to see matters that
to his eyes were as clear as daylight.  He knew there was
not one of those officers present at to-day's operations
who had an inkling of the motives that had prompted him
to act as he had done.  To them his plan had been a wild
gamble, which with luck might come off, but only with
luck; whilst he had known—even without the
confirmation of Wicklow's words—the success of that plan
had been certain, based as it was on his knowledge of
human nature, which never changes and never can change.

Oh, to get away from it all, abandon this thankless
profession, and leave the army to the ruin it courted by the
retention in high places of such as Bumps!  Then there
suddenly flashed upon him the remembrance of the
telegram that had been despatched in the morning, and till
now forgotten; for in the concentration of purpose usual
with him there was only room for one thought in his mind
at a time.

A sigh of relief burst from his lips.

"Thank heaven," he muttered, "I did it; fool that I
was to wait so long."  And thereupon, suddenly exhilarated
at the thought of speedy release, he struck spurs to his horse
and rode on, until he reached his quarters, before which a
soldier in uniform was standing, awaiting him.

"Hullo, Lobb," said Hector, surprised at the apparition,
the man being a trooper from his own late squadron, "what
are you doing here, where's Murphy?"

"Beggy pardin, sir, Murphy's 'ad a haccident; 'orse
come down with 'im this morning and broke 'is arm, and
the Sergeant-Major sent me to do first servant to you in 'is
absence."

"Where is he?" shouted Hector.

"'Oo, Murphy, sir?  In 'orspital, sir; they took 'im
there strite, compound fracture, I've 'eard, sir, the
bone——"  But Hector was already galloping away to the
hospital, with a sudden desperate anxiety in his mind.

"Murphy, did you send that telegram?" he burst out,
rushing up to the bed upon which the sufferer was lying.

"Beggy pardin, sir, I——"

"Did you send it?"

"No, sir; 'ere it is," and Murphy drew a crumpled sheet
of paper from under the pillow.  "Very sorry, sir."  But
once more Hector was gone, and five minutes later had
reached the telegraph office, where, pushing aside other
applicants for attention, he thrust the paper beneath the
grating.

"When will this reach Duikerpoort?" he demanded.

"Couldn't say," answered the clerk, with the
nonchalance that a manly Colonial independence seems to
demand; "perhaps to-night, perhaps to-morrow morning."

"It must get there to-night, d'you hear?"

"Oh, must it?  You're in a hurry, you are!  Oh, beg
pardon, sir," as Graeme suddenly appeared behind him,
having burst open the door marked "Private" and entered.
"I'll send it off at once; it will be all right, I think, if the
line's not blocked.  Good-day, sir."

Hector rode slowly back to barracks, where till nightfall
he wandered about aimlessly, his mind racked with
this strange newborn anxiety and the impotent desire to
act.

"Dinner—not going to dinner," he replied to Lobbs's
reminder that the dress trumpet had sounded and the hour
of eight was close at hand.  "Bring me a bottle of
champagne here; that's all I want.  Another damnable night,"
he muttered, the meal of liquor consumed, "only nine
now, twelve hours at least before I can get an answer.
I think I'll send for my pony and spend the night on the
veldt."  He walked to the door, and as he did so, nine
o'clock struck.  Then a strange thing happened, for with
the ceasing of the strokes the fever of restlessness suddenly
left him, and in its place he felt perfect peace and calm.
For half an hour longer he remained contentedly resting
in his chair, his eyelids gradually growing heavier, and then
sleepily undressing he lay down on the bed and was almost
instantly asleep.  Nor through the night hours did he
move, but slept dreamlessly on, till a hot deluge in his face
awoke him to the fact that early morning tea had arrived,
and also that it was Private Lobb, and not the experienced
Murphy, who had brought him that tea.

"Beggy pardin, sir," said the perspiring soldier, rushing
for a towel and proceeding to mop the soaking bedclothes
and incidentally Hector's face, "very sorry, sir; caught
my foot; can't think 'ow it happened; 'ere's a tallygram
for you, sir," and Lobb fled hastily from the room.  A
faint rustle of paper was heard from within and then all
was silent save for the ticking of the clock.

"Lobb."

"Sir?" and in rushed the soldier.  Once more he unfortunately
"caught his foot," this time against the water-jug,
which breaking at the impact let out a flood of water
over the wooden floor.

"Beggy pardin, sir, I'm sure," began Lobb, in an agony,
and then stopped, for his master was speaking to him,
and at the sound of the voice and look in the eyes of the
speaker the disaster was forthwith forgotten.

"Never mind that now, Lobb, but go at once and tell
the Adjutant to come here, and then fetch a Cape cart.
Ten minutes I give you; don't be longer," and Hector rose
from his bed and sat smiling at Lobb, a smile that sent
the latter flying from the room, leaving Hector alone.

Still smiling, he unfolded the paper in his hand and
remained curiously regarding the charcoal-written words:
"Stara dead."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI

.. vspace:: 2

The train rocked wearily onward through the
fast-gathering darkness.  The purple moorland and
rocky gorges of the Great Karoo were gone, and
in their place there were great rolling plains of yellow
grass, swelling hill and misty blue mountain.  Onward it
crawled, through lines of ruined blockhouses and crumbling
earthworks, relics of bygone strife, now increasing
its pace, till the groan and rattle of cars swelled to a roar,
now slowing down to a crawl as it clanked cautiously over
a girder-bridge spanned river, or pulled up with a jerk at
some lonely veldt siding.

It was a very caterpillar of a train, express though it
claimed to be, and crowded with humanity, black and
white, bound for garish, golden Johannesburg.  Nevertheless,
packed as were its other dusty compartments, there
was one in which a man sat solitary, his peace undisturbed
by friendly chat and the rustle of turning pages.  True,
more than once passengers had entered it, sat there for
a while—some even venturing on conversation with its
inmate—but all, after a time had left, preferring heat and
lack of elbow-room elsewhere to space and the company of
one not only unsociable but "strange, most strange."

For many hours now Hector Graeme had been left alone,
if alone he were; for if that were so why did he talk, not
as one who speaks to himself, but to someone with him,
someone whose voice he could hear, though all other ears
were deaf to it?  And this indeed was the case, for a
strange thing had come to pass, and that other voice, heard
for so many years, yet hitherto impersonal, had since the
morning undergone a startling change, and was now become
that of Stara, lying dead some thirty miles away.

Quite suddenly, too, recognition had come to him, almost
simultaneously with the receipt of the wire telling him of
her death.  Since then they had spoken together without
ceasing, and, tedious though the long journey might be
to others, to him there had been no tedium, but a wild, mad
happiness and gratitude.

Dead; yes, she was dead, but only her body; for her
spirit lived on, and from now would be with him always,
watching over him, guiding him on his path, as in the
dreams he had dreamed.  Never would he be in doubt
again, never at a loss as he had been sometimes before; for
death had rent the obstructing veil of flesh, and the soul at
last was free to come to him where and whensoever he
should call.

How simple henceforth it would all be.  He had only to
ask and be told, for he had already proved that, by much
questioning on points to which he knew the answer, and
could have shouted with delight at the accuracy with
which those questions were solved.  Only on one point
was she dumb, of her death she refused to speak, and, press
as he might, no voice came back in reply.

Still, he would soon know, very soon now, and together
they would stand looking down on the husk her spirit had
left, and he would tell her; for she would understand, as
living she never would have understood, how he had wearied
of that husk and longed for the flesh-obscured soul.

He stretched his cramped limbs, and, rising, went over to
the window and looked out.  The train was slackening
speed.

"Are we here, Stara?" he asked, and back flashed the
answer, "Yes."

"Duikerpoort!  Duikerpoort!" a voice was heard calling
in the darkness, and obeying the summons the train stopped
for a moment, and then, creaking and groaning, moved
slowly forward once more.

The lighted cars glided by till all had passed; red and
green tail-lights grew smaller and then vanished; the roar
died to a murmur and was stilled.  A drowsy porter passed,
his lantern swinging as he went, and then he too was gone,
and Hector Graeme stood alone, with the wide-eyed planets
above him and the silent immensity of the African veldt
around.

No one to meet him, thank God; he would have his walk
alone.  Ten mile trudge though it was, it did not matter; he
was fresh and strong as never before, and Stara was there
to keep him company.

"Come, Stara," he called, and at her response he started
on his way, swiftly striding along the track, deep in sand
though it was.

Mile after mile he covered, insensible to fatigue or hunger,
though he had fasted since the night before; for he, like dead
Stara, was nearly all spirit now, and for a time unconscious
of fleshly claims.  At last, far away, a speck of light shone
through the black, and the man laughed happily, his
outstretched hand guiding his silent companion's gaze to it.

"Home, Stara, at last," he cried, "the home where
your body is lying.  Tell me where, in what room?"  She
answered: "My old room, dear; you know it; hasten."  Together
they ran on, and did not stop till they stood before
a farm-house, now as still and silent as one of its inmates.

"Stara, keep with me; follow me close," and Hector's
fist crashed against the door, a muttered exclamation from
within coming in answer.  A flicker of light appeared, the
sound of footsteps was heard, and then the door opened.
Richard Selbourne stood before them, his eyes searching
the darkness without.

"Who are you," he said, "and what do you want at
this hour?  This is no time——"

"It's we, Dick, Stara and I."

Richard fell back, with terror at his heart; then came
recognition, and with it a hatred that banished fear.

"You," he said, "you?"

"We, Dick, Stara and I.  We've run all the way here.
Oh, don't stand staring there, but let us in," and Hector
pressed forward.

"Damn you!  Never!" began Richard, but Hector
was past, easily thrusting the other, a man with twice his
strength, aside, and was standing in the hall, his hand on
the staircase rails.

"Take me to her," he said, "or I'll go alone."

Richard stared at him for a moment, measuring Hector's
strength with his.  "A weak creature," he thought; "he took
me unawares just now; that was all.  I could kill him easily
enough, and, God knows, I've prayed for the chance; but
yet, now that it's come, I can't—not with her lying dead
above.

"Follow me," he said, and led the way to a small room,
called by courtesy a study, but used by its master
indiscriminately for the keeping of guns, fishing-tackle, and
seeds.

"Untidy as ever, Dick, I see.  Look, Stara, the same
old mess."

Selbourne wheeled round, his grey eyes searching the
other's face.

"Do you wish me to believe you mad," he said curtly,
"is that your coward's refuge?"

Hector stared vacantly.  "Mad, mad!" he repeated,
"you may be, I'm not.  Mad, what do you mean?" a
look of anger appearing in his eyes.

"You must be to come here, I should think.  Why have
you done it?"

"You always were a dense fool, Dick.  What do you
think I've come for?  To see the body, of course."

"To see the woman you murdered, you mean."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't?  Then I'll tell you.  My sister died last night
by her own hand, why, you know, I only guess; but this I
do know, that her death lies at your door.  Of your villainy
in making love to her when you had a wife at home I won't
speak.  She knew it, it seems, and I'm not going to blame
the dead.  But of the other, of the cowardly abandonment
to her fate of a woman you professed to love, of that I will,
Colonel Graeme."

"Say what you like, if it pleases you, Dick.  I shan't
defend myself."

"I intend to.  It seems—I got that much out of my
wife—Stara wrote you a letter five days ago, and that letter
asked for a wire in answer.  Even the most callous, I
should have thought, would have sent something, but you
did not.  With that letter in your pocket, probably unread,
you spent those five days loafing about barracks, too
damned lazy even to walk to the telegraph-office and send
the answer which would have saved a life."

"Right as usual, Dick; go on."

"For three days I had boys waiting at the Duikerpoort
office, and last night she went there herself, and stayed
till the place was shut.  Then she came back and an
hour afterwards was found on the veldt—dead."

"That was fine of you, Stara."  The words were only
breathed, but Richard heard them, heard too the unmistakable
ring of gladness in Hector's voice.  At the sound,
decency and respect for the dead above him vanished,
and in their place the primitive overmastering desire to
kill prevailed.  He stretched out his hand to a drawer,
clutched something, and in one more second Graeme would
have been lying dead, his spirit free to wander by Stara's
side, but in that second a woman stood between them,
and her eyes, dulled with tears, were lifted reproachfully
to her husband's face.

"Dick," she said, "is this a time for quarrelling?
Think, Dick."

"Let me go, Mary, such as he are better dead.  My God! if
you'd only heard."

"I did ... and ... he isn't worth it, Dick."  She
turned and faced Graeme, who was standing with a
rapt look on his face, apparently unconscious of their
presence.

"What do you want?" she said with level voice and
eyes hard as flint.

Hector's wandering wits came back; for a moment he
stood regarding her, and then, recognition dawning, held
out his hand.  Mary drew back, sweeping her skirts behind
her.

Hector laughed, faintly amused.  "So you're against me
too, are you?  You're as dense as Dick.  Well, well, the
battle's begun already, you and I, Stara, against the world."

"I repeat, what do you want?"

"To see her."

"He shall not, I say.  Mary, if you've any respect for
Stara's memory, you'll not sanction this outrage.  Think
what this man's done, think what Stara used to be and is now."

"Hush, Dick."  Mary's eyes were fixed on Graeme's
face and, more observant than her husband, she saw
something there that made her hesitate; for the moment
the hatred in her heart was lessened.

"If ... if I let you see her."

"Alone?"

"Mary!"

"Dick, I beg of you dear, to leave this to me.  Alone,
if you wish it, Colonel Graeme, for five minutes only."

"Half an hour."

There was a pause, while Mary's eyes rested unwaveringly
on Graeme's face.

"Very well, half an hour.  Will you promise me to go then?"

"Yes."

"Come then," and Mary passed out, leading the way
upstairs to a closed door, where she stopped.  "In there,"
she said.  "I trust you," and left him.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



"Stara! we're here, your spirit and I come to say
good-bye to the body they're burying to-morrow.  It's only
for a few minutes; I mustn't stay.  They won't let me,
Stara, for they say I killed you.  But I know better than
that, for your spirit has told me the truth, and I honour
you for it and adore you, Stara.  Wiser than all, you knew
that love for a body must die, but love for the spirit lives
for ever.  I wanted your soul, and you, knowing it, have
given."

He paused, crept closer, and stood looking down.

"You beautiful thing," he whispered, "yet, beautiful
as you are, I shall be glad when you're hidden away out of
sight in the ground for then I shall see the soul whose
voice only I now can hear.  When will that be, my Star,
when will that soul be revealed?  To-morrow, yes,
to-morrow it shall be, over your grave, when the sun is dead
too, and all are gone.  Promise me it now, dear, let
those dead lips speak for the last time."

"Speak!"  He stood towering above her, command in
the eyes fixed on the rigid mouth.  A gust of wind blew,
the lamp flickered, and over the still face a shadow hovered
and was gone.

Then through the silent house a mad cry went ringing;
the two waiting below started apart, with terror in their
eyes; and above a man was on his knees beside the bed,
with a dead woman held to his heart, and the scent of
crushed lilies rising to his brain.

The minutes passed, and still he knelt there, holding her,
and then, slowly raising his head, gazed into the
stiffly-smiling face.

"Good-bye, body beloved," he said.  "Good-bye, earthly
love, and welcome now the spiritual."  He rose from his
knees, and stood erect, one hand laid on the cold breast,
the other raised aloft to heaven.

"Unseen soul of Stara," he breathed, "hear me now.
May God's curse strike me, may my limbs rot and wither
on my body, may the devil burn and tear me in the Hereafter,
if but for a moment my love shall stray from you!"

He stopped, his eyes alight with ecstasy, then, bending
down, kissed the dead lips once, and went swiftly out into
the star-gemmed night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII

.. vspace:: 2

The red glow of a dying sun framed in masses
of angry storm-cloud; a group of dark-clad
figures standing in a roughly-walled enclosure,
in their midst a white-clothed priest.  Around, the sunlit
veldt and mountain mocking the shortness of human life,
their own tenure, though but a span, an immortality
compared with that of mankind.

"I am the resurrection and the life."  The high-pitched
voice rose on the evening air, chanting words that
had been millions of times repeated, yet always sounding
new, for of death they form the song, and neither Azrael
nor Eros can ever weary humanity.  Apart from the throng,
close to the grave's brink, a man was standing.  Dully the
words beat on his brain, but conveyed no meaning, for
physical endurance had reached its limit, and understanding
for the time was dead.

Vaguely he listened, wondering what it all might mean,
now and again raising his eyes to the chasm's far side,
where stood the chanting priest, and beyond him the group
of black-clothed figures.  What was he doing here, what
were these people doing here, and this dark hole at his
feet, what was its meaning?  Vacantly he looked around,
seeking for something to lay hold of, some landmark to
link the present with the past, but in vain, all were
but as symbols on an ever-flying wheel, seen for a second,
gone, seen again and lost once more.

Then for a space the whirling circle stopped, and the
figures came to a rest and stood steady before his eyes.
Ah, there were two he recognised, a man and a woman,
the former rigid-faced and stern, the latter weeping.  Yes,
he knew them; they were Richard Selbourne and Mary,
but why was she crying?  There was no reason for it that
he could see.  He looked hard at them, trying to attract
their notice, but in vain, almost it seemed as though they
would not see.  Ah last Richard looked up, met his
eyes full, and without recognition lowered his own again.
"Cut me, intentionally too, what, in God's name for, what
have I done?  Confound that other fellow too, with them,
staring like that; what the devil does he find in me, a
stranger, to interest him?  Never takes his eyes off me,
damn him!  Looks like a doctor, well, if you are, go back
to your pills, you fool, and leave me alone.  I want none of
your drugs."

"O death, where is thy sting?  O grave, where is thy
victory?"  Ah, he recognised that.  They were burying
someone then, and this hole at his feet was a grave.  But
whose, and what, had it to do with him?  Faintly curious,
he moved forward and peered down.  Yes, there was a
coffin, a name on it too, if he could but read:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   STARA.

.. vspace:: 2

Then back rushed remembrance; he knew, and laughed
aloud.  Everybody looked up; the man with the deep-set
eyes made a half step forward; Mary clutched her husband's
arm; and the priest, scandalised, stopped, and then went
hurriedly on: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes dust to dust."

Graeme's head nodded slowly in approval, for here
were words of sense at last, little as the mumbling fool that
uttered them knew it.  To him they were but a formula,
the fine words spoken by the hero of some stage drama,
the finale bringing down the curtain to a burst of hysterical
applause.  He alone knew how true they were, and that in
death lay no sting and in the grave no victory, but defeat,
and in an hour from now the proof of that truth would be
given him.

The throng melted away, and moved slowly homeward
across the veldt.  Two men approached, spade in hand,
glanced at Graeme, and then set swiftly to work.  The
dull thud of earth on wood sounded from below, then earth
on other earth, till the yawning chasm had gone and only
a brown scar remained.

One final stamp on the loosened soil, and they too,
shouldering their tools, went homeward, and Graeme was
alone in the fast-falling night.  The sun had long since
died—to be born again in another world—and over his
fiery western grave a pall of blue storm-cloud hung, rapidly
rising and spreading over the heavens.  The wind moaned
fretfully, and the low mutter of thunder came from the
distant mountains.

The hour was at hand, its herald the tempest, the
birth-pangs of earth in travail of a soul.

A sudden fearful excitement shook Graeme.  His knees
knocked together, he rocked and swayed, and then the
mood passed, and, steady once more, he strode forward till
he stood over the lifeless body below, his livid face raised
to the darkened sky.

"Stara!" he called, but only the thunder of an outraged
God responded.  "Stara!  Stara!" he shouted again, and
then stopped, for the answer had come.

A flash of blue light, a rending crash overhead, and, to
the swell of harp and organ, the heavens yawned slowly
asunder, and the dead woman, white fire rolling around
her, stood looking down upon him.  For a moment he
remained, with face lit up and hands outstretched
towards her, and then, with one loud triumphant cry of
"Stara!" fell forward on his face, quivered for a moment,
and was still.

Almost as quick as the lightning-flash, from behind the
wall at the far side of the cemetery a man came running
up, followed slowly and seemingly unwillingly by another.

"Quick, Selbourne," said the first, "fetch a Cape cart;
look sharp, man, the storm will be on us in a minute.
God! did you ever see anything like that last flash?"

Richard came slowly up to where the speaker was kneeling,
with Graeme's head against his shoulder, while he was
forcing the neck of a small phial between the clenched
teeth.

"What's the matter," he said coolly, "lightning
struck him?  If so, he ought to be dead.  Is he?"

"Nothing of the kind; he's as alive as you or I."

"What's wrong, then?"

"I don't quite know—fit of some sort, I should say."

"Leave him to get over it then.  Rain will bring him to.
I'm going, I was a fool to stay, don't know why I did,
except that you made such a point of it."

The other looked up, frowning.  "Look here, Selbourne,
what your quarrel is with this fellow I don't know, and
don't want to; but I'm a doctor, and if he's the biggest
blackguard under the sun, he's my patient now, and I
don't leave him.  You go if you like, but in common
humanity order the Cape cart."

"I'll ... see ... him ... rotting first."

"See here, Richard Selbourne, I'm a good friend of
yours, and I think I've shown it, haven't I?  I wasn't in
time, I know, for ... but that was not my fault, I came as
quick as I could, and there was nothing to be done, but
you know what I risked over signing the certificate as I did."

"I do, and you've Mary's and my eternal gratitude,
Lees ... but——"

"Show it now, then, by fetching that cart."

"If you knew what I do, Lees, you'd leave him here to die."

The other laughed.  "Don't be a fool, Selbourne," he
said.

"Where do you propose to take him?  If it's my house
you're thinking of, you can save yourself the trouble of a
journey, I warn you."

"I'm not, I'll take him to the hotel, and get him away
to-morrow or the day after.  You shan't see him again, I
give you my word."

Richard rose from the wall on which he was sitting.

"On that understanding then," he said, "I'll send a
cart, but don't ask me to touch the fellow, because I won't.
You and the boy can lift him, I suppose, or shall I send
a man?"

"The boy and I can manage all right; he's light enough,
poor devil.  Please be quick, Selbourne."

The latter walked slowly away, leaving Dr. Lees looking
down on the still unconscious figure in his arms.

"Good thing I was watching you, my friend," he muttered.
"I knew when I saw you at the funeral you couldn't
last much longer.  I wonder what it all means, and what
you saw just now? for you did see something, I know that,
and probably will to the end of your days.  You'll be an
interesting study in the future, Colonel Graeme, or I'm
much mistaken.  'Stara,' you called, and that was her
name, poor girl; she poisons herself, and my friend Dick,
the most amiable fellow I know, hates you, hates you so
much that he'd leave you here to die.  For you would die
of exposure if I left you now; as it is, you'll be pretty bad
for a day or two.  Still, I think I've got the story all
right; it's an old enough one, God knows.  Oh yes, you're
a bad lot, Colonel, right enough, but it's possible you're
not quite so much to blame as they think.  I doubt if you're
quite ... responsible; not mad—I'm sure of that—but
not quite responsible.  Ah, the cart at last!  Hi, you,
this way; fasten the mules to the wall here, then come and
help lift the Baas.  Easy, that's right now."  Together
they lifted the light figure into the Cape cart, and, Lees still
holding it in his arms, drove away to the Spring Bok Hotel,
Duikerport, the mules shying and plunging at the
lightning playing on the rocks around.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, do hurry up, for heaven's sake, Graves;
it's past three, and we're playing in the
second chukker."

"Don't fidget me, but come in and sit down.  Throw
that dog out of the chair;" whereupon Captain Annesley,
white-breeched and brown-booted, entered his friend's
room, and having lifted the sleeping dachshund, and placed
him carefully on his knee, sat down, his eyes resting morosely
on the scantily-clad figure before him.

"We'll be late," he observed.

"You've said that before.  I'm shoving on all I know.
There's a drill-book on the table there; take it and read it
for once.  It will do you good."

Annesley declined the monstrous proposition.

"Drill-books," he remarked, "are for those with no
ideas of their own."

"That's why I suggest your reading it, Worm, but that
ain't yours, that's Graeme's.  I recognise the brand; there's
enough about, too, goodness knows, of the same sort."

"Madder every day," continued Annesley.  "He pow-wowed
the squadron this morning in a white top-hat.
A—white—top-hat!  I'm not lying, Graves."

"I saw him, it's sickening.  Lord! what a second in
command, or rather C.O., for Royle's only a dummy.  I
thought too, after that last show-up before Bumps, he
meant putting his foot down.  Talked enough about it,
but he ain't done it.  Graeme wins another silly battle or
two, and it's worse than ever.  He daren't say "Damn it"
to him now.  Cavalry officer in a white top-hat, God!"

"Funny thing, the men never laughed.  They did when
they saw him first, but once he began to talk they shut up,
and sat listening with their mouths open; so did Fanshawe
and I, made us think, Graves, no end, felt I'd like to
be—Napoleon."

"You—Napoleon?"

"Well, why not?  Every soldier, you know, carries a
field-marshal's what-you-may-call-it in his ruddy——"

"Shut up, for God's sake, you make me ill, Worm."

"Think he's really mad, Graves?  Pa says he is."

"Pa?"

"Pa says—his room's next to Graeme's, you know—that
he hears him talking to himself at night.  Damn sick about
it Pa is, says it stops him sleeping.  It's ever since he
came back three weeks ago.  Where did he go, d'you know?"

"You can see it in the leave-book, if you're interested,
I'm not."

"Graves, I believe it's a girl's put Graeme wrong."

"You've not the slightest reason for thinking such a
thing, Worm, Graeme never speaks to a woman."

"I know, but, all the same, I'm sure of it.  What did
he go on leave for then, why does any fellow go on leave
in this cursed country, except he's after a girl, or looking
for one?  If that's so, and he's taken the knock, I'm sorry
for him; must be damnable to be chucked by a girl.  Gad,
if Fanny were to play it low down on me, I'd ... I
don't know what I would do, Graves.  You've heard me
speak of Fanny, haven't you?"

"I have, many times.  Are you coming to polo?"

"Yes, wait a minute though; there's something else I
wanted to tell you, only it went out of my head, talking of
Graeme.  I had a letter from Johnson, at Cape Town, this
morning, and he says the Mahonga show is all on again,
and we shall be for it."

"Johnson's a fool, always spreading some shave.  Come
on, if you *are* coming, that is."  The pair went out, and
mounting their waiting ponies rode off to the polo ground.

Johnson, however, though a fool, as Graves justly
observed, proved himself on this occasion a true prophet,
for next day into the ante-room—at the time crowded with
officers drinking afternoon tea—burst Porky, pregnant
with great news.  For a moment he stood surveying them,
his face bright with anticipation of the unwonted delights
of an attentive audience, and then, as they, as usual, paid
no heed to his presence, he let loose the torrent fighting
for escape within him.

"I've news," he said, in a would-be indifferent manner,
but again no one heeded.

"I've news," he roared, "listen, damn you!"

"Don't shout, Porky," said a voice, "what's the matter?"

"Matter, why war's the matter," and at the word "war"
a hush fell, and everybody looked up.  "Bloody war!"
he continued, having an audience at last, "and this gallant
corps is for it, whether or no.  The Mahongas have risen,
and are playing hell all round, so sharpen your swords and
spears, my sons, and make your last will and testament."

"It's a lie," said Graves crossly, from his corner.

"It's no lie, it's all right, I tell you; no damned shaves
or leg-pulls this time.  I had it straight from Cape Town
ten minutes ago."

"It's begun, thank God," muttered a voice, and Graeme
rose and made his way out, his departure being unnoticed
in the general uproar.

"And I thank God too," said young Fanshawe, overhearing
the latter part of the sentence, "that it's you,
and neither Porky nor Royle who will run the show
in this same bloody war."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIV`:

.. class:: center x-large bold

   BOOK III

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV

.. vspace:: 2

A wild December morning was breaking over the
great British camp.  Masses of storm-cloud swept
overhead, the wind howled, and gusts of rain and
sleet beat against the black streaming tents.  In the
broad lanes and square parade grounds, deep in mud
and patched with rapidly-widening pools, arms and
accoutrements could be seen lying, thrown down by their
owners, and left to rot and rust at will.

Some distance away from the camp rose a cluster of
huge marquees, their flags of white marked with the red
cross of Geneva proclaiming them to be the field hospital,
and towards them, phantom-like in the drear half-dark of
morning, an apparently never-ending procession was
moving.  Swaying ambulance waggons and creaking
litters—their canvas bottoms red-stained and dripping—toiled
through the slush of the road, their path impeded
by a throng of limping, maimed, and cursing pedestrians.

The heart of Surgeon-General Macpherson, standing at
the main entrance of the hospital, grew heavy as he watched,
and his face dark with shame and grief, for never before in
a life of more than sixty years had he seen a sight like this.

"Poor old England," he muttered, "you're done at
last," and then suddenly his spare form stiffened, and his
lips twisted into a smile, for a young officer was
approaching; and to Macpherson, and such as he, the maintaining
of a stiff upper lip before juniors is a rule of life never to
be forgotten, no matter how imminent and certain disaster.

"Hullo, Newton," he said, "what's the matter with
you now?  Can't have the A.D.C.'s going sick, you know,
or who's to run the army?"

"I'm all right, sir," answered the new-comer, touching
his cap; "it's not about myself I've come to see you, but
Lord Harford, Sir Archibald wants to know how he is."

Macpherson looked away, for despite his efforts the
mask for a second had slipped, though this was the question
he had known was coming, and one which would have to
be answered, not once, but many times that day.  At
that moment he would have given the half of his small
worldly possessions to be no longer Surgeon-General
Macpherson, Principal Medical Officer to the British Forces,
but instead a junior officer—nay, even a private soldier—in
one of his beloved Highland regiments.  Still, there
was no use burking it, and he answered:

"Lord Harford died two hours ago, Newton; he was shot
through the lungs; there was no chance of saving him from
the first."

The boy's face fell, and an expression of dismay, almost
of terror, was displayed on it.

"Dead," he repeated, "the Commander-in-Chief dead?
Good God, sir, what an utter damnable mess we're in!"

Macpherson made no answer, for of a truth there was
none to be made.  They were in a mess, such a one as
probably no British army had been in before, save perhaps
in the earlier days of the Peninsular War.  Then, however,
a great leader was there to guide them, one in whom all
trusted, but now it seemed that there was no one, for he
in whose hands their destiny had lain was dead.  For the
great war that had been prophesied for years past by
countless Cassandras had come upon England at last, and
as always, prophecies as to its course and method had been
totally false.  A guarding fleet, the Balaams had declared,
lured away, then the horrors of invasion, the enemy
successful at first, but in the end gloriously repulsed,
the British lion having awakened from his slumbers.  But
here there had been no invasion—at least, not on the enemy's
part—nor any thought of such yet, though a hundred
thousand citizens, with guns and uniform, designated the
Hearts of Oak—once known as the Territorials, before
then as the Volunteers—were waiting on the coasts to
receive them, patriotic rage inflaming their breasts.  No,
the fleet had not been decoyed away, or destroyed; on
the contrary, it had done its work right well, and what
remained of the enemy's fleet was now safely shut up in
blockaded ports.

Then a strange thing happened, and yet perhaps not
strange, but as certain to take place as the sun to shine in
the heavens—England herself determined to invade.

What does our Army exist for?  This is the question
invariably propounded to a listening House by the
merchant, lawyer, or doctor on appointment to the charge of
Army fortunes, and equally invariably answered in accordance
with party dictates, which demand at all costs retention
in Office.  Not for aggression, most emphatically not, he
shouts, but for defence, and this being so, large numbers
are but a useless expense and conscription an unnecessary
hardship.  Never can there be any question of England's
invading a Continental or other power, he goes on to
declare, and party dogs and Little Englanders bow-wow
applause, and a slothful country smiles well pleased.

In this, as in many other political matters, he lies,
for an army exists to fight whenever and wherever it is
called upon so to do, and the military history of our own
and other island nations is a story of successful invasion—from
Crecy to South Africa it is one and the same story.
For history, as the record of human nature, can never lie,
and must always repeat itself, and a nation, unless
degenerate, demands the striking of blows, not the mere waiting
to receive them.  And so England, flushed with success,
began to seethe and clamour for more; but alas, of the Army
there was only a handful, and the Hearts of Oak, by special
decree, existed merely for defence against invasion.

A deadlock ensued, and Europe began to laugh.
Under the sting of its laughter fury arose, and with it
clamorous demands for an expedition, the greater now,
because the balance was beginning to fall against England.
The enemy had annexed countries she was bound by treaty
to defend, and with a lengthy coastline thus secured, was
hard at it building warships and repairing those disabled.
It was but a question of months now, and England's fleet
would be overwhelmed by numbers.

The fury increased, mass meetings were held, and the
Government rocked where it sat.  Expedition or
resignation was demanded.  Naturally the former won, and a
special decree was passed by which the Hearts of Oak
became liable for Service abroad.  In vain they protested,
deserted even; it was all no good, for public sympathy was
against them, and in a few weeks a heterogeneous force of
soldiers, sailors, and Hearts of Oak was packed on transports
and sailed away to war.

In chief command was Lord Harford, a man of remarkable
ability as an organiser, though notoriously deficient
as a leader in the field, and assisting him as Chief of the
Staff was Sir Thomas Moleyns, also a man of ability.  His
talents, however, were not those of a soldier, but rather of
a political intriguer, his present eminence being mainly
owing to the assistance given by him to the War Minister
in a recent difficulty connected with the public discovery
of a shortage of Government stores.

He was a strong, pushing person, however, and fully
meant having the control of the present expedition, an
aim which the age and infirmities of the Commander-in-Chief
rendered comparatively easy of attainment.
Contrary to expectation, the landing of the army was
unopposed, and, that having been carried through without
a hitch, the force marched on unmolested for three days,
the few hostile cavalry scouts met with invariably retiring
before its advance.

Almost it seemed as though the enemy invited invasion,
which indeed was the case, it having exceeded their most
sanguine expectations, and consequently the strictest
orders had been issued to allow the British to come on
unopposed till well out of reach of their ships.

At home, however, this was not realised, and the news
of the successful debarkation aroused much enthusiasm.
An unopposed occupation of the capital was now
confidently predicted, and preparations were already in
progress, and festivities organised to celebrate the event.

Their joy was but short-lived, the next news to hand
being that of a crushing disaster.

On the morning of the fourth day, the march was suddenly
brought to a halt by the tidings of a large force in
position on a wooded ridge ahead, completely barring the
road by which they were moving to the north.  To the
same message was added another to the effect that General
Sir Hector Graeme, commanding the cavalry division, had
taken over charge of the advanced guard, and was now
preparing to attack.  This having been telephoned on to
Moleyns, he at once directed General Graeme to desist
from his preparations, and, further, to recall all his advanced
scouts and patrols.  His ostensible object in so doing was
to lull the enemy into security; his real one being the
determination to thwart a man for whom he had a
whole-hearted dislike, and also, should things go wrong, the
securing of a scapegoat on whom he could lay the blame.[#]
Moleyns was a far-seeing man, and he knew, moreover, that
Graeme's downfall would be most gratifying in high places,
particularly to his friend and patron, Mr. Quibble, a
Manchester solicitor, at that time Secretary of State for War.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] This, it may be remarked, was a scheme played with success on
many occasions by generals during the time of the South African
War.

.. vspace:: 2

This message sent, Moleyns issued orders for the advanced
guard to fall back on the main body, the whole army
being further directed to camp one mile north of the village
of Rass.  This done, and plans drawn up and despatched
to the various divisions, he sought out Lord Harford, whom
he found seated in a motor car some miles in rear, and
propounded a scheme for attack to be carried out that
night; and, as usual, he gained his point.

Night came; the attack was made by a third of the whole
force, the result being a crushing defeat.

Ignorant of the country, whole divisions went astray,
and wandered aimlessly about in the dark, and when
eventually the bulk of the force reached the place appointed,
the night was suddenly illumined by the glare of searchlights
and star shells, and a tempest of lead and iron burst
upon the huddled mass.  In vain did the foremost ranks
turn to fly, the pressure from behind was too great, and
though at last they did manage to get away and stream
back into camp in the small hours of the morning, it was
as a rabble they reached it—a rabble, moreover, shorn of at
least half its numbers, the Commander-in-Chief himself
being mortally wounded by a chance bullet.

This reverse by itself was bad enough, but worse still
was the news sent in by the Cavalry leader—who, despite
orders, had not withdrawn his patrols, but instead sent out
more and farther ahead—to the effect that a huge body of
hostile troops was coming up from the north, while from
the east another large column was rapidly advancing.

Lieutenant Newton, therefore, A.D.C. to Sir Archibald
Townsend, was but stating a fact in describing the situation
as a "mess"; indeed, it was considerable odds on the
capture or annihilation of the British army within the next
forty-eight hours.

Meanwhile two other officers had joined the pair, bent
on the same errand as the first.  "Poor old Harford!" said
one on hearing the news, "this is what comes of having an
Office man as Chief of the Staff.  I suppose he'll run the
show now.  Lord help us!  Who's the nominal head, though,
it's your fellow, ain't it, Newton?"

"No, it isn't, worse luck; it's Lieut.-General Sir
Hector Graeme, better known as Mad Jack.  You can put
that in your pipe and smoke it, friend Caldwell."

"Thank ye, Newton.  I've no wish to be sick."

"That's no way to speak of a general officer, Caldwell, let
alone the Commander-in-Chief," said Macpherson, his rugged
face red with anger.  "Man, but I've a devilish good mind to
clap ye under arrest, Sir Archibald's A.D.C. though ye be."

"I beg your pardon, sir," answered Caldwell sullenly.
"I shouldn't have said that, but my family and I have
special reasons for hating this General Graeme."

They were all silent; the new Commander-in-Chief's
matrimonial differences were well known.

"That may be, Caldwell," said Macpherson at last,
"but those are private matters, and best kept to yourself.
Before me, at all events, ye'll kindly remember Sir Hector
Graeme is your superior officer, and as such to be spoken
of with respect."

"It's salvation this, a godsend, no less," said the third
officer, who hitherto had taken no part in the conversation;
"we'll be in the capital in a week now."  Everyone
turned to stare at the speaker, a somewhat quaint-looking
youth, with long hair and a uniform deviating from the
regulation pattern.

"And who may you be, young sir?" said Macpherson.
"I thought I knew most of the A.D.C.'s, but yours is a
new face to me."

"My name's Glover, sir; I'm Sir Hector's A.D.C.  Hulbert
went sick three days ago, and I got his place."

"Might have known it from his clothes and hair,"
muttered Caldwell.  "They all get like that; Hulbert was
just the same.  Pick it up from him, I suppose; even his
orderlies look like Merry Andrews.  Gad, if I were
Commander-in-Chief, I'd soon——"

"I beg yer pardon, Mr. Caldwell."

"Nothing, sir.  I should like to know, though, what
Glover means by salvation."

"The man's quite right to stand up for his General, Caldwell."

"It's not only because I'm that, sir," answered Glover,
with sudden animation, "it's because I, and all who have
been under him, know what he can do.  Oh, I know it's
said he's only fought against savages hitherto, but, all the
same, savages though they were, the Mahongas were giving
us a pretty bad time till the Coney's Drift affair.  Precious
little thanks he got for it too, only abuse from the Radicals,
and the name of Butcher Graeme.  It was a bloody business,
I own, but that's his way, and in my opinion the right
way too.  Anyhow, it finished the war; the Mahongas
hadn't a kick left in them after that.  There was his work
in Georgistan, too——"

"Tell us about the ghost, Glover," interrupted Newton,
yawning.

"Ghost, what do you mean, Newton?" asked Macpherson.

"Surely you've heard the yarn, sir?  General Graeme's
supposed to keep a tame spook, which he consults before
fighting a battle.  It's common talk, sir; I thought
everyone knew."

Macpherson looked at Glover, despite himself, a Highlander's
interest in the subject gleaming in his eyes.

"A lie, I suppose, like most of the gossip about him,"
he said.  "Eh, Glover?"  But the boy hesitated, at a loss
what to say.

"There's no ghost, sir," he said at length, "at least,
neither I nor any one else I know has seen it."

"I should think not," broke in Caldwell, temper and
prudence going together.  "The story's on a par with the
rest of the humbug he and his gang love to surround
themselves with.  Thank the Lord, I say, I'm only a
straightforward soldier's A.D.C., not a ruddy Jack o' the
Green.  Why...  What the devil's up, Newton, seen the
gho——?"  He finished the rest of the sentence inside his
helmet, which an unseen hand had suddenly banged down
over his eyes—Caldwell had become what is vulgarly known
as "bonneted."

"Jack o' the Green," he heard a harsh voice say.  "Who
calls the bloody Commander-in-Chief a Jack o' the Green?
Mutiny, mutiny!  String him up, old Clan na Gael!  Scots
wha hae!  Where's a rope?"

With a wrench, Caldwell tore off the muffling headpiece,
and stood staring, for before him, with his wild eyes
gleaming through a shock of grey hair, stood the man of whom
they had been speaking.  On his head was his usual white
top-hat, a covering which no orders could induce him to
discard, and bound around it a green scarf.  A sheepskin
coat, dyed red, hung on his wasted body, a common worsted
muffler of orange and green was wound round his scraggy
neck, the costume being completed by breeches of yellow
leather and long india-rubber boots.  Sign of orthodox
uniform there was none; indeed, had Sir Hector Graeme
fallen into the enemy's hands in his present attire, his
instant execution as a civilian in arms would have been
amply justified by the rules governing modern warfare.

His had been a somewhat chequered career during the
last fifteen years, short-lived bursts of fame alternating
with lengthy periods of obscurity.  First brought into
notice by the affair, already alluded to, at Coney's Drift,
where, taking advantage of his senior's absence for the day,
he had collected such force as he could lay hands on, and
with them fallen on and practically annihilated the
Mahongas' main army, he had signalised his victory by such
subsequent outspoken criticism of his superiors as had
ensured his speedy supersession from further command.

True, before this had happened, his promotion to the
rank of Major-General had been wired out from home,
but he was given plainly to understand that no further
advancement would be his; and thenceforth, by most,
his military career was regarded as finished.  So
undoubtedly it would have been, had not hostilities broken
out five years later in Georgistan, and, after a succession
of reverses, the papers began to clamour for the despatch
to the scene of General Graeme.  For some time the
demand was ignored, but, the reverses continuing, he was
eventually sent out, and entrusted with the command of
the Lines of Communication, in which capacity it was
thought he would have no chance of making himself
conspicuous.  Fortune, however, favoured Hector, in the
shape of a fierce attack on a post in which he happened to
be resting for the night, and not only did he repel that
assault, but, following up the retiring enemy, completely
routed them, although they were double his strength in
numbers.  Probably owing to the fact that this was the
first British success since the war's commencement, Hector's
name, as a saviour, was blazoned forth on the placards of
every evening paper, and so great became the clamour
for his advancement that reluctantly the authorities placed
him in command of the cavalry division.  This division—a
failure hitherto—straightway began to harry and destroy,
their movements being conducted with such energy and
ferocity that in a short time the mere sight of a horseman
would send the Georgistan warriors scuttling hurriedly
away to their hills.

For these services he was made Knight Commander of
the Bath, and, on the termination of the war, was given the
command of one of the great Indian Presidencies.  Here,
however, disaster overtook him; for shortly after his
appointment a certain member of the British Parliament
made his appearance, and proceeded to preach sedition to
the natives living in Hector's district.  Graeme had been
given the strictest orders to refrain from interfering with
this person, and for some weeks he ignored his presence,
though the effect of Mr. Belch's words on the ill-balanced
native mind was daily becoming more apparent.

Unfortunately for both, however, Hector one day
happened to be walking through the bazaar, accompanied by
his A.D.C. and orderly, and, coming upon the orator
haranguing the mob, stopped to listen.  For some time he
stood there, till at length the man perceived him, and,
goaded to fury at the sight of his country's uniform,
commenced a tirade not only against the army but against His
Majesty the King.  Now, devoid of most human feelings
as Hector was, being filled with an unreasoning hatred and
contempt for his fellows, there was yet one contradictory
trait in his character, and that was a great veneration for
his Sovereign.  Hearing the King's name bawled forth in
a native bazaar, he was seized with sudden rage, and moved
forward.  Calling on his A.D.C. and orderly to follow him,
he charged through the mob, and seizing the now terrified
Belch, bore him to a shop hard by, where, with the aid of
the other two, he proceeded to tar and feather him.  Not
till the work was thoroughly completed did he release the
fellow, after which, thanks to a liberal use of their fists,
the three made their way through the crowd, and though
somewhat battered, reached home in safety.

Thereupon ensued a lively time at Headquarters.  Cable
upon cable poured in, some from individuals unknown to
Hector, of a congratulatory nature, others from high
quarters, demanding instant explanations.  The former
he tore up contemptuously—he had no wish for the approval
of his fellow-men—the latter he answered in a letter couched
in official terms, to the effect that, thanks to him,
Mr. Belch being now quite black, was more wholly one with
his friends; and as regarded the feathering, that, he
considered, improved the man's personal appearance.  He
concluded by announcing his intention of burning the native
city, now in an uproar.

Further cables followed in quick succession, suspending,
threatening, and finally entreating, but to no purpose.
Hector continued his preparations for destruction.

At the eleventh hour His Majesty himself intervened.
A telegram was received making known his pleasure to
Hector, whereupon he at once ordered the troops, already
in position round the city, back to barracks, and he himself
started for England.  Here he entered Parliament, where
he soon became a very terror to the War Minister, a member
of his own—nominal—party, exposing many things, and
piercing through all shufflings and evasions.  But his
animosity was mainly directed against the Territorial
scheme—as it was then known—his crowning indiscretion
being an address, delivered to a regiment of these warriors
drawn up for inspection before the Mansion House.

"My dear fellow," the War Minister had said to him
some minutes previously, "for goodness' sake give these
chaps a pat on the back.  I know you don't think much of
them—nor, between ourselves, do I—but the country won't
stand conscription, though we all know it's the only thing.
For the Lord's sake remember your party—we're a bit
dicky as it is—and say something civil."

Whereupon Graeme spoke, his words being audible not only
to those he was addressing, but also to the assembled crowd.

"I've been asked to speak to you," he said, "and
damme, I will.  Listen, then.  Soldiers I know, sailors I
know, but you, you're neither flesh, fowl, nor good red
herring.  I give you my word one regiment of regulars
would play the bloody bear with an Army Corps of such a
scratch mob as you.  My friend Jampots here"—this in
graceful allusion to the firm of which the present War
Minister was a member—"says he don't think much of you,
nor, begad, do I."

This peroration completed, Graeme rode off, well pleased
with himself, and his speech having been reported in every
paper, the result was a vote of censure on Jampots, a division
in the House, and the subsequent defeat of the Government.

For Hector, for some strange reason—the stranger
considering the contempt he had for them—was beloved by the
British public.  The very Socialistic spirit of the age,
which he abhorred, being almost reactionary in his own
views, worked in his favour; for Hector was always at war
with authority, and the hearts of the mob warmed to him
as they viewed his fierce battling with overwhelming odds.
He made them laugh too—a certain passport to their
favour—and yet with this laughter was mingled no
contempt, his reckless bravery and constant brilliant success
forbade that.  Added to which, there was much sympathy
felt towards him on account of his well-known marital
differences, for that Hector was responsible for them no
one save the Caldwells and their relations believed.  For
the man, though notorious throughout the Service for an
outrageously blasphemous tongue, was yet renowned for
his austere morality, whereas Lady Graeme was now one
at whom a good many looked askance.  For in that way
had Lucy taken her trouble, and few would have recognised
in the full-busted, dyed-haired, and loud-voiced Lady
Graeme the modest country-loving Lucy of former days.
Of her husband she would talk openly, and as openly
ridicule.  "Mad Jack again!" she would exclaim, to the
crowd of boys always in attendance.  "Gracious, what a
nuisance the man's getting!  Give me a cigarette, like a
dear, and talk of something else.  You forget I lived with
the treasure for ten years, and, heavens, how bored I was!"  And
so, as usual, the least guilty received the blame, and
Lucy, in men's eyes, was the sinner, and Hector the
injured—liked the better for his injuries.

Further—and probably this was the chief factor in their
regard—there was about Graeme an undefined element of
mystery; the strange story of the ghost, derided by some
but believed in by many, invested with a weird charm his
successes, which, brilliant as they were, they would have
lacked without.

All these things, together with his utter disregard of
consequences to himself, his obvious disinterestedness, and
his contempt of party shufflings, impressed the variable
mob; and such an expression of opinion as that uttered
before the Mansion House completely damned the Territorial
scheme, and destroyed all public faith in the party
then in power.  Graeme, however, did not seek re-election—he
was already sick of the dirty political game—but
proceeded on a tour round the world, from which he had
returned but a few weeks before the declaration of war.
Again the same attempt was made to ignore him—and this
time it was stronger then ever, for both parties were now
against him—but the public would have none of it, and
though the authorities refused the demand for his appointment
to the chief command, they so far yielded to pressure
as to give him the leadership of the two cavalry divisions,
from the camp of which he had just arrived, unfortunately
in time to hear Caldwell's last remark.

"A hanging job this, Cockaleekie," he went on, looking
around him; "where's a rope?  Aha!"  Then running to the
marquee he drew a knife from his pocket, and cutting
through one of the tent cords, returned with it in his hand
to the now silent quartette.

"Round his neck, so!"—fitting the noose over Caldwell's
head as he spoke, and then tossing the other end over the
bracket of an adjacent lamp-post—"Ready now?  Sound the
dead march then, whack your tummy for the drum, old
Mac; what the devil are you laughing at?" seeing abroad
smile on the surgeon's and Newton's faces.  There was no
smile on the faces of Caldwell and Glover, however, but an
expression of scorn on the one and terror on the other, for
well Glover knew Hector Graeme, and also Hector Graeme's
idea of a joke.

"Think I don't mean it?" he cackled.  "Gad, I'll show
you, then."  He drew the rope tighter, but the boy never
flinched, and his eyes now expressed hatred as well as scorn.

"Sir," said Macpherson, his smile suddenly fading,
"Caldwell was only joking, very wrong, I own, but he's
young, sir."

The cord dropped from Graeme's hands.

"What did you say his bloody name was?"

"Caldwell, sir, General Belfield's A.D.C."

A slash of the knife, and the rope lay in pieces on the ground.

"Be off," he said, "cackle as much as you like, I won't
touch you.  It's the way you and the rest of the brood
have been brought up.  Go and chatter about your
Commander-in-Chief, if you will; I've stood it for years, and
despise it.  Clear!"

Silently Caldwell saluted and went, and for a minute an
awkward pause followed.  Graeme stood looking after the
retreating figure, and, then suddenly throwing himself
forward on to his hands, he turned a couple of cartwheels
and once more came back to the group.

"What's the night's bag," he said, "a good un, ain't
it, and mixed?"

"I don't know yet for certain, sir," answered Macpherson.
"There are four generals killed, and close on seven thousand
officers and men either dead or wounded.  The missing,
of course, I don't count."

"Hurrah!  That'll make 'em sing *Rule Britannia* at
home; a jolly good lesson to 'em, though they'll forget it
in a year.  Think we're going to win, Mac?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't, that drawn mug of yours gives you away,
we shall, though.  The old green-backs, yonder," waving
his hand to the north, "are in for a hell of a hiding.  Like
my hat?" suddenly addressing the open-mouthed Newton.

"N-no, sir."

"Boil my lights," suddenly becoming furious, "d'ye
hear that, MacSporran?  He don't like my hat.  Well,
well, nor does Moleyns; and that reminds me I'm due at the
talking shop at nine.  Holy trousers!" pulling out a frying
pan of a watch, "half-past by my old chest protector.
Tra la! tra la!" and gathering up his skirts the
Commander-in-Chief skipped nimbly over the rails guarding the hospital
entrance, and jumping on his horse galloped away to
Headquarters, flakes of mud and sprays of dirty water flying
around him.

From the marquee behind a man emerged, his white
apron and sleeves splashed with blood, and joined
Macpherson, who was now alone, Glover and Newton having
ridden away together.

"Morning, Sir George," said the P.M.O., turning to the
new-comer; "pretty busy in there, aren't you?  Gad, but
the country ought to be grateful to you."

"Bah!" said the latter, a famous London surgeon,
now on self-imposed duty with the British expeditionary
force, while a thousand patients were left lamenting in
town behind him.

"Isn't that Sir Hector Graeme riding away?"

"Yes."

"Commander-in-Chief, now, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"I'm one of his admirers, General."

"So am I, Sir George."

The other smiled—for an admirer, the speaker's voice
was singularly unenthusiastic.

"I believe in the ghost too," Romford continued.

The P.M.O. frowned, hesitated for a moment, and then
spoke out.  "Look here, Sir George, you're one of us, so
there's no harm in you and me discussing the question.
Tell me what do you make of this ghost
business—epilepsy?"

"Decidedly not—Graeme's no epileptic; nor were Joan
of Arc, St. Paul, and other visionaries, as used to be
supposed.  That idea's exploded.  An epileptic never
remembers what he's seen in his seizures—they did."

"What is it, then—mania?"

"Nor that either.  All that eccentricity, in my opinion,
is only a pose, probably to attract attention.  Diseased
vanity's at the bottom of that, I should say; it's quite
separate from the vision part—that's a form of hysteria."

"Purely physical, you think?"

"Partly and partly metaphysical.  I'll tell you my
theory, if you like; it's my own, and probably worthless,
but such as it is you can have it.  It's this.  In every
human being there exists something—call it soul, call it
subconscious self if you like—and that something, which I
hold to be immortal, passes at death to another body.  But
in the majority, though it controls, it works underground,
and is silent; in others, however—the abnormal—it makes
itself heard, and at certain moments takes charge and
speaks; then we have what are called flashes of genius.  A
genius does not reason or think a matter out as we do.
His ideas come, and are followed.  And to my thinking
they come not from the man himself, but from his soul,
endowed with the knowledge and experience of thousands
of years.  That's what makes the characters and masterpieces
of poets and painters that were drawn ages ago true
to present-day life.  It is universal, not individual, human
nature they describe."

"But the visions—how do you account for them, a man
can't see his own soul?"

"Something or someone seen when the mind, from certain
causes, is extraordinarily excited, and so it becomes
indelibly photographed on the mental vision; thenceforth,
by a very natural sequence, the voice of subconscious self
becomes that of the vision."

"But I've always understood that these visions are only
seen occasionally."

"Exactly, when the mind is in the same state as it was
when the apparition first appeared, that can and usually
is as the mental picture fades with physical powers, for
delusion dies with or just before the body, brought about
by drugs or some other excitant to the nerves."

"What for?"

"Because he must have the vision to tell him what to
do.  It gives him the inspiration, without which he's
firmly convinced he cannot act—and he couldn't."

"But Graeme's not a drug-taker; he won't touch even a
sleeping-draught, though ordered by a doctor; he smokes
but little too, five cigarettes a day, never more."

"What does he drink?"

"He's a teetotaler, save for an occasional bottle of
champagne.  Hullo, Glover, what do you want?"

"Sir Hector, sir, I forgot to give him his flask; here it is."

In an instant Sir George had stretched out his hand, and
coolly taking the flask unscrewed the top, and put it to his
nostrils.  He then handed it to Macpherson, who did the same.

"Hurry, Glover," said the P.M.O., "you'll catch him if
you're quick," and the boy galloped away, leaving the two
looking at each other.

"Good-day, General," said Romford at last; "I must
get back to my work."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV

.. vspace:: 2

"Any sign yet of Sir Hector?  It's past the
half-hour, and our time's short enough,
goodness knows.  You might look out, one
of you, and see, will you?"

The speaker, Sir Thomas Moleyns, glanced up from the
desk at which he sat, with a typewritten document before
him.  He alone of the assembled crowd was seated, the
remainder, all generals, were standing together in a group
some distance away.

Moleyns, however, had already assumed the mantle of
Lord Harford, just deceased.  With this garment upon
his back, he had now discarded his former transparent
cloak of subserviency, and was issuing orders boldly in his
own name, one of the said orders being the summons to
attend the present conference at Headquarters.

All had obeyed save one.  That one was his nominal
chief, for nominal Moleyns intended him to be; if not,
well, he had cards up his sleeve higher than any the other
was likely to possess.  If necessary, he would produce
these, but such necessity, he felt confident, was hardly
likely to arise, for Graeme would certainly knuckle under,
as Lord Harford and all others with whom he had hitherto
come in contact had done.

At his request, brigadiers, major-generals even, anxious
to placate the all-powerful, hastened to the door.  Then
they suddenly stopped, and looked back over Moleyn's
head, to where the upper half of a top-hatted figure was to
be seen busily engaged in cutting an entrance through the
side of the tent.

The Chief of the Staff was once more bending over his
papers, and did not note the rapidly-growing astonishment
on the faces of his audience.

"Can't you see him?" he said, after a pause.  "Really,
this is——"

"It is.  Good-morning, your Highness," and with an
agile spring Graeme leapt in front of the desk, and, doffing
his hat, bowed low.  "And what may be your Nib's royal
commands?" he continued.  "Oh, pray be seated," as
Moleyns rose, and with narrowing eyes stood regarding the
quaint figure before him.

"As Chief of the General Staff, sir," he said, with an
almost open sneer in his voice, "and the matter being
urgent, I took the liberty of summoning these gentlemen
to a conference."

"A liberty, Thomas?  Oh, don't say that."

Moleyns coloured.  "In the absence of the Commander-in-Chief,
sir, I submit, with all respect, it's the duty of
the Headquarter Staff to act on their own responsibility.
Lord Harford took that view, sir."

"Lord Harford's offed it, Thomas, flown away aloft,
and now it's bloody Hector Graeme who runs the show.
'Mad Jack' they call him.  And Mad Jack now says to
Thomas, 'Shut up, you had your fun last night, and you
ain't going to have no more.'"

"Sir?"

"Stuff it!  Jack commands his own bloody army his
own bloody way, and that way ain't Thomas's.  Stop your
cackling now; I jaw here.  Off your perch quick, and join
the other blokes.  Now, all of you get into line, and let's
have a look at your dials; there's a lot I don't
know."  Mechanically the crowd shuffled into line and stood silently,
while Graeme passed along them, staring hard at each in
turn.  Opposite one he stopped, and then suddenly held
out his hand.

"Long Nose," he said, "I'd know that bill in a thousand.
What are you doing here?"

"I'm commanding the tenth division, sir," answered
Godwin, for he it was, a flush rising to his face at the instant
recognition.

"Nose seems longer—regular curlew's beak," said Graeme,
and passed with a muttered "One good un, anyway."  The
inspection ended, he returned to the desk, and, perching
himself on it, sat there for a moment regarding them.

"Blokes," he said at last, "I don't want ye here, nasty
wet day to be out, but you can thank Thomas for that, not
me.  Still, now that you've come, I'm going to ask you all
a conundrum.  You know the hat we're in.  Uriel's lot of
thirty thousand, full of buck after last night's pantomime,
in our front fifteen miles away; behind them one hundred
thousand under Gabriel—a scorcher, Gabriel, I tell
you—and from the west, coming up fast, another eighty thousand
under Michael, almost as hot as Gabriel.  By to-morrow
night we'll have at least two hundred thousand of the best
against our scratch lot of a hundred and fifty thousand,
that is, if they don't off it before then, which, from what I
saw as I came along, seems more than likely.  There you
have it in the neck, and I hope you like it.  Now each of
you in turn answer this question—what are we to do?
I'll begin with old Archibald there."

"Retreat, sir, to the coast, as quick as we can," was the
ready answer.

"Get back to the ships."

"Retire."

"Retire."

"Slip away to-night."

"Have another go at 'em, sir.  I can beat last night's lot
off my own bat.  My men ain't Hearts of Oak, sir."

"Oho! and who are you, my fighting ram?"

"Fellowes, sir, Guards division," answered the speaker,
a huge red-haired man with choleric, blue eyes.

"Hum ... and you?" passing on.

"Retire, sir, nothing else for it."

"Retire."

"Stay where we are, sir, and fight them as they come.
We'll be wiped out, but that don't matter much; it's better
than slinking home, anyway."

This from a skeleton of a man, with haggard face, large
dark eyes, and hair patched with grey.

"Who are you, Drink or Colney Hatch?"

"Roy, sir, Lancashire division."

"Roy," repeated Graeme, passing on, "Roy.  And
you, Boko?"

"Retire, sir, but fight them all the way," said Godwin.
"Retreat to Corunna, sir."

"And now we'll hear Thomas."

"Certainly retire, sir, it's the only possible course.  The
plans are already drawn up, and here ready for your
approval."

"Let's see them."

Moleyns' confidence returning at the request, he handed
a document to Graeme, who thereupon rolled it up into
a ball and threw it at the other's head.  The Chief
of the Staff, however, ducking in time, the missile flew
over his head, hitting Sir Archibald Townsend in the
stomach.

"Missed him!" cried Hector, annoyed, and then once
more turned to his audience.

"Clear, all of you," he said, "back to your commands,
and shove some heart into 'em, if you can; for, begad, they
need it—so do you.  Return here at two o'clock.  I'll
have something to tell you then."

All save one saluted and withdrew in silence.  Moleyns
stood before Graeme, with a mixture of defiance and
uneasiness on his face.

"After what has occurred, sir," he said, with surface
boldness, "there is only one course, I think, for me to
adopt, and with your permission, sir, I now tender my
resignation as Chief of the Staff."

"You can go to the devil for all I care," was the answer,
"get out!" and Sir Thomas also withdrew, leaving Graeme
alone.

"He's off to cable to Quibble," he muttered, looking
after him.  "All right, let him; he won't get an answer, if
I know anything about it.  Hades, but I'm up against the
politicians as usual, same as every English general's been,
Marlborough, Wellington, and now poor old Hector.
Cowardly brutes, sitting at home in the talking shop while
we're fighting their battles.  The enemy's not enough, they
think; must fight them as well.  Never mind, I'm equal
to them; the more against me the better I like it.  Now
what am I to do?  Not an idea so far, except that attack
I must.  It will come all right; I've only to ask.  First
thing is to appoint a new Chief of the Staff, don't
suppose though one of those fellows would come, too
frightened of Moleyns.  Not much catch if they did; of the lot
only two were for fighting, the curs.  Still it has to be one
of them, but which?  Fellowes, no; thick-headed fighting
man and that only.  Roy, too pessimistic.  Ah, what about
Godwin?  He might do, and his old fancy for me still
lasts; I could see it when I spoke to him."

"Orderly," he called, "here, run after General Godwin—he's
a bloke with a beak—and tell him I want him.
Don't come back without him, d'ye hear?"

The man vanished, and a quarter of an hour afterwards
the sound of galloping hoofs was heard, followed by
advancing footsteps.  Then the curtain was pushed aside,
the long-nosed one entered, and stood at attention.

"I want you, Old Un," began Graeme, without preliminary,
"as Chief of the Staff.  Moleyns has given me
notice.  What d'ye say?"

Godwin hesitated.

"I suppose you think," continued Hector, eyeing him,
"that if I go under over this, Moleyns being Quibble's
boy, it's a poor look out for you.  I ain't going under,
though; you mark that, old bird."

"I wasn't thinking that at all, sir," was the answer,
"my career's finished, in any case, by age."

"Do what I ask, and you shall be Commander-in-Chief
when you get back."

"What about you then, sir?"

"Me?  I've done with it after this.  I'll pull them
through now, and then home I go and speak out—tell the
nation what sort of troops Quibble and his like send out
to face the best soldiers in the world.  I'll do what Roberts
ought to have done when he had the chance in 1900, but
wasn't man enough to take it.  He told them afterwards
when he was outed and had no further advancement to
hope for; but no one would listen then, and rightly—he
hadn't the weight of office behind him.  'Why didn't you
speak then?' was a question he couldn't answer; 'we'd
have believed you if you had; now you're one of us, and
we won't.  You're a nobody now.'  But I'm rambling,
what's your objection?"

"That Chief of the Staff, sir, is an appointment made
by the Army Council.  What if they cancel mine by wire?"

"Leave that to me, will you or not?"

"Very well, sir, if you wish it; and I'm proud of the
honour, sir."

"Here's what you're to do, then.  Go back to your
division and hand over to your next senior.  Then deliver
these orders," writing as he spoke, "to Sir Archibald
Townsend and these five others.  Out they go, that's the
first thing."

"Sir," stammered Godwin, aghast at this high-handedness—"six
generals relieved of their command.  What
reason, sir?  They're bound to ask."

"Tell them I don't like their faces—nor I do.  Now, see
here, Cockalorum.  Once upon a time at a field day,
fifteen years ago, I was sold by a junior, and a lesson once
given I never forget.  I didn't blaspheme, Godwin, I didn't
whine, for no one cares why a fellow loses, or believes his
reasons.  No, I took the blame, but I swore that never
should such a thing happen to me again.  To keep those
six generals means six useless divisions, and every one of
those divisions I shall want.  So ... out they go.  Now,
when you've done that, ride through the following camps,"
giving him another paper, "don't ask questions, but keep
your eyes open, and let me know what you see.  Be back
here at half-past one; that will give us half an hour before
the generals arrive.  One thing more—tell the guard
outside to post sentries round this tent, and on no account to
let anyone pass till you come yourself."

"Very good, sir.  Is that all?"

"Replace the present telegraph staff with men you
personally know and can trust.  Give them orders that all
messages, no matter to whom addressed, are to be given
into your hands or mine.  That's all."

"Very good, sir," and Godwin went out leaving Graeme
once more alone.

"Now for the plan," he muttered, and rising, he closed
every door of the marquee in turn till the tent was plunged
in gloom.  Then, returning to his seat, he dived into one of
his voluminous pockets, from which he produced the flask
handed to him an hour before by Glover, and, unscrewing
the top, drained its contents.

This done, from a leather case he took two of the five
thin black cigarettes it contained, and proceeded to smoke
them slowly through, one after the other, with his head
thrown back and eyes closed.  Gradually the drug and
the cigarettes took effect, and Graeme stirred restlessly in
his chair, till at last, springing up, he commenced pacing
rapidly up and down the tent.

"Two short hours," he muttered, "only two.  Stara,
why don't you come?  I'm waiting."

Rapidly his excitement grew; the sweat poured down
his grey, working face, and he staggered as he walked.

"Stara, speak!" he shouted, and then stopped dead,
with eyes glaring into the gloom.

"Yes, yes," he whispered, "you're coming.  I can hear
those harps again, they're sounding louder.  Ah!" with
a scream, "the light—the light, Stara, beloved," and
Hector threw out his arms, swayed for a moment, and then,
falling forward on to the ground, lay motionless.

A quarter of an hour passed, and then a faint tremor
shook the still figure.  He moved restlessly, tossing out
his arms, then painfully raised himself on his elbow, and
looked vacantly around.

Slowly the light of understanding returned to his eyes.
He struggled to his feet, and groping his way to a chair
lay back in it for some minutes, panting; then from his
pocket he produced another flask—a tiny gold one—and
putting it to his lips gulped down the contents.

Rapidly the liquid fire ran through his numbed body,
and a faint colour returned to his cheeks.  He sat up,
his eyes bright with exultation.  "Königgratz, she said,"
he murmured, "only the one word, but enough," and then,
with full strength restored, he hurried over to the desk, and
seizing pencil and paper began feverishly to write.

For over an hour he sat, covering sheet after sheet with
his round sprawling caligraphy, and flinging each sheet
on the ground when finished, till a heap of paper rose by
his side.  His task completed, he gathered up the
documents, pinned them together, and read them rapidly through.
This done, he flung the bundle on the desk, and striding
across to a large blackboard standing at one end of the
tent chalked on it a picture—if it could be so designated
when the drawing would have disgraced a child of ten.

Barely was the work completed and the artist's signature
subscribed, when footsteps were heard approaching.
Hastily covering the board with a cloth, Hector returned
to his desk, which he reached as Godwin entered, with
gloom written on his face.

"Raven!" roared Hector at the sight, and then ran to
the tent-pole and began to shin rapidly up it, where he
chanted, from the top:

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  "... grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore—
   |     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

.. vspace:: 2

He then slithered down again, and stood once more on
the floor.

"I'm sorry, sir, if I look a bit down," answered Godwin,
forcing a smile, "but I've just been round those divisions,
and it's been rather a depressing experience.  Honestly,
sir, I believe that once the retreat begins half of them will
be off, and if the enemy have good cavalry they'll cut them
down like sheep."

"So much the better, teach them not to run in the
future; there's nothing like practical experience.  But see
here, take this and read," throwing over his recent work
as he spoke, "look sharp, those fellows will be here in a
minute."

Godwin took the papers, and read as directed.  Half-way
through the first page he stopped, and glanced up at
the other, with a startled look.

"It's not to be retreat, then?"

"It is not, Old Un; attack I will and must, till the
sawdust's out of me.  But look here, those Napoleons are
beginning to arrive.  This will explain quicker."  He
walked over to the blackboard, uncovered it, and stood
watching Godwin's face as he looked.  "Got it, Old Un, I
see," he said, after a pause.

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, take those papers with you and read them
later; you will find it all fully laid down there, numbers
and everything.  Your job will be to get the main army
in position by three a.m. to-morrow morning.  There are
only three roads, so, to avoid jostling, some of the
divisions will have to move across country.  You had better
have compass-bearings taken at once."

"And about Roy and Fellowes, sir?"

"I'll see them myself, and tell them what to do.  Did
you give those orders to Archibald and the others?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing to me, sir, but I believe they're all in Moleyns'
tent now.  I found out too that he has sent two cables
this morning.  I tried to see their contents, but the clerk
refused to give them."

"Send for that clerk here, and put the poker in the fire."

"No one knows where he is, sir; the man's disappeared."

"Oh, well, never mind; we'll have the answer, which is
all that matters.  One thing more, what do you know of Roy?"

"First-rate man, sir, but ... reckless."

"Why?"

"Some trouble at home, sir, I believe," answered
Godwin, colouring and looking away.

"He'll do for the west road job, you think?"

"I believe he'd thank you for it, sir."

"Right; call those fellows in now; I can hear them
shuffling about outside."

In trooped the generals once more, with an even deeper
cloud than before on their faces, for Moleyns had many
adherents, and the news of his resignation, coupled with
that of the suspension of six of their number, had aroused
ill-concealed resentment and alarm.  They stood regarding
Graeme with a certain curiosity, but without any semblance
of confidence—nor were his opening words calculated to
alter their opinions.

"Rot me!" he said, staring at them, "a sadder-looking
lot of blokes blowed if I ever saw together in a lump.
Glorious war don't seem to agree with most of you, and
that's a fact.  Strike me stinking! how the devil do you
expect your men to chirp when you, their leaders, slope
along as happy-looking as a batch of oysters in the sun?
Retreat, cut away, back to your turkey and plum-pudding.
That's all you're thinking about, eh, Old Guts?" turning
to a portly officer, whose face wore a particularly grave
expression.

A stir of anger ran through his audience.  The stout
General's face crimsoned, and then grew white.

"You're pleased to insult me, Sir Hector," he said, with
cold dignity.  "My opinion, asked for by you, was, it is
true, for retreat.  I believed, and still believe, it's the only
thing to be done.  I was not thinking of myself, but of
the army.  Now, however," he paused, biting his lips, and
then his voice rang out, "I say go on and fight.  Lose the
army if you will, I don't care.  After what you've said, I
for one will not return home.  I will resign my command.
I will scrape together such men of my division as will
follow me, and——"

"And how many will that be, do you think?" jeered Graeme.

"And attack Uriel's position to-night, while *you* are
off home.  You may call George Stanhope 'Old Guts,'
if it pleases you, Sir Hector, but coward you shall not, nor
shall any other man."

A murmur of sympathy ran through the assembly—the
speaker was known as one of the bravest men in the army.

"Roused you, have I?" roared Graeme; "want to fight
now, do you?  Very well then, you shall, George, my boy;
we all will.  And now stop muttering, all of you, and
... listen."  Hector rose from the chair in which he had been
lounging and stood erect, facing them; and, at something,
something indefinable in the tone of the last word, a
sudden silence fell.  All eyes were fixed on the speaker, and as
they looked amazement grew, for over the shabby, grotesque
figure before them a startling change had come.  In some
strange way he seemed to have grown bigger, and to fill the
tent to the exclusion of all else; even the gigantic Fellowes
appeared to have become a pigmy like the others.  Gone
too was the demeanour of the buffoon, and in its place
there was visible a dignity—almost a majesty—of bearing,
unimpaired by the clown's trappings of top-hat and
sheepskin coat.

In that instant, at the one simple word, all had changed,
and in a flash the truth of the stories that they had heard
was revealed—stories of the strange power emanating from
this man, of the ascendency of his mind over those of his
followers, stories at which they had so often scoffed, but
at which, having felt his power themselves, they scoffed
no longer.

Nor did their mood change even when he ran to the
black-board, and uncovering the picture, proceeded to
explain it in the jargon of the streets.  The palpitating
vibrating speech held them silent and thrilled, despite the
words in which that speech was uttered.

"Yes, fight it is," he continued, "and, this time, win.  I
needn't tell you that, you know it as well as I do now.
Want to know how, do you?  See there then," and with
outstretched hand he pointed to the board, on which the
following was depicted:

In the foreground lay a prostrate figure, looked down
upon by another, huge of stature and with bearskin on
head.  Over the pair were scrawled the words: "Uriel,
deceased, 6 a.m., December 25th."  Beyond him a
third figure was to be seen sinking to the ground, under
the blows of a man in a top-hat.  The falling figure was
labelled "Gabriel," and the man in the hat "Mad Jack."  To
the left was a tall thin man, with a long pole in his hand,
with which weapon he was pushing away another man
twice his size; the big man was labelled "Michael."  Under
the whole was written,

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   "One down, t'other come on.
       "H. G., R.A."

.. vspace:: 2

"That's how," continued the artist, "there's the whole
blasted scheme in a square yard, better than fifty pages of
Staff College clap-trap.  Ha! there's one who don't seem
to tumble," looking at Lord Fellowes, whose face wore a
look of deep perplexity, "never mind, Flamingo Head,
your thinking-box may be thick, but your heart's right
enough, and that's all I want from you, for it's you, my
lord, that's going to lead the bloody cotillion.  Hullo! there's
another woolly brain.  I'll have to hammer it in,
I see.  Listen then.

"That fellow in the front is Uriel, as you see, old Uriel,
sitting on his hill yonder, rubbing his hands over what he
gave us last night, and praying for Michael and Gabriel
to hurry up and catch us before we're off to the briny sea.
But to-night, when he and his men are dreaming of medals
and golden crosses—perhaps drawing lots for my Piccadilly
tile—old red-head there will be close by, waiting for
the morning, and when the light breaks he creeps up,
nearer, nearer; the bayonets flash, and then ... God
help you, Uriel, and a merry Christmas to ye."

"Good," said Fellowes, a smile breaking over his face.

"And then up comes Mad Jack with the rest—Hearts
of Oak, sailors, soldiers, the whole bloody rag, tag and
bobtail—and hurrying on to that ridge beyond will wait
there for Gabriel, poor old Gabriel, who's been wearing
his men out in his hurry to catch us before we're gone.
Down he goes too, with his hundred thousand with him.
And away to the west, Michael will hear Gabriel's death-yowl,
but won't be able to chip in, for there's a man there
I know," and here Graeme looked directly at Roy, who
nodded slightly in answer, "a cove with a long pole, who
says to him 'Keep off, Michael, old bird, leave Jack and
Gabriel to fight it out; it's their bloody scrap, not yours.'"

He stopped abruptly, and then went on:

"I beat them in detail, you see, blokes, what the
Austrians should have done before Königgratz, and would have,
had Hector G. been driving the coach and not Benedek.
Now, go back to your divisions and pull them and their
arms out of the mud they're in.  Your orders will be sent
you later, go.  Fellowes and Roy stay behind; I want you
both.  You first, Fellowes; Roy, wait outside."  All
except Fellowes saluted, and went silently out.

"You said, Fellowes, you wanted another go at them.
You shall have it; you'll attack at dawn to-morrow with
three divisions, your own guards, the Highlanders, and
Irish.  Move off to-night and be at this point," indicating
a spot on the map, "at 3 a.m. to-morrow morning.  You'll
give the orders to your command yourself.  Off you go,
Roy."

"Sir?"

"You'd like the pole job?"

"Yes."

"The other fellow's much bigger than you.  He'll
break your pole and kill you for certain, Roy."

"It's the luck of the game, sir."

"There'll be no luck for you—and no retreat either,
mind that.  Roy, it's a fight to a finish, and the finish will
be only one way."

"What can you give me, sir?"

"Two divisions only.  Your own, and any other you
like, bar Fellowes' lot."

Roy thought for a moment.

"I'd like the Yorkshire men, sir, they're friends of my men."

"You shall have them.  You'll start from here at eight
to-night, moving by the west road.  Shove on as hard as
you can till you meet Michael.  Then take up a position
and fight him till you've not a man left.  Under no
circumstances is he to be allowed to interfere with me.  Send
back word now and again to let me know how it goes."

"That all, sir?"

"That's all, except to say good-bye.  Perhaps meet
you later in the brimstone duck-pond."  Roy went out
with a light in his dark eyes, leaving Hector considering.

"Thank God for a lunatic," he muttered, "stroke of
luck for me striking him.  Now, what will I do to pass the
time?  Ah, I know.  Godwin."

"You called, sir?" answered the long-nosed one, appearing.

"Which is the worst division, the absolute bloodiest
bloody?"

"The 15th, sir."

"I'm going round to call on them.  You carry on; you
know what you have to do."

"I—I—if I might suggest, sir, I shouldn't.  They're
almost in open mutiny."

"That's how I like them."  He picked up his gloves
and hat, and walked to the door, where he paused for a
second.  "Look out for cheering from the 15th division,
Old Un," he said, and went out.

"Trumpeter, come with me; not you, orderly—only
Sykes there.  On for a lark, William?"

"Yes, sir," from the trumpeter, a friend of many campaigns.

"Come on, then," and mounting his horse he rode away
through the driving rain, the trumpeter following at some
distance.  At length they reached an open space, deep in
slush, in which could be seen lying rusty rifles and
accoutrements.  These had been thrown down by their owners,
who were now in the surrounding tents, where they lay
sleeping or cursing their officers.

In the centre of the square Graeme stopped.

"Fifteenth division this, ain't it, Sykes?" he asked the
trumpeter.

"That's her, sir," answered the man.  "Gawd! look at
them guns."

"Tu-whoo, tu-whoo then, bust yourself."

"What's it to be, sir?"

"We'll start with reveille."

Without a word, Sykes raised his trumpet and blew, the
first notes evoking a faint "booing" from the closed tents.
This ceased, however, as the call continued, and it dawned
upon the hearers that it was the reveille sounding at three
o'clock in the afternoon.  Soon a few heads were thrust
out to ascertain what the unusual departure portended.

"Again, William," and a second time the notes rang
out.  More heads appeared, followed by bodies, and then
there was a general exodus from the tents.  All faces were
turned toward the quaint figure in the middle of the parade
ground, and faint sounds of mirth arose.

"Laughing, that's something, anyway," muttered
Graeme; "now the 'Assembly' quick, Bill."

The man obeyed.  The figures hesitated for a moment,
a buzz of conversation arose, and then a few came lounging
forward.  The remainder, a lead having once been given,
followed, till a sea of sullen upturned faces surrounded the
pair.

"Men of the 15th division," said Graeme, regarding
them.  "I'm the Commander-in-chief.  'Mad Jack' they
call me.  Allow me to introduce myself."  He took off his
hat and bowed all round.

There was a puzzled silence, broken by a voice:

"Go to 'ell!  We don't want no bloody Commander-in-Chiefs
'ere."

Graeme turned, and for a second sat looking at the
speaker, a pale-faced Cockney; then, pulling out his
revolver, he forced his way to where the man was standing, and
shot him through the head.  After this, wheeling his horse
about, he faced each section of the crowd in turn, with the
smoking weapon brandished in his hand.  Back surged
the mob, growling and calling on their leaders, but one was
now gone and the others failed to appear.

"Dogs!" shouted Graeme, "hounds!  Oh, snarl away
if you like; it's all you can do, and I'm not afraid of you,
though I'm only one against your thousands.  Small
wonder you got beat last night; they're soldiers yonder,
but you, you're only jackals, noisy enough when there's
no fighting, but slinking to your holes once a gun's fired.
Hullo, you want to speak, do you?" pressing forward
again; "out with it then."

"Nuthin', sir, I ain't got no call to say nothink."

"Forgotten it, eh?  Funny how one does sometimes.
Anyone else got a call to say anything, what, no one?
Then I have," and thereupon Hector proceeded to let
loose on the now silent crowd a torrent of blasphemous
abuse, before which their own limited vocabularies sank
ashamed.  For full five minutes the flow poured on
unchecked, nor was a single epithet repeated, and gradually
at such proficiency a faint feeling of admiration dawned
in his hearers' hearts, and replaced their former resentment.
In this, at all events, he was their master, and, their
minds admitting it, they listened in silence, with growing
interest on their faces.

Graeme, noting the change, thereupon abandoned the
mere bludgeon work of vituperation—for of sarcasm,
knowing soldiers, not one word had he uttered—and then,
discussing the matter in the light of cold common sense,
he asked them if they wished for death, death at the
lance-point and sabre, for such would assuredly be theirs in their
present helpless state.  On a memory that never failed
he drew now, giving them many instances of what flight
with cavalry in pursuit meant, painting its horrors in terms
that caused a general feeling of uneasiness.

While he spoke, Graeme was closely watching them—waiting
for the change of mood when he could make the
final effort.  Till then he knew he must refrain from an
appeal to the emotions, which proves irresistible when the
ground is ready, but when made too soon only excites
ridicule.

At last it came.  A voice from the crowd said: "We
aren't afraid of no green-coats, we're Englishmen," a speech
that was followed by a murmur of applause.  At the sound
Graeme stopped, the thrill running through him that
every orator knows when he feels that his audience is his.

For a moment his throat seemed to close, and his heart
to swell in his breast; then off went his hat, and he stood
bareheaded before them, holding up his hand in an appeal
for silence.  Shouts of "Order" arose, and then there was
a hush.  For a few seconds Hector sat motionless, gazing
over their heads with eyes blurred with tears, and then,
as if fire were running through his veins, he threw back
his head and spoke.  With a face pale with exaltation,
with eyes alight and grey hair streaming in the wind, he
addressed them—his voice now sinking to a whisper, now
rising to a shout.

"Men, soldiers of England," he concluded, "the eyes
of those who love you are on you now.  They are misty
with tears for your wounds, men; they run over with water
for the dead.  But torn with grief though they are, that
grief is tempered with pride, for those they mourn have
given their lives for the Flag.  Will you change that pride
into shame, men?  Will you bring disgrace on your homes?"

Fustian, emotional fustian, of the lowest, but now was
the time and here the audience for fustian.

"No.  No."

"We ain't no cowards."

"Take us there; we're ready for 'em, sir."

"I will.  That's what I've come here to tell you, for fight
you shall, and this time, men, it's not defeat, but
... victory.  I promise it you....  I——"

He got no further, for at the word a roar burst from the
men, whose faces were white with emotion, and caps were
thrown in the air.  Then again there was silence, for
Hector's hand a second time was raised.  "Now, go back
to your lines, pick up those arms lying there in the mud"—a
rush for the discarded weapons—"you'll want them
soon enough.  See, the rain has stopped and the sun is
shining.  Go and get ready."

The crowd melted away, leaving Graeme and the trumpeter
alone, save for a rigid figure lying huddled in the
mud, with a blue mark on its forehead.  With tired eyes
Hector looked around him, for he was worn out and shaken
with the strain of his emotions.

"Sykes, I'm done, tired out."

"Why not 'ave a sleep, sir?"

"Why not?  You're right, I will.  We must get rid of
that, though, first," glancing down; "it's as poisonous dead
as alive.  Here you," he called to a passing sergeant, who
instantly came running up at the summons, and, smartly
saluting, stood at attention before him, "take that away,
and bury it.  Dig a hole anywhere and shove it in."

The man touched the corpse with his foot contemptuously.
"Very good, sir," he answered, "I'll have him
put in the refuse pit—best place for 'im.  Glad he's dead,
sir; he was the cause of 'arf the trouble."

Graeme made no answer, but rode away, with a cynical
look on his face, for he had seen the speaker amongst his
late audience, as sullen-looking and mutinous as any; but
there was no purpose to be gained by alluding to that now.
He passed on, through the lines of tents—alive with men,
polishing, cleaning, now and again bursting into snatches
of song—and made his way back to his tent, where he
found Glover awaiting him, with a face of contrition.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said.  "I didn't know you were
going out, or I'd have been ready.  I tried to find you,
but no one knew where you had gone."

"I didn't want you, Bobby," answered Graeme.  "I
shan't till ten to-night.  Be here then with the horses and
one orderly.  I don't wish a crowd."

"Your dinner, sir?"

"Bring a bottle when you come.  I shan't want anything
till then.  I'm going to sleep."  He turned into the
tent, closed the flap, and lying down on the bed, covered
himself with rugs and blankets.  "Stara," he murmured,
"I want sleep; give it to me."  He sighed, smiled happily,
and then almost instantly fell asleep.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



Darkness fell, and confused sounds began to arise from the
camp.  They soon swelled to a clamour: words of
command were heard; the clang of rifle-butts; then the
steady tramp of marching feet and the rumble of passing
wheels.  The army was starting on its way.  The hours
flew by, the beat of feet and rattle of wheels died to a dull
murmur, and ceased.

The heap of rugs stirred and were cast aside.  Graeme
got up, unfastened the tent-flaps, and looked out.

The muffling canopy of storm-clouds was gone from
overhead, leaving the black vault a-glitter with a myriad
points of flame.  It was Christmas Eve and freezing hard.

Through the darkness a figure loomed dimly, its footsteps
crushing the rapidly hardening ground.

"That you, Glover?"

"No, sir, it's I—Godwin, may I come in?  It's urgent."  He
lowered his voice as he spoke.

"Men refused to turn out?"

"No, sir, no trouble at all.  It seems what you said to
the 15th division has gone all over the camp, and——"

"Bah!  What is it then?"

"Two cables, sir, one for you and one for Sir Thomas.
You told me to bring any that came.  You have the
cipher, sir."

"Yes, hand them over and wait outside."  He tore
open the envelopes, and with the aid of the cipher read the
contents in turn, that addressed to Moleyns first.  It bore
no signature.

"Acted on your suggestion," it ran; "wire again if
necessary."

"Oh, have you?" muttered Graeme, "and now for the
suggestion."  He opened the second.  It came from
Whitehall, and was signed "Gribble."

"Commence retreat to coast at once; on no account
assume offensive."

Graeme stared at the paper for a moment, and then
laughed.

"I suppose," he said slowly, "there are some who
might obey that.  I ... won't."

He tore the cables into small pieces, and striking a
match carefully burnt the fragments.

"Godwin," he called, "old Gneisenau, come in."

"What is it, sir?  Nothing serious, I hope?"

"Serious be hanged, nothing is serious in this life,
haven't you found that out in your sixty years?  It's all
a big joke, Old Un, with someone overhead splitting his
sides over it.  We don't laugh sometimes, because we're
fools; but we should, if we were wise.  Ah, there's Bobby
outside with the bottle.  Come in, Bobby, and fill the
glasses.  It may be the last we'll have together, and this
time to-morrow we'll be laughing at the moon as we pass.
We'll have wings up there, Long Nose, bloody wings,
and a harp apiece.  God!  I'll be a trial to the bandmaster,
I'll never get the damned thing in tune, give me a month
of Sundays to do it.  Pop! there she goes; fill up and drink.
Here's the bloody toast:

"Damnation to our green friends yonder, and a rope to
their best friend, Lawyer Quibble, Secretary of State for
War.  He'll have it too, when I get back, I promise him.

"But that's treason, Bobby, or near it, anyway, so I'll
change it to one we can all drink.

"Here's to the one gentleman in the whole scurvy
crowd—the King."  He paused.  Then with a loud cry of
"The King!  The King!" he drained his glass, dashed it to
the ground, and rushing out of the tent, he mounted his
waiting horse, and galloped away into the night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXVI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVI

.. vspace:: 2

The shadow of death hovered over the sleeping
armies.  But a few miles apart they lay,
thousand upon thousand, covering the frozen earth
like a pall—the one exultant with victory gained, and eager
for the morning to reap their harvest, the other equally
eager and equally confident.  But Death, looking down,
laughed, well pleased.  What mattered to him the
paltry triumph of green or red.  His feast he knew was
assured.

The hours passed, the darkness deepened, and then
rapidly began to fade, the splendour of the stars dulled.
A figure—one of three British soldiers lying apart from
the rest—stirred in his sleep, and suddenly awoke.  He
sat up, with a loud clanging in his ears, for the telephone-bell
at his feet had spoken sharply, and now it was ringing
again, a continuous vibrating sound.

The signal for the curtain's rising had come.

"That you, Sir Hector?" breathed a voice along the
wires, that of Lord Fellowes, five miles ahead.  "I'm
going on, sir."

A quarter of an hour, half an hour, three-quarters of an
hour passed, but still the silence remained unbroken,
though the black was all grey now.  Then suddenly
Graeme sprang up, his body quivering and his eyes staring
ahead.

"Surely that was a shot?  And, yes, another; heavy
firing now and—and it is—it is cheering.  They've done it,"
and Hector pounced on the sleeping Godwin and shook
him awake.

"Bloody victory!" he shouted.  "D'ye hear, Old
Slugabed?  Get up, blast you, and rouse the army.  Bring
'em on at a double after me, Hearts of Oak leading, don't
forget that.  Sound the 'rouse,' Trumpeter; Bobby, come
on with me," and away flew Graeme to his horse, the high
notes of the bugles now ringing through the dawn—their
sound soon to be drowned in the swelling roar of the
waking army.

"Forward, forward," he shouted, and was gone, swallowed
up in the icy morning mist.  His horse's hoofs rang on the
iron-bound road, as he thundered on to the ridge ahead,
whence a confused shouting was heard, punctuated with
the dull thudding of shots and the scream of dying horses.
On he rushed, the ridge rising darkly before him, and then
he was at its foot, and up and through the trees that
clothed it, his horse shying at prone green figures and
grim silent shapes of guns.

At length he reached the top and drew rein, looking
down into a huge cauldron of mist beyond, where a mighty
conflict was now raging—a strange phantasmagoria of
overturned tents, riderless horses, and fleeing phantom
shapes of men.

Truly, a merry Christmas for Uriel, lying still
and silent, with a broken bayonet in his breast, and his
erstwhile jubilant army a shrieking mob of fugitives.

In his dreams death had found him, for the pickets,
believing only too readily his and their officers' words
concerning British demoralisation, had abandoned the
irksome duty of watching, and, soundly sleeping, had, like
him, died where they lay.  And over their dead bodies the
Guards had rushed, pouring into the sleeping camps,
stabbing the half-naked wretches as they sat up blinking
at the bayonets, and, loudly laughing, chased such as fled,
pouncing on them when they tripped and fell over the
tent-ropes.

Lead by Mike Curran in person, a band of Irishmen had
headed straight for the Headquarter marquee, and in a
second the ropes were cut and the mass of canvas billowing
on the ground.  Into this men were now thrusting bayonets
and officers emptying revolvers, till through the white
canvas red patches began to show, which rapidly spread
till they merged into one great crimson pool, and the
writhings and groanings ceased.

Through the artillery and cavalry lines the skirted
Highlanders were running, some busy hamstringing the
fast-tethered horses, whose screams rang high and shrill above
the uproar, others killing the hapless owners, as they ran
confusedly to and fro searching for sword, lance, or carbine
with which to defend themselves.

Beyond, barring escape to the north, east, and west, the
cavalry divisions were leisurely sweeping across the plain,
picking up, as they rode, such as sought refuge by flight from
the death behind.

As Graeme looked, a loud shout of joy burst from his
lips.  "Coney's Drift again," he roared, "oh, where, where
are my Hearts of Oak?  Turn them loose in this; give
them a taste of blood, and they're made.  They'll think
it's all like this.  Ah! here they are," as, panting and
breathless, a brigade of pale-faced volunteers came running up,
gasping with haste and astonishment at what they saw.
"Leu in!  Leu in!" he cried; "have at 'em, boys, worry,
worry!" and thereupon, with loud cries of delight,
off rushed the Hearts of Oak, tugging at their bayonets
as they ran.  Graeme sat down and rocked with laughter.

"God, but it will be the death of me, this," he gasped.
"Hullo, Long Nose, you're here, are you?  Good, I
wouldn't have you miss this for the world.  Oh, look,
man, look!  See that tall chap there?  He's prodded his
man three times, and ain't settled him yet.

"Holy God, what's *he* up to, I wonder, he is—blow
me tight—he *is* going through his man's pockets.  That
ain't cricket quite, my friend; but never mind, it will make
his pals all the keener when they see that watch.

"Ha! here are the regulars coming up; they'll be on to
it too in a minute.  Damn, but the whole army will be all
over the place if we don't watch it.  Hi, you blokes there,"
turning to a group of staff officers who were now standing
behind him, "three of you hurry off to Fellowes.  Tell
him when he's finished to get his men together—not before
he's finished though, mind.  Two more of you round up the
Hearts of Oak; take care they don't shoot you though;
they're after loot, and fierce.  The rest of you cut away to
the other divisions and tell them to halt as they come up.
Godwin."

"Yes, sir."

"That's our position over there," pointing to a long
line of wooded hills two miles ahead.  "As soon as Fellowes
has drawn off, bring the whole lot on there and post them
as I told you.  Three divisions and six batteries to line its
length, the reserve in the centre behind that conical hill
there.  Tell the three divisions to dig themselves in at
once; they'll have a thin time if they don't.

"Move as quick as you can; it's close on eight, and
Gabriel will be thereabouts by one.  There's Fellowes'
lot getting together now.  I'm going on with the cavalry;
join me when you've finished by that tree there.  Come,
Bobby," and Graeme galloped off, threading his way
through the muddle of fallen tents and corpses, the Guards
roaring a welcome as he passed.  When clear of the ruined
camp he joined Maitland, the cavalry commander.

"What sport, Maitland?"

"A few, sir; nothing much."

"No prisoners, I hope."

"None, sir."

"Come on then," and the two rode off together, the
cavalry following in line of brigade mass, the ground being
open and going good.

The plain crossed, the force halted and dismounted,
Graeme, Maitland, and the two A.D.C.'s ascending the
ridge, from the top of which the country could be seen for
miles ahead and around.

The line of hills—on the highest point of which they
now stood—was about five miles in length, rocky in parts,
and sparsely covered with trees.  Through the centre,
close beside them, lay the road to the north, along which,
fifteen miles distant, Gabriel was known to be advancing;
while far away to the left could be seen a double line of
trees, marking the course of the Western Road.  In front
of them spread a wide open plain, similar to that they had
just traversed, but crossed, parallel to their front and
some two thousand yards away, by a brook, or small river,
with steep, overhanging banks.  Towards this the ground
fell gently, subsequently rising till it reached another
ridge, four miles away, which was also crossed about its
centre by the Northern Road.  The passage over the
brook was by a small wooden bridge.

To the right and left the country was open for miles; the
left, however, being scantily covered with trees, which
became thicker until they formed a dense woodland, and
somewhere in this Roy was now lying, waiting for Michael.

Graeme surveyed the scene through his glasses, and
regarded for some minutes the ridge ahead, where a faint
twinkle could now and again be seen.

"Enemy there," he muttered, "cavalry, a good many
of them too.  Have to turn them out of that, Maitland.
Too close—see everything."

"I'll go now, sir," said Maitland, turning.

"And look here, when you've outed them, hold on to
that ridge for a bit.  No heavy losses, mind; your time
for that's later.  Just tickle up Gabriel, matador
him, make him mad to come on.  Then join the reserve."

Maitland went, and soon from below the sound of movement
arose from the waiting cavalry.  A word of command
rang out, taken up by other voices; then followed a loud
clatter and jingle as over the hill, close beside Graeme and
Glover, passed a cavalry division, which, on reaching the
level beneath, trotted briskly forward.

"Thud, thud, thud" came in instant greeting from the
enemy's horse artillery on the ridge ahead, followed later
by the stuttering of a maxim and then by a crackle of
musketry.

The leading squadrons opened out fanwise, their front
being now well-nigh a mile in breadth; from a trot they
broke into a canter, then into a gallop, as they resolutely
pressed on, despite the storm beating in their faces.  Small
dark heaps began to strew the ground; tiny figures could
be seen running and clutching at the trailing reins of the
now numerous loose horses, or holding sturdily on to the
stirrup-leathers of more fortunate comrades.

The rattle swelled to a roar, for magazine fire, the last
hope, had opened; the clamour of the guns rose to one
continuous rapid thudding, and then suddenly ceased.
The thin, clear notes of bugles sounding the charge were
borne back on the breeze, followed by a faint echo of
cheering, and over the distant ridge surged the black tide of
horsemen, their swords flashing and lance-points glittering
as they rose and fell.

Graeme chuckled as he looked.  "Ha, ha, Old Un,"
he said, turning to Godwin, who had ridden up some
minutes before, "that's one up, ain't it, for the military
expert?  The term 'sabres' has lost its meaning, has
it, cavalry in the future must rely on rifles?[#]  Poor old
weak-kneed Army Council!  Thank the Lord, I never would
have it, though they threatened to break me if I didn't.
What have you got to say, eh?  You were one of the
Whitehall lights at the time, you know."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Referring to a work by one Colonel Caldwell, at the time of its
writing a garrison artillery man.  This masterpiece, probably in
deference to the British civilian public, who at that time developed
views on military matters, was for a while adopted as the text-book for
officers' promotion examinations in India till saner councils prevailed,
when it, and not the sword and lance, were relegated to obscurity.
During the short period of its existence, however, it was successful in
doing an infinity of harm.  This and a somewhat similar effort by Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle exemplify the folly of writing on current events
till sufficient time has elapsed to allow of the mind being cleansed of
purely personal impressions.

.. vspace:: 2

"It was a fine performance, sir, though a bit risky,
don't you think?"

"That's what cavalry are for, my friend.  Stop their
taking risks and they're useless.  Army up yet?" he asked
abruptly.

"They're nearly all here, sir.  The three divisions and
the batteries are now digging themselves in.  There are
some of them, sir," pointing to a group of khaki-clad figures
close by busy with picks and shovels.

"All we want now, then, is old Gabriel.  Hope he will
come on, and not wait for Michael.  That would dish us
rather."

"I don't think you need fear that, sir; the two, I happen
to know, have little love for each other.  It's jealousy,
sir; they've been rivals for years.  Gabriel would sacrifice
Michael, or Michael Gabriel, without the smallest hesitation."

"Good heavens, man," said Graeme, turning furiously
on him, "here's information I'd have given a thousand
pounds for, and you casually mention it as if it were of no
consequence whatever.  How do you know it, though?"

"I've relations in the country, sir, and they know both
men.  I'd have told you if I'd thought it of consequence, sir."

"Of consequence?  It's the whole blessed thing.  It
makes it a certainty, can't you see?  Why, but for knowing
it I might have shoved on to meet Gabriel—a risky job
with my lot.  Now I sit here and smoke my cigarette in
peace.  Hullo, hear that?" suddenly gripping Godwin
by the arm, and staring westward, whence a faint dull
boom had sounded.

"It must be Roy, sir."

"Of course it's Roy, don't be an obvious fool.  There it
is again," as a second dull boom was heard, followed by
another, and then more, merging into a low, intermittent
muttering.

"It's begun now, Old Un—seconds out of the ring, first
round, time.  See there," pointing ahead, "Maitland's
helio going; what does he say, you?" to the officer in charge
of the Headquarter signalling station close by, whose own
helio was now clicking violently in answer.  The man
spelt out the message, rapidly jotting it down as it came,
and then brought it over to Graeme.


"To C.-in-C. (it ran) from O. C. Cavalry:

"Patrols report large column advancing North Road,
about eight miles distant.  Artillery fire heard towards
west."


"Eight miles only.  Gad, but Gabriel's shoving on.
Here, Bobby, give me a cigarette, and don't talk to me,
either of you, till I've finished.  You'll upset me for the
day if you do."  He lay back and luxuriously proceeded
to fill his lungs with smoke, his eyes closing in great content.

"Message for you, sir, just come in," and a staff officer
stood before him holding out a missive.

"Eh, what?" answered Hector dreamily, and then
burst out in sudden fury: "Go to hell, sir, take your
damned letter away and yourself too.  I'm having my
first cigarette, blast you!"

Nonplussed, the officer stood staring, then, catching
Godwin's warning eye, handed him the letter and turned
on his heel, with a sneer on his face.

"Good sort of Commander-in-Chief, that," he muttered,
"can't read an important despatch because he's smoking
a cigarette.  Thank God for old Godwin and Fellowes,
that's all I can say.  Beakey must be a blooming wonder;
no one thought it of him before this, either," and thus
reflecting he joined a group of his *confrères*, who were fidgeting
about in rear, anxious to do something, and to whom he
proceeded to retail his reception by the Commander-in-Chief.

"Read it out, Old Un, I've finished," said Hector,
regretfully discarding the last atom of the cigarette.

"It's from General Roy, sir, headed from Blay.  He
says, 'Taken up a position here.  Enemy three miles
distant and coming on.'"

"Blay," repeated Graeme, "that's about twelve miles
from here.  They've been at it now for close on an hour,
and it's getting pretty hot, judging from that," looking as
he spoke towards the west, where the intermittent
cannonading had now become a steady, continuous rolling.
"Hullo, there's Maitland begun," as the sudden sharp
rapping of a maxim came from the ridge ahead, mingled
with a few scattered shots, and then heavy firing.  "Noisy
lot of devils they all are—on Christmas Day too!  Peace
on earth and goodwill towards men.  Lord, what a row.
Ha! there's his helio; look sharp with it.  Well?"

"From O. C. Cavalry, to C.-in-C.:

"Enemy's advanced guard attacking me.  Cavalry, infantry,
and guns.  Shall hold on for a bit, and then fall back."

"That firing to the west's getting louder, seems coming
this way.  God! it will be a near thing.  Ah! there's
Maitland coming back, about time too, I should say.  Lord,
what a stampede; and, by Jove, there are the enemy at
last, up on the hill he's left, shooting after them.  Shoot
away and be hanged to you.  Ha, ha, like that, do you?"
as the six batteries in position on the ridge on which he
was standing suddenly roared out together, and the crest
ahead grew blurred with a mist of white smoke starred with
tiny sparkles of flame.

"Keep it up, keep it up," he shouted, "long as you can;
it's the last chance you'll have, for outed you'll be soon
enough once Gabriel gets on to you.  That's part of the
game, though; if I made you too strong you might check
Gabriel, and I don't want old Gabriel checked.  I want
him here."

"They've cleared, sir," said Godwin, suddenly pointing
to the hill ahead, whence the figures had now disappeared.
"No, there they are again—guns, sir, the whole crest's
bristling with them."

"Time for umbrellas then, Old Un," answered Graeme,
rising and sauntering away to a rock hard by; "it's
going to rain pretty hard, and that rain will hurt if it hits.
Come along, Bobby, what'll I do for cigarettes if you
get outed?" and reaching the rock he flung himself
down behind it, the other two crouching beside him.

Then with a sudden earthquake roar the storm burst,
and the ridge seemed to tremble and rock.  Over the sun
a curtain seemed to fall; the green landscape vanished
from before their eyes, hidden by a thick pall of sulphurous
smoke, torn with crimson flame and alive with flying
fragments of iron.

Crashing and shrieking, the huge shells thundered down
on the quaking ground, throwing up great fountains of
earth and splintered stone, splitting the trees, and
seaming the green hill with ragged brown wounds.

Faintly to be heard through the tumult, the sharp
thudding of the defenders' guns sounded in defiant answer,
rapid and well-sustained at first, then intermittent, and at
last sinking into silence.  But still the tempest roared on,
increasing in fury till blackness shrouded the vision and
the brain was numb from the continuous crash and hammer
of iron on stone.

A cloud of black stinking smoke eddied round the rock,
under the lee of which the three were crouching, with
handkerchiefs bound round their mouths and eyes streaming
with grimy tears.

Glover's face was white and scared; on Godwin's there
was a look of studied calm; Graeme was staring out, his
eyes vainly trying to pierce the murk before him.  A
touch on his foot from behind made him start and look
round to where a staff officer, who had just crawled up,
was holding out a paper.

"Message from General Roy," he shouted.

"What?  Speak louder, can't you?  Oh, from Roy;
give it here," and taking the missive he tore it open and
read:

.. vspace:: 2

"Heavily engaged.  Forced to fall back to avoid being
surrounded.  At least six divisions against me.  Enemy's
losses very heavy."

.. vspace:: 2

"Don't mention yours, I notice.  God damn it, if only
this infernal smoke would clear away and I could see what
Gabriel's up to.  Row seems to be slackening a bit; must
be his infantry coming on.  Ah, at last, a breeze," as a
sudden puff of wind moaned through the shattered trees,
and then, growing stronger, tore away the muffling veil, and
he could see.

A cry of delight broke from his lips at what he saw, for
the plain in front was no longer empty, but covered with
line upon line of green-clad infantry, rapidly advancing.
The leading ranks—being more or less opened out—were
already almost up to the brook, but behind them came
dense masses of men, and beyond these, descending the
hill, three huge columns, the whole surging forward like
some rolling dark-green sea.

"Means to rush us, Godwin," said Hector, "walk right
over us.  You're a trump, Gabriel, old man."

"That firing to the west is coming nearer, sir."

"I know it is, so does Gabriel; that's what's bringing
him on so fast, the jealous old dog."

Hector was right, for the sound of the hourly swelling
roar of the western battle was rapidly goading Gabriel to
frenzy.  This victory was his—his, not Michael's.  It was
all but won now, for no longer did the British guns answer
his, and though their infantry might make some show of
resistance, still that could be but short-lived, for half of
them were volunteers, demoralised, moreover, as his
information had told him, and not for a moment capable of
withstanding such troops as his.

True, they had managed to destroy Uriel, but this,
though possibly unfortunate for Uriel, might nevertheless
be viewed in the light of a blessing, for by his death the
British had been encouraged to stand, and had thus given
themselves into his hands; also, Uriel was one of the
Michael faction, and worthless, as were all that gang.

If only Michael too could be beaten—he was having a
hard time out there to the west, he knew—well, perhaps
if fortune were kind, he would be, and the Emperor no
longer be blinded to his own superior merits.  But then a
message had been received from that same Michael, telling
not of defeat, but success, and his hopes of being in time
to aid Gabriel in his battle; at this, Gabriel had thrown
all remnants of prudence to the winds.  Scorning reserves,
he launched his whole force to the attack, shouting to his
generals to rush their men on, and not to mind the losses,
assuring them that before them lay a beaten army, to
crush which they had only to press on.

Gabriel having, despite the one fatal flaw in his nature,
the soul of a great leader, the spirit that possessed him was
felt in the hearts of his followers, and forward they rushed,
ignoring distance and interval, for these meant delay, and
delay was not now to be thought of.  Into the brook's
swollen waters plunged the leading lines, their weapons held
aloft as they struggled through the torrent, and then,
shaking themselves like dogs, they hurried on to the smoking
ridge ahead.

Fifteen hundred, one thousand yards only lay between,
and with the lessening of the distance the thunder from
behind slackened, and then, but for the tramp of feet, all
was silent.

Then suddenly from among the trees a whistle blew, its
shrill piping echoed by others, and at the sound that
battered shot-torn hill awoke to life.

From crumbling trench and lead-splashed stones a line
of thin brown tubes rose up, wavered for a moment
distractedly, and then together came down, and row upon
row of tiny, steel-ringed eyes peered inquiringly on the green
waves rolling towards them.

A second time the whistle was blown, which was again
taken up to right and left; and then the heavy silence
was broken by the scream of cordite and the stammering
voice of maxims.

The leading ranks of the enemy went down, some falling
forward on their faces with a groan—this was death—others
reeling sideways to the ground, where they lay
writhing and shrieking in the torture of splintered bone or
bullet-ripped vitals.

Those checked in rear flung themselves down, their
hands tugging at buckled cartridge-belts, but in a second
their officers were on them, kicking them up and driving
them on with shouts and curses, and once more the lines
surged slowly forward, men dropping in hundreds as they
came.

"Two messages from General Roy, sir," shouted a voice
in Hector's ear; "they came within a few minutes of each
other, sir."  The speaker's voice was strained and his face
white.

Graeme opened them in turn.  The first ran:

.. vspace:: 2

"Lost half my force and all guns.  Enemy's losses
enormous; shall hold on here till all is over.  Done my
best.—Roy."

.. vspace:: 2

Hector's face was unmoved as he read.  He opened the
second:

.. vspace:: 2

"General Roy dead.  All lost.—Maddox, Captain."

.. vspace:: 2

"Just where you're out, my friend," muttered Hector;
"it's all won now."

"What does he say, sir?" asked Godwin.

"Nothing much.  He's done what I wanted.  Michael's
had his bellyful."

"Wh—what are those, sir?" came suddenly from
Glover, staring towards the west.  "They're wearing our
uniform, but ... God!"

Together Graeme and Godwin looked towards the spot
at which the boy was pointing, and saw far away to the
left a scattered band emerging from the trees.  A band
of fugitives they were, seemingly, some thousand in all,
without order or semblance of order.  Over their heads
shells were bursting, and clouds of dust were flying up
around their feet; but, unheeding, they slowly toiled on,
till at last they were hidden from view behind the left of
the ridge upon which the three stood watching.

"It—it's Roy's force," stammered Godwin, "all that's
left of twenty thousand men."

"Well, what of it?" snapped Graeme.  "We knew that
would happen, didn't we?  You old corncrake you, what's
the good of crying over it?  Can't you see he's won the
battle for us.  Look there, look at Michael's force after him;
see what a mob they are, bad as the lot they're pursuing.
Thank ye, Roy, the goose is cooked and now we'll eat
it—for I'm hungry."  His teeth bared in a grin.  "Come on,
and God help Gabriel now."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



The leading ranks of the enemy were now but a few
hundred yards distant—ragged lines of weary,
smoke-blackened men dragging painfully onward.  Behind them
thick, green-clad masses, all pressing forward to assured
triumph, on towards those grimy figures, now opening
on them with magazine.

On they came, cheering lustily, their ranks glittering
with bayonet and waving sword, but even as victory's
laurel seemed within their grip the god of battles averted
his head, and Death sat grinning in their faces.

For the ridge in front was now echoing to the blast of
bugles and the shrill tone of pipes, and at the summons the
crouching khaki-clad figures rose up together and stood
looking calmly down upon them.  And as the green men
halted, wondering what this might mean, with a shattering
roar the hidden batteries of the reserve, silent so long,
flamed into life, cleaving wide lanes in the crowd below,
till their cheering ceased and died.

"Charge!" clanged the bugles again, and obeying, carrying
the lines forward with them, the mass of the reserve
came pouring over the hill, fresh and thirsty for battle—a
solid phalanx bristling with sharp, gleaming bayonets.

For one moment, and for one only, the green men stood,
wildly firing in the face of the approaching host, who paid
no heed, but with one loud pealing shout of triumph rushed
on, a living wave of steel, and rolled like a sea over the now
terror-stricken masses.  Away to the left, Michael and his
men, toiling on in pursuit, heard the uproar, and as they
took in its meaning stopped and hesitated.

"March to the guns" is the soldiers' motto all the world
over, and here were guns thundering in their ears, comrades
too in dire need of assistance.  But ... yet ... bad
as was the case, their own was nearly as desperate, for
Roy and his men had done their work right well, and of
Michael's eighty thousand barely ten thousand had been
scraped together for pursuit.

While they stood debating, the cry of "Back!" arose
from the rear: "Back! back! see the cavalry waiting for
us," and straightway the groups, glad at heart, turned,
and that same night were tramping hurriedly away whence
they came....  Gabriel was abandoned to his fate.
And the hand of that fate was heavy on Gabriel this
Christmas evening, as he stood looking down with desperate
eyes on what, only one short hour before, had been a
jubilant army, but was now a shrieking, terrified herd of
humanity.

Almost superhuman efforts had he and his staff made to
turn the tide, to show a front, even to form a rear-guard,
but in vain.  With his own self-control had also gone his
and his officers' hold over the army; by his own orders had
the reins of discipline been abandoned, and, strive as he
and they might now, they had passed from his hands
never to be recovered.  Plainly he could see now, so
very plainly, the simple trap into which he had fallen;
like some maddened bull in the arena he had rushed at
the red flag held out, and fallen on the sword behind, and
as he stood staring down on the welter below, a horror of
despair came upon Gabriel and the will to live died.  He
raised his hand, fired, and fell.

Far away, on the ridge opposite, his figure sharp-cut
against the pale green of the sky, the British leader stood
watching, with madness in his eyes also—but the madness
of a great triumph, and not of despair.  For here was
glory at last—glory such as crowns the very few.  But a
few short hours, and English steeples would be rocking
with the clash of joy-bells, and the voice of an empire
would be shouting his name to the skies.  The adoration
of a multitude, the approval of a King—all, all was his.
Ah! to die now, now when glory's gold was untarnished,
and the green of laurel fresh.  "God kill me now, now,"
he breathed, and with the prayer came the answer.  A
blinding flash overhead, the snap of a breaking harpstring,
and Hector was down on the frozen ground, life's bright
crimson bubbling from his breast.

In a second an arm was thrust beneath him where he lay,
with his head fallen back on a khaki-clad shoulder.  Green
eyes, horrified and appalled, looked down into the dimming
violet of a dying man's.

"Old Un," he gasped, "that—that you?  What's
h—happened, Old Un?"

"Shrapnel, sir, burst right over you.  I—I am afraid
you're hurt, sir.  Oh, fetch that doctor, damn you, damn
you."

"Old Un, you're crying, blast you.  There are tears
running down that long nose of yours.  You look damned
absurd.  What's the harm in dying?"

"No, no.  Oh, will you hurry?"

"Shut up.  I'll be gone before he comes.  Put your
bill closer, I—I want to say something; a bloody swan
sings when he's dying, Old Un, and I—I can't shout.
Where the devil are ye?  I can't see you."

"Here, sir, close beside you," sobbed the other.

"The devil's got his own at last, Godwin.  D'ye hear
him chuckling, the old Satan?  Ha! ha!  Chuckle away, my
friend; I'm not afraid; I'll twist your tail yet, blast ye.
Old Un."

"Yes, yes."

"I'll tell you something, Old Un, it's about the ghost.
It was all delusion, I know it now, death's laid the bloody
phantom at last.  But come closer—closer.  There was
one thing real—no delusion, old boy, I loved something
once—a child—my own, sh—she was blind.  Will that
count, d'ye think, where I'm going?"

"Of course it will, sir.  God——"

"Damn your preaching, I want her—not G—God.
A—ah!"  His voice suddenly rose to a scream, and he
sat up, stretching out his arms.  "She's there—and—and
look, Old Un, she sees, she sees.  Ruby!  Ruby!"
and Hector Graeme fell back dead.

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::