Hemming leaned from the window. "We can look after the ladies, thank you," he sneered, "and, by the way, tell your precious English friend, who helped you write that charming letter, that if I get my hands on him, he'll suffer more than he did the other time. Hurry along now." Hemming had recovered his monocle, and before its baleful glare the colonel was silent and confused. Just then Cuddlehead thumped into view, clinging to the neck of Hemming's own white stallion. He was in a far worse state than the colonel even, and swayed in the saddle. "Good morning, Captain Hemming," he cried, and waved his hand. The men in the room were startled by the expression that crossed their friend's face. The mouth hardened. The eyes narrowed. A deep flush burned in his thin cheeks. He paid no heed to the stranger's salutation. "Pepper," he said, softly. The stallion looked up. "What is that pitiful object on your neck? That nasty cad?" Pepper hung his clever little head. His master leaned far out of the window, and his eyes met those of the little stallion. "Pepper," he said, "jump." Pepper jumped. Cuddlehead slid over his tail, and for a full minute remained seated in the dust. The Brazilian colonel reeled in his saddle with choking laughter. "Good old horse, good Pepper," called Hemming, gently. The stallion cantered away, riderless. The object of the colonel's uncomfortable mirth got painfully to his feet. His face was purple with the fury that raged within him. He cast discretion to the winds, and, drawing a revolver, emptied it at the smoking-room window. He looked under the cloud of dirty smoke, and saw Hemming's face bent toward him, set and horrible. "Go away," said a voice that rang like metal, "or I will kill you where you stand. You have crossed my trail once too often, Penthouse, and, by God! this will be the last time. But now you may go away, you poor fool." Scott twitched once or twice, where he lay on the smoking-room floor, with his head on Smith's knee. But he was dead, sure enough, with a hole in his neck and another in his heart. News of the doctor's death soon reached the army, and the colonel's eyes were partially opened to his foolishness. He returned to his quarters, and tried to drown his misgivings in drink. Soon he was as reckless and crazy as ever. It was not a game for a sober man to play with any chance of success. Penthouse, for it was really he, cursed his luck when he heard of his deed, but not so much in disgust at having killed a harmless stranger as in having missed Hemming. Then he steadied his nerves with a glass of brandy, and encouraged the army to fresh efforts. In the afternoon, Hemming opened the front door, and stared at the men on the veranda. His left arm was in a sling. The troopers straightened up at sight of him, and one even went so far as to toss away his cigarette. The slim lieutenant, with the weakness for golf, bowed low.