r woman may know.

One thought gave a horror to this narrative. Among the women in that
room was the one who to him was infinitely dearer than any other on
earth. And this danger had threatened her--a danger too horrible to
think of--one which made his very life-blood freeze in the course of
this calm narration. This was the one thing on which his thoughts
turned most; that horrible, that appalling danger. So fearful was it
to him that he envied Obed the privilege of having saved her. He
longed to have been there in Obed's place, so as to have done this
thing for her. He himself had once saved her from death, and that
scene could never depart from his memory; but now it seemed to him at
though the fate from which he had saved her was nothing when compared
to the terror of that danger from which she had been snatched by
Obed.

Yet, during Obed's narrative, although these feelings were within his
heart, he said little or nothing. He listened with apparent calmness,
offering no remark, though at that time the thoughts of his heart
were so intense. In fact, it was through the very intensity of his
feelings that he forced himself to keep silence. For if he had spoken
he would have revealed all. If he had spoken he would have made known,
even to the most careless or the most preoccupied listener, all the
depth of that love which filled his whole being. Her very name to him
was something which he could not mention without visible emotion. And
she, in fearful peril, in terrific danger, in a situation so
horrible, could not be spoken of by one to whom she was so dear and
so precious.

And so he listened in silence, with only a casual interjection, until
Obed had finished his story. Then he made some appropriate remarks,
very coolly, complimentary to the heroism of his friend; which
remarks were at once quietly scouted by Obed as altogether
inappropriate.

"Pooh!" said he; "what was it, after all? These Italians are rubbish,
at the best. They are about equal to Mexicans. You've read about our
Mexican war, of course. To gain a victory over such rubbish is almost
a disgrace."

So Obed spoke about it, though whether he felt his exploit to be a
disgrace or not may very reasonably be doubted.

Yet, in spite of Lord Chetwynde's interest in the affair of the
Pontine Marshes, there was another story of Obed's which produced a
deeper effect on his mind. This was his account of his interview with
Black Bill, to which he had been s