ient.

Night closed down within thirty miles of Fort Mowbray. An early camp
was made for food and rest. The journey was to go through the night
that it might be completed before dawn broke.

In a few minutes the spiral of smoke from the camp-fire rose on the
still air, and helped dispel the attacks of the mosquitoes. Then came
the welcome smell of cooking. The Indian crew lolled about the
dew-laden bank with the unconcern and luxury of men whose iron muscles
are welcomely relaxed. One of their number was at the fire preparing
food, and Charley hectored whilst he superintended. Kars and Bill were
seated apart under the shelter of a bush. For the time they had charge
of their prisoner.

Murray McTavish was unchanged in appearance, except that his smile had
died from his round face and his curious eyes shone with a look that
was daily growing more hunted. Nearly six weeks had passed since Kars'
bullet had crashed through his arm, and left a shattered limb behind
it. His final journey had had to be delayed while Bill had exercised
his skill in healing that the prisoner might face his ultimate ordeal
whole. Now the healing was nearing completion, but the irony of it all
lay in the fact that the prisoner's well-being was of necessity the
first thought of those who controlled the itinerary.

From the moment of Murray's capture his attitude had become definite
and unchanging. His sufferings from his shattered arm were his own.
He gave vent to no complaint. He displayed no sign. A moody
preoccupation held him aloof from all that passed about him. He obeyed
orders, but his obedience was sullen and voiceless.

But that which he refused to his captors by word of mouth, by action,
was there for the reading. His big eyes could not remain silent. The
mask-like smile was no longer part of him. The knowledge of his
defeat, and all its consequences, looked out of glowing depths which
shone with so mysterious a light. And daily the pages were turned for
the reading of the tragedy, the scenes of which were passing behind
them. Resolute in will he was powerless to deny emotion. And the eyes
which saw and watched, day and night, on the long journey, read with
perfect understanding. His mental sufferings were far beyond any that
his wounded body could have inspired.

The westward goal for which his captors were making had a far different
meaning for him. He only saw in it the harvest of defeat, and all it
meant of