?"

The Umlimo's question came back to his mind as he walked away from the
house in a very fury of turmoil. The Umlimo's predictions seemed to
fulfil themselves to the letter in every particular. In his then frame
of mind John Ames found his thoughts reverting to that strange
personality with a kind of fascination, of deepened sympathy. He
himself began to feel the same hatred of his kind, the same intuition
that even as the hand of everybody was against him, so should his hand
be against everybody. It was significant that Nidia should have been
out of the way. Could it be that she had deputed this cursed,
parrot-faced, interfering woman to take up her part and so clear the
ground for her? His part was played. He had been Nidia's Providence
during that perilous flight, but now his part was played. She had no
longer any use for him. The "brilliant future mapped out for her"--the
words seemed burnt into his brain--what part or lot had he in such, he a
mere penniless nobody? And then all the outrageous insult conveyed by
the woman's words--a sort of patronising assurance that he would be
compensated, yes, compensated--paid--why did she not call it? Faugh!
It was sickening. Well, again, as the Umlimo had pronounced, it was the
way of life. Black and bitter were his thoughts. All was dark--blankly
dark. He knew not which way to turn. And at this juncture "The Major,"
otherwise Shackleton, his ankle now restored sufficiently to enable its
owner to hobble about, barred his material way with a pressing
invitation to come round and lunch. Lunch, indeed! Mentally he
consigned that estimable American to the devil, and, leaving him
astonished, went on to his own quarters, like a wounded animal, to hide
his pain and heartbreak alone. Besides, he was sick of the story of his
own "heroism." Damn such "heroism"! He thought of the luckless trooper
who had been with them in their peril, probably conjured up by the sight
of Shackleton, and envied him. Why had he not been the one to end his
hopes and fears then in that swift and easy manner? That poor devil
probably had plenty of life's sweets in front of him. He had none.
That was all over and done with.

He gained his quarters. The post had come in, and on his table lay a
pile of official-looking letters, most of them addressed to him by his
late official style. He glanced through them listlessly, one after
another, and then--What was it that caused his hand to