"I say, though, Miss Vidal," objected another man, "you surely wouldn't have us all roll up at a peaceable gymkhana hung round with six-shooters, like the conventional cowboy? Eh?" "Well, where should we be if a Matabele impi were to rush in on us now?" she persisted. "Utterly at its mercy, of course. Imagine it charging out from there, for instance," pointing towards the dark line of bush on the slope of Ehlatini. Some of the other occupants of the `grand stand' here raised quite a flutter of protest. It was too bad of Miss Vidal to indulge in such horrible imaginings, they declared. It made them quite uncomfortable. Many a true word was spoken in jest--and so forth. But the men laughed indulgently; utterly and sceptically scornful their mirth would have been but for the sex and popularity of the speaker. Many a true word spoken in jest! Yes, indeed. Here a lively holiday scene--the clatter of the horses, laughter and jollity and flirtation-- nearly a couple of hundred men, besides women and children, the former unarmed,--all save one. The wretched ryot returning at sunset to his jungle village is not more blissfully unconscious of the lurking presence of the dread man-eater, which in a moment more, will, with lightning-like pounce, sweep him out of existence, than are these, that yonder, upon the bushy slope almost overhanging their pleasure ground, a thousand armed savages are hungrily watching for the signal which shall change this sunny, light-hearted scene into a drama of carnage, and woe and horror unutterable. All--save one. "You've got such a lively imagination, you ought to write a book about us, Miss Vidal," suggested Wyndham. "You could make some funny characters out of some of us, I'll bet." "I don't doubt it for a moment. Shall I begin with yourself, Mr Wyndham?" "Oh, I say though, I don't know about that. Here's Driffield, he'd make a much better character than I would. Or Lamont--here, Lamont," he called out, as the latter was passing near. "Roll up, man, and hear your luck. Miss Vidal is going to write a book and make you the principal character." "Really, Mr Wyndham, I wouldn't have believed it of you," laughed Clare. "To tell such shocking taradiddles. It's obviously a long time since you attended Sunday school. Now, go away. I won't talk to you any more--for--let me see, well, not for half an hour. Go away. Half an hour, mind." He swept off his hat with comic ruefulness. Then over his shoulder-- "I resign--_vice_ Lamont promoted--for half an hour." "That means a whole hour, now," called out Clare after him, whereat a great laugh went up from her hearers. From all but one, that is; and to this one all this chaff and light-hearted merriment was too awful, too ghastly--he, who _knew_ what none of these even so much as suspected.