"Do you remember that morning up on Ehlatini, you were warning me about Ancram? Well, that story was nearly all true. I did think my life was too good to put in pawn for the sake of that of a peculiarly abominable specimen of the _genus_ gutter-brat--a specimen which was bound to be hung sooner or later--probably sooner. I think so still." She shook her head, trying to look solemn. "All life is sacred," she began. "Is it? Mine wasn't--not much. But I'm pretty sure that the immersed gutter-snipe's was less so." No, there was no keeping up the solemnity line. Clare went off into a rippling peal of laughter. "I can't help it," she exclaimed. "But don't imagine I approve. It was very wrong indeed to let slip an opportunity of saving life." "Oh, for the matter of that, if the wretched little beast had been quite alone the case would have been different. As it was, there were plenty of others to haul him out if they chose, so I let them. Then I was insulted and abused by the last person in the world who should have done so, and that in front of a gang of gaping clodhoppers. I hope Ancram didn't leave that part of the story out, because then you will know I have been engaged before." "Yes, I knew that," answered Clare, who was secretly admiring the straightforward, unhesitating manner in which he told his tale. No stuttering or beating about the bush. He had something to say, and he said it in the most natural and concise manner possible. And she liked that. "I'm glad. That makes it easier," he returned. "But," she went on, "are you sure you have no lingering regrets on that score? Not even a little one deep down in your heart?" "Not the very ghost of one. I am a vindictive animal, I suppose, but that sort of treatment leaves no room for lingering regrets, though it does for lingering resentment. But even of that there is none left now. You will never turn against me, darling?" "Never," she answered decisively and without hesitation, although startled by the sudden directness of the question. "No matter what I did? Even to a repetition of the incident I have been telling you?" "Not even then. No--nothing could ever make me turn from you," she repeated, with a sudden burst of passion. It was a strange contrast, these two walking there, talking, thinking of love. Down by a stagnant water-hole in the nearly dry river-bed, the horses and mules were grazing, under an armed guard, and yonder the gleam of rifles where vedettes were posted. Outside and within the stockade men lounged and chatted, all ready to fly to arms at the first alarm. So to these two it was as an oasis--this peace of a great happiness. They had found it between the lurid storms of war, and good--very good-- was it for them that they had. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE IMPI.