en that door," he said, presently, and Barry Whalen opened the door
which led into the big hall.

"Open all down to the street," Byng said, and Barry Whalen went forward
quickly.

Like some wild beast Krool crouched and stumbled and moaned as he ran
down the staircase, through the outer hall, while a servant with scared
face saw Byng rain savage blows upon the hated figure.

On the pavement outside the house, Krool staggered, stumbled, and fell
down; but he slowly gathered himself up, and turned to the doorway,
where Byng stood panting with the sjambok in his hand.

"Baas!--Baas!" Krool said with livid face, and then he crept painfully
away along the street wall.

A policeman crossed the road with a questioning frown and the apparent
purpose of causing trouble, but Barry Whalen whispered in his ear, and
told him to call that evening and he would hear all about it. Meanwhile
a five-pound note in a quick palm was a guarantee of good faith.

Presently a half-dozen people began to gather near the door, but the
benevolent policeman moved them on.

At the top of the staircase Jasmine met her husband. She shivered as he
came up towards her.

"Will you come to me when you have finished your business?" she said,
and she took the sjambok gently from his hand.

He scarcely realized her. He was in a dream; but he smiled at her, and
nodded, and passed on to where the others awaited him.

CHAPTER XXVIII

"THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM"

Slowly Jasmine returned to her boudoir. Laying the sjambok on the table
among the books in delicate bindings and the bowls of flowers, she
stood and looked at it with confused senses for a long time. At last a
wan smile stole to her lips, but it did not reach her eyes. They
remained absorbed and searching, and were made painfully sad by the
wide, dark lines under them. Her fair skin was fairer than ever, but it
was delicately faded, giving her a look of pensiveness, while yet there
was that in her carriage and at her mouth which suggested strength and
will and new forces at work in her. She carried her head, weighted by
its splendour of golden hair, as an Eastern woman carries a goulah of
water. There was something pathetic yet self-reliant in the whole
figure. The passion slumbering in the eyes, however, might at any
moment burst forth in some wild relinquishment of control and
self-restraint.

"He did what I should have liked to do," she said aloud. "We are not so
different, aft