The Captain imagined it was a secret fit of passion. He thought he was quite alone and that no one could hear him or see him. So he had let himself shout and stamp, to work off the nervous tensions that tormented him beyond endurance. In the direst sense of the words the Captain was in love with Madeleine. He was in love quite beyond the bounds set by refined and decorous people to this dangerous passion. The primordial savage that lurks in so many of us was uppermost in him. He was not in love with her prettily or delicately, he was in love with her violently and vehemently. He wanted to be with her, he wanted to be close to her, he wanted to possess her and nobody else to approach her. He was so inflamed now that no other interest in life had any importance except as it aided or interfered with this desire. He had forced himself in spite of this fever in his blood to leave her to pursue Bealby, and now he was regretting this firmness furiously. He had expected to catch Bealby overnight and bring him back to the hotel in triumph. But Bealby had been elusive. There she was, away there, hurt and indignant—neglected! “A laggard in love,” cried the Captain, “a dastard in war! God!—I run away from everything. First I leave the manœuvres, then her. Unstable as water thou shalt not prevail. Water! What does the confounded boy matter? What does he matter? “And there she is. Alone! She’ll flirt—naturally she’ll flirt. Don’t I deserve it? Haven’t I asked for it? Just the one little time we might have had together! I fling it in her face. You fool, you laggard, you dastard! And here’s this map!” A breathing moment. “How the _devil_,” cried the Captain, “am I to find the little beast on this map? “And twice he’s been within reach of my hand! “No decision!” cried the Captain. “No instant grip! What good is a soldier without it? What good is any man who will not leap at opportunity? I ought to have chased out last night after that fool and his oats. Then I might have had a chance! “Chuck it! Chuck the whole thing! Go back to her. Kneel to her, kiss her, compel her! “And what sort of reception am I likely to get?” He crumpled the flapping map in his fist. And then suddenly out of nowhere Bealby came rolling down to his feet, a dishevelled and earthy Bealby. But Bealby. “Good Lord!” cried the Captain, starting to his feet and holding the map like a sword sheath. “What do you want?” For a second Bealby was a silent spectacle of misery. “Oooh! I want my _breckfuss_,” he burst out at last, reduced to tears. “Are you young Bealby?” asked the Captain, seizing him by the shoulder. “They’re after me,” cried Bealby. “If they catch me they’ll put me in prison. Where they don’t give you anything. It wasn’t me did it—and I ’aven’t had anything to eat—not since yesterday.”