Human beings break into song round a bonfire as naturally as birds after a shower of rain, and for those who see in such a fire no mere holocaust of dead twigs, but the Red Flower of the Jungle, the symbol and spirit of wild life, this spontaneous minstrelsy has a charm peculiarly its own. A charm of the simplest, certainly; for at camp-fires the banjo reigns supreme; and the aptest songs are those that 'rip your very heartstrings out' and offer fine facilities for effervescing between the verses. Already a remarkable assortment of these had challenged the winking stars; and Quita was encouraging the requisite headache, while Garth contemplated the suggestion of a stroll towards the lake, when Michael Maurice came up to them. "Quita, _cherie_, they have sent me to ask if you will sing. I have my fiddle here for accompaniment." She hesitated. A rare shyness, born of the afternoon's fiasco, was still upon her. "Who sent you?" she asked, smiling up at him. "Colonel Mayhew, and several others." He bent lower. "_Tu es trop fatiguee apres ce vilain polo_?" "_Non, ce n'est pas ca . . . mais . . ._" "Do, Miss Maurice, please, do," urged an enthusiastic young civilian on her left. "A woman's voice, especially yours, would be a rare treat after our promiscuous shouting." And on her other side Garth, pressing closer, whispered his plea. "Don't disappoint me. It is ages since I last heard you sing." Without answering either, she touched her brother's arm. "Tune up, Michel," she said low and hurriedly. "I have thought of a song." Garth murmured his thanks with unusual _empressement_. Her instant acquiescence had both moved and flattered him; and his hopes rode high. As a matter of fact, she had not even heard his request. She had simply obeyed an impulse, as in most crises of her life;--an impulse so peremptory that it seemed almost a command from Beyond. "What song is it to be?" Maurice asked, when the tuning process was complete. "Swinburne's 'Ask Nothing More.'" He raised his eyebrows. "A man's song?" "Yes. But you know I often sing it; and I want to . . . to-night." "_Qu'y a-t-il, petite soeur_?" he asked, for her manner puzzled him. "_Rien . . . rien de tout_. Commence." And he played the soft chords, pregnant with pleading, that usher in the song. A moment later, Lenox, leaning back in a canvas chair, sat upright, and took the cigar from his lips. "A woman singing? Jove--it's Quita!" he added under his breath. Then he remained motionless, straining his eyes for a sight of her between the dancing flames. Clear and unfaltering her voice soared into the night; and as the song swept on, through pleading to impassioned longing, the whole awakened heart of her took fire from the poet's faultless phrases; till, in the last verse, it spoke straightly and simply to her husband, as though they two stood alone in the interstellar spaces of the universe.