"True, O Spirit," answered Lobelalatutu. "It would be worthless to him, nay, worse, it would be a torment to him; for memory would remain to him to remind him constantly of what he was, as compared with what he now is. And he could do nothing for himself; he would be dependent upon others for every morsel of food, every drop of water that went to sustain a worthless and miserable life. There is but one act of kindness that can now avail him, and I, Lobelalatutu, will do it for him, even as I would pray him to do the like for me, were I as he is!" And ere von Schalckenberg could intervene, the savage, with a quick movement, raised the spear he held in his hand and, with unerring aim, drove it deep through the heart of his friend! Siswani's disfigured body responded to the stroke with a scarcely perceptible shudder; a faint sigh escaped the distorted lips; and the victim's sufferings were at an end. "The _coup-de-grace_! the stroke of mercy; the act of a friend indeed," remarked von Schalckenberg, as he rose to his feet and turned to meet Sir Reginald, whose exclamation of horror was the first intimation of his contiguity to the other two. "Look at that poor mutilated and disfigured remnant of what, a few hours ago, was a man, in the prime of life, and in the full enjoyment of perfect health and strength; consider what the future must have been to such a man, so mutilated--even had it been possible to retain the life in him, which I gravely doubt--and then say whether this man, his friend, has not done the best that it was possible to do. Yet, would you, my friend, hampered with the sentimentality of your civilisation, have had the moral courage to do the like?" "How long do you think he would have lived, but for that stroke of the spear?" asked Sir Reginald. Von Schalckenberg shrugged his shoulders. "Who can say?" he retorted. "Had he been left alone, he would perhaps have lingered in indescribable agony until sunset, when the poison in his system would have done its work, and he would have died. On the other hand, had I employed my utmost skill, and been free to give my undivided attention to him for, say, a month, I might, perhaps, have been so far successful as to have prolonged his life to the extent of two or three years; during which--deaf, dumb, blind, utterly helpless, and every movement a torture to him--he would have been dependent upon others for the necessities of life." "Then," said Sir Reginald, "if I could know that the condition which you have described was the best that the future held in store for him, I would have put my sentimentality in my pocket and--"