Yes, he loved her. This keen-witted, philosophical man of the world was madly in love with the beautiful wife of his middle-aged cousin. He loved her with all the raging abandonment of a strong nature that does nothing by halves; yet during nearly a year spent beneath the same roof--nearly a year of easy, pleasant, social intercourse--never by word or sign had he betrayed his secret--at least, so he imagined. But that no such blow should fall while he was alive, he resolved at all hazards. Why had he come there at all, was a question he had been asking himself for some time past? Why had he stayed, why did he stay? For the latter he hated and despised himself on account of his miserable weakness. But now it seemed that both were answered--that he had been brought there for a purpose--to protect _her_ from the fearful consequences entailed by the blundering ferocity of him who should have been her first protector--to save her from some impending and terrible fate. Surely this was sufficient answer. Then a wild thrill set his pulses tingling--a thrill of joy, of fierce expectation set on foot by a single thought, the intense expectation of the gambler who sees fortune brought within his reach by the potential turn of chances already strong in his favour. They were on the eve of war. What might the chances of war not entail? Blind, blundering Tom Carhayes running his head, like a bull, at every stone wall--were not the chances of war increased tenfold _against_ such a man as this? And then--and then--? No man could be more unfitted to hold possession of such a priceless treasure as this--argued the man who did not hold it. "Confess, Eanswyth, that you are very glad I didn't take you at your word and go after Tom," said Eustace, as they were sitting cosily at table. "Perhaps I am. I have been getting so dreadfully nervous and low spirited of late--so different to the strong-minded creature I used to be," she said with a rueful smile. "I am becoming quite frightened to be left alone." "Are you? Well, I think I can undertake to promise that you shall not be left alone again. One of us must always make a point of being around the house while the other is away. But look here, Eanswyth; I really think you oughtn't to go on staying here at present. Why don't you go down to the Colony and stay in one or other of the towns, or even at that other farm of Tom's, until things are settled again?" "I won't do that. And I'm really not in the least afraid for myself. I don't believe the Kafirs would harm me." "Then why are you nervous at being left alone?" was the very pertinent rejoinder. "Not on my own account. It is only that solitude gives me time to think. I am always imagining Tom coming to frightful grief in some form or other."