"I will admit anything in his favour," replied Hemming, "but as for his shooting, why, thank Heaven, I have never tested it." "Wasn't he very rude to you one night?" she asked. He laughed quietly. "The circumstances warranted it, but he was rude to the wrong person, don't you think?" "No, indeed," she cried, "for no matter how minus a quantity your guilt, or how full of fault I had been, it would never have done for him to threaten me with a--" She paused. "Service revolver?" said Hemming, "and one of my own at that." "Fever is a terrible thing," she said, gazing at the red heart of the claret. "My dear sister," said the Englishman, "a man would gladly suffer more to win less." They smiled frankly into one another's eyes. "Then you do not think too badly of me?" she asked. "I think everything that is jolly--of both of you," he replied. "I like your friendship," she said, "for, though you seem such a good companion, I do not believe you give it lightly." After the coffee and an aimless talk with Tetson, Hemming looked in at Hicks and found him drinking chicken broth as if he liked it. The invalid was strong enough to manage the spoon himself, but Marion held the bowl. Hemming went to his own room, turned on the light above his desk, and began to write. He worked steadily until ten o'clock. Then he walked up and down the room for awhile, rolling and smoking cigarettes. The old ambition had him in its clutches. Pernamba, with its heat, its dulness, its love and hate, had faded away. Now he played a bigger game--a game for the world rather than for half a battalion of little brown soldiers. A knock sounded on his door, and, before he could answer it, Captain Santosa, glorious in his white and gold, stepped into the room. The sight of the Brazilian brought his dreams to the dust. "Damn," he said, under his breath. Then he waved his subordinate to a seat. The captain's manner was as courteous as ever, his smile as urbane, his eyes as unfathomable. But his dusky cheek showed an unusual pallor, and as he sat down he groaned. Hemming eyed him sharply; men like Santosa do not groan unless they are wounded--maybe in their pride, by a friend's word, maybe in their vitals by an enemy's knife. There was no sign of blood on the spotless uniform. "A drink?" queried Hemming, turning toward the bell. "Not now," said the captain, "but afterward, if you then offer it to me." He swallowed hard, looked down at his polished boots, aloft at the ceiling, and presently at his superior officer's staring eye-glass. From this he seemed to gather courage.