what a strange life mine has been, Scars," he added a moment later in a
confidential tone. "I have never told you of myself for the simple
reason that silence is best. We are friends; I hope we shall be friends
always, even though my enemies seek to despise me because I am not quite
white like them. But loyalty is one of the cherished traditions of my
people, and now that during two years our friendship has been firmly
established I trust nothing will ever occur to interrupt it."

"I take no heed of your enemies, Omar," I said. "You have proved yourself
genuine, and the question of colour, race, or creed has nothing to do
with it."

"Perhaps creed has," he exclaimed rather sadly. "But I make no pretence
of being what I am not. Your religion interests me, although, as you
know, I have never been taught the belief you have. My gods are in the
air, in the trees, in the sky. I believe what I have been taught; I pray
in silence and the great god Zomara hears me even though I am separated
from my race by yonder great ocean. Yet I sometimes think I cannot act as
you white people do, that, after all, what my enemies say is true. I am
still what you term a savage, although wearing the clothes of your
civilization."

"Though a man be a pagan he may still be a friend," I said.

"Yes, I am at least your friend," he said. "My only regret is that your
uncle will part us in a few months. Still, in years to come we shall
remember each other, and you will at least have a passing thought for
Omar, the Guinea Pig," he added, laughing.

I smiled too, but I noticed that although he endeavoured to appear gay,
his happiness was feigned, and there was in his dark eyes a look of
unutterable sadness. Our conversation drifted to a local cricket match
that was to be played on the morrow, and soon the gloomy thoughts that
seemed to possess him were dispelled.

It was on the same sunny afternoon, however, that a curious incident
occurred which was responsible for altering the steady prosaic course of
our lives. The most trifling incidents change the current of a life, and
the smallest events are sufficient to alter history altogether. Through
the blazing August afternoon we had walked beyond Meads, mounted Beachy
Head, passed the lighthouse at Belle Tout and descended to the beach at a
point known as the Seven Sisters. The sky was cloudless, the sea like
glass, and during that long walk without shelter from the sun's rays I
had been compelled