s type--the type
that saved us during the Mutiny," continued Brown. "He was always more
for duty than for dash; and with all his personal courage was decidedly
a prudent commander, particularly indignant at any needless waste of
soldiers. Yet in this last battle he attempted something that a baby
could see was absurd. One need not be a strategist to see it was as wild
as wind; just as one need not be a strategist to keep out of the way
of a motor-bus. Well, that is the first mystery; what had become of the
English general's head? The second riddle is, what had become of the
Brazilian general's heart? President Olivier might be called a visionary
or a nuisance; but even his enemies admitted that he was magnanimous to
the point of knight errantry. Almost every other prisoner he had ever
captured had been set free or even loaded with benefits. Men who had
really wronged him came away touched by his simplicity and sweetness.
Why the deuce should he diabolically revenge himself only once in his
life; and that for the one particular blow that could not have hurt him?
Well, there you have it. One of the wisest men in the world acted like
an idiot for no reason. One of the best men in the world acted like a
fiend for no reason. That's the long and the short of it; and I leave it
to you, my boy."

"No, you don't," said the other with a snort. "I leave it to you; and
you jolly well tell me all about it."

"Well," resumed Father Brown, "it's not fair to say that the public
impression is just what I've said, without adding that two things have
happened since. I can't say they threw a new light; for nobody can make
sense of them. But they threw a new kind of darkness; they threw the
darkness in new directions. The first was this. The family physician
of the St. Clares quarrelled with that family, and began publishing a
violent series of articles, in which he said that the late general was
a religious maniac; but as far as the tale went, this seemed to mean
little more than a religious man.

"Anyhow, the story fizzled out. Everyone knew, of course, that St. Clare
had some of the eccentricities of puritan piety. The second incident was
much more arresting. In the luckless and unsupported regiment which made
that rash attempt at the Black River there was a certain Captain Keith,
who was at that time engaged to St. Clare's daughter, and who afterwards
married her. He was one of those who were captured by Olivier, and,
like all the re