"I don't altogether agree with you, my dear," said Mr. Scarse, energetically. "If Malet had been detected in his treasonable dealings, under martial law he would have been shot openly. As it was, Wilfred executed the sentence privately. I am not one to defend murder, you know, but I cannot bring myself to look upon this as murder." "Wilfred was insane on the subject of patriotism," said Harold. "He was hardly responsible for his actions when he shot Malet. I don't blame him. The reptile deserved his punishment; and Van Zwieten deserved his fate. Wilfred did no more than was right, and he rid the world of two scoundrels." "You forget, Van Zwieten fired first," put in Brenda. "Wilfred only defended himself. I can't pretend I am sorry that Van Zwieten is dead, because so long as he lived he would never have ceased to persecute me. But let his evil die with him, Harold." "So far as that goes I never want to hear his name!" "Now you are overtaxing your strength talking, dear," said Brenda, arranging the bedclothes. "You must be quiet and try and rest." "Yes, do," said Mr. Scarse. "I want to have a few words with Brenda." So Harold lay back, and, after a time, fell into a sleep. His wife told off one of the nurses to stay beside him, and herself went out with her father. When they had gone a short distance he explained why he wished to speak privately with her. "Brenda," he said, "a will was found on Van Zwieten. It seems that there is a sum of some five thousand pounds standing to his credit at one of the London banks." "Really, father; I never thought he was so well off. Evidently spying paid. To whom has he left it?" "To you, my dear!" "To me?" She could hardly believe her ears. "I would not take it if I were starving. I hated the man. How could I touch his money?" "But, Brenda, think for a moment; is it not foolish to throw it away? Five thousand pounds is a large sum." "No, no, no!" repeated the girl, vehemently. "I will not touch it, I tell you. That money was made out of spying and working evil against England. I am sure Harold would think as I do about it." And so Harold did think. Later on, when she returned, she found him just awakened out of a refreshing sleep, and she told him of Van Zwieten's strange bequest. He refused at once to accept it, and commended her for having forestalled him in the decision. "We can live on our own means, small as they are, dear; and, when the war is over, I will beat my sword into a ploughshare and come out here and turn farmer." "That is if we are successful," said his wife smiling. "Oh, I have no fear as to that. In a month or two there will be equal rights for white man and black from the Zambesi to the Cape. But, in any case, there'll be no more fighting for me, Brenda. I shall never be the same man again." "Who says so?" she asked quickly.