"Every word, really and entirely. `Men' you said just now. Beasts in the shape of men you ought to have said, and would have if you had seen what Peters and I saw only yesterday morning, only I don't want to shock you any further. Yes, on second thoughts I will though, if only to set those qualms of a too-sensitive conscience at rest. Well, we found the mutilated remains of poor Tewson, and his womenkind and children--little children, mind--whom these devils had murdered in their own home. I could tell you even more that would bring it home to you, but I won't. Now, have you any further scruples of conscience?" "No, I haven't," she answered, both face and tone hardening as she realised the atrocity in its full horror. "Thank you for telling me. It has made a difference already. And now, Mr Lamont, I must go to my sister. You have saved us from a horrible death, and I don't know how to find words to thank you." "Oh, as to that, you can incidentally count in about three dozen other men. Not a man jack of them but did just as much as I did--some even more." She looked at him with such a sweet light glowing in her eyes, as well-nigh to unsteady him. "I'll believe that," she said, "when you've answered one question." "And it--?" "Who got together these men the moment he knew we were in danger? Who, forgetting his own fatigue, started at a moment's notice, and, inspiring the others with the same energy and bravery, rescued us from a ghastly death? Who was it?" "It was only what any man would have done. Oh, Clare, you can never realise what that moment meant to me when I heard that that blighting idiot Fullerton had started this morning--literally to hurl you on to the assegais of these devils. You!" In his vehemence he hardly noticed that he had used her Christian name. She did, however, and smiled, and the smile was very soft and sweet. "Me!" she echoed. "Didn't you think of poor Lucy too? Why only me?" "Because I love you." It was out now. His secret had been surprised from him. What would she say? They stood facing each other, in that rough room with its cheap oleographs of the Queen, the Kaiser, and Cecil Rhodes staring down upon them from the walls in the dingy light of an unfragrant oil-lamp, any moment liable to interruption. The smile upon her face became a shade sweeter. "Say that again," she said. "I love you." She was now in his embrace, but she sought not to release herself from it. Bending down his head she put her lips to his ear and whispered, "Consider the compliment returned." They said more than that, these two, who had thus so unpremeditatedly come together, but we do not feel under the necessity of divulging what they said. Perchance also they--_did_. "I must really go now," she said at last, as footsteps were heard approaching. "Good-night--my darling."