“Sanguine! I am certain; and why not? Look at our wonderful trade! And the Burmese themselves like us a million times better than you English.” “Simply because you bribe them with money and presents.” “But look at the crowds,” waving his hand towards the masses, “who have come to say ‘_Auf Wiedersehen_’; thousands and thousands.” Then he turned his bold arrogant eyes on Sophy and said: “Your country has no chance against us, Miss Leigh; we shall crush you like pulp—your money, treasures and trade will all be ours. Hullo!” he exclaimed, “what are these police doing? Mounted police, too! Any escaped convicts on board?” As he stood and watched, the swaying masses were parted with authority and a large force ranged up on the quay. Officers and officials came on board, armed with an order from the Lieutenant-Governor. Among the first strode FitzGerald in full uniform, not the everyday genial Patrick, but a smart stern guardian of the law. Approaching the bragging Bernhard, he said, with frigid severity: “Be good enough to go ashore, Herr Bernhard.” “What!” stammered his prisoner, who had become livid. “What the devil are you talking about! How dare you interfere with me? Or give me an order?” “Official order,” rejoined FitzGerald, entirely unmoved. “All men of German nationality to disembark immediately and be interned.” Sophy now made a forcible and frantic effort to effect her escape from this hateful situation, and struggling through the crowd eventually managed to join her own friends. Disembark—to be interned! What a thunderbolt! All at once Bernhard’s flushed countenance became livid, his eyes glared savagely, and there suddenly spread a choking, suffocating expression on his large handsome face. The noise and clamour of hoarse angry voices became almost stupefying, but in the end the Teutons were compelled to accept the inevitable, and gradually streamed ashore, carrying their hand baggage, parcels of delicatessen, and other comforts intended for the voyage. The heavy baggage was hastily landed, for the _Blankshire_ had steam up and was bound to catch the tide. A more than half-empty ship, she now slipped from her berth and turned her bows towards home. As she glided slowly by the wharf, Shafto and Sophy waved vigorous farewells to their numerous friends, Burmese and European. There was Roscoe, there were the Salters and Rosetta. Apart from all, a solitary little figure stood prominent on a heap of rice bags. It was Ma Chit, waving a pink silk handkerchief. For once she was not smiling, her piquant face was grave, and the eyes fixed upon Shafto conveyed an eloquent and heartbroken farewell; presently she cowered down and hid her face.