, Home. What Chantel said--well, between the two of us,
I'm afraid he's right. It's a pity."

Heywood paused, frowning.

"A pity, too, this quarrel. So precious few of us, and trouble ahead.
The natives lashing themselves into a state of mind, or being lashed.
The least spark--Rough work ahead, and here we are at swords' points."

"And the joke is," Rudolph added quietly, "I do not know a sword's point
from a handle."

Heywood turned, glowered, and twice failed to speak.

"Rudie--old boy," he stammered, "that man--Preposterous! Why, it's plain
murder!"

Rudolph stared straight ahead, without hope, without illusions, facing
the haggard light of morning. A few weeks ago he might have wept; but
now his laugh, short and humorous, was worthy of his companion.

"I do not care, more," he answered. "Luck, so called I it, when I
escaped the militar' service. Ho ho! Luck, to pass into the _Ersatz!_--I
do not care, now. I cannot believe, even cannot I fight.
Worthless--dreamer! My deserts. It's a good way out."

CHAPTER IX

PASSAGE AT ARMS

"Boy."

"Sai."

"S'pose Mr. Forrester bym-by come, you talkee he, master no got, you
chin-chin he come-back."

"Can do."

The long-coated boy scuffed away, across the chunam floor, and
disappeared in the darkness. Heywood submitted his head once more to the
nimble hands of his groom, who, with horse-clippers and a pair of
enormous iron shears, was trimming the stubborn chestnut locks still
closer. The afternoon glow, reflected from the burnt grass and white
walls of the compound, struck upward in the vault-spaces of the ground
floor, and lighted oddly the keen-eyed yellow mafoo and his serious
young master.

Nesbit, pert as a jockey, sat on the table swinging his feet furiously.

"Sturgeon would take it all right, of course," he said, with airy
wisdom. "Quite the gentleman, he is. Netch'rally. No fault of his."

"Not the least," Heywood assented gloomily. "Did everything he could.
If I were commissioned to tell 'em outright--'The youngster can't
fence'--why, we might save the day. But our man won't even listen to
that. Fight's the word. Chantel will see, on the spot, directly they
face. But will that stop him? No fear: he's worked up to the pitch of
killing. He'll lunge first, and be surprised afterward.--So regrettable!
Such remorse!--Oh, I know _him!_"

The Cockney fidgeted for a time. His face--the face of a street-bred
urchin--slowly worked into lines of abnor