s tongue. He felt old and defeated, like a man
suddenly robbed of his illusions. Garman had been right; he had been
dwelling in the Fool's Paradise of Youth, accepting dreams for
realities. Now, he had "torn the mask of illusions from the face of
Life and seen the old hag as she really is."

Garman's phrases kept ringing in his ears, and with repetition they
came to hold a note of mocking triumph.

Garman was whipped, yet he had won. His words remained to cut and
torture. In his state of semidelirium Roger began to doubt that he had
won over Garman. The doubt became a certainty. Defeat, not victory,
was his portion. Garman's was the victory, the victory of bitter
knowledge over the vaporish ideals of youth.

Roger stooped to drink from a clear pool at the river's brink and
shrank back at the reflection he beheld in the water. A strange, lined
face stared up at him. He shut his eyes as he drank, then plunged his
head into the pool. Cooled off and cleansed, he again studied his
reflection. The traces of dust and combat were washed away, and he saw
how little they had to do with the transformation. The change was
deeper than the skin, deeper than the flesh. It had bitten into the
spirit; and the bitterness and hate in his eyes, the cynical sneer that
leered up at him, sprang from the change that had taken place in his
soul.

Garman was still winning.

Roger laughed aloud, and at the sound of his voice checked himself
abruptly. He turned away from the pool, cursing it for what it had
revealed, and stumbled back into the darkness of the jungle.

In time he came to the spot where he and Garman had fought. His enemy
was gone. It was some minutes before Roger realized how this
disappointed him. He had returned to tell Garman he was right. He no
longer hated Garman. Garman made him see the truth.

Later, as he sat near the spot where his foe had fallen, he saw that
others had visited the spot recently. There were a multitude of fresh
tracks in the sand about the palmetto scrub. He regarded them
indifferently until he saw the deep marks of Higgins' hunting boots.
Besides these he saw other men's tracks, including the marks of Willy
High Pocket's bare feet. And then he saw that which sent the blood
racing to his head.

Clearly outlined in the sand were the marks of a girl's tennis
slippers, and he knew they were Annette's.

He searched the sand like a hound now, seeking signs of what had
happened