"I don't fancy you'll get many to agree with you as to the last, my dear. Any man would rather be a brute than a coward," said the Squire sneeringly. "And every man is a brute in the eyes of a woman if he doesn't lie down flat and let her waltz over him, or fetch and carry, and cringe like a well-trained water-spaniel. Well, that's neither here nor there. You've been engaged to a strong, level-headed, sensible man--one of the most sensible I've ever known--and you've publicly insulted him and thrown him over for no adequate cause whatever, I suppose if ever I see him again I shall have to apologise to him for the way he's been treated." Violet could hardly contain herself throughout this peroration. "Apologise to him?" she flashed. "Good Heavens! if the man went down on his knees to me, after what has happened, I wouldn't look at him." "Well, you're not likely to get the chance. Lamont is no such imbecile as to embark on any silliness of that kind. You've had such a chance as you'll never get again, and you'll live to regret it, mark me." The girl went from her father's presence in a whirlwind of passion, but--it was mixed. Inwardly she raged against him for not sympathising with--not applauding her action. He had thrown another light upon the matter; hard, cynical, even brutal, but--still another light. And the sting lay in his last words. She would live to regret it, he had said. Why, she regretted it already. CHAPTER ONE. THE MOPANI FOREST. The man could hardly drag one step behind the other. He could hardly drag by the bridle the tottering horse, of which the same held good. His brain was giddy and his eyes wearied with the unvarying vista on every hand, the straight stems of the mopani forest, enclosing him; a still and ghastly wilderness devoid of bird or animal life. He stumbled forward, his lips blue and cracked, his tongue swollen, his throat on fire; and in his mind was blank and utter despair, for he knew that he was in the heart of a waterless tract, extending for about a hundred miles, and for over forty hours no drop of moisture of any sort had passed his lips. Forty hours of wandering in the driest, most thirst-inspiring region in the world! He had made a bad start. There had been festivities at Fort Pagadi the night before, to celebrate the Jameson Raid and drink the health of its leaders. In these he had participated to the full--very much to the full. He had started at daybreak with a native guide, a headache, and a thirst which a brace of long and early brandies-and-sodas had failed entirely to quench. He had started, too, with another concomitant incidental to these latter--a very bad temper, to wit; wherefore, the native guide proving irritatingly dull of comprehension, he leaned from the saddle and cuffed him; which proceeding that aboriginal resented by decamping on the first opportunity.