ss MacLeod instantly formulated for
him.

"My dear fellow," he was saying, "sit down here. You're faint."

But Osmond would neither sit nor accept the cup of water MacLeod had
brought him from the pail left on the bench for the workmen. He stood,
keeping his grip on himself and battling back to life. Presently he was
conscious that Peter was there, calling him affectionately. Now again he
felt the blood in his face, the wetness of the hair above his forehead,
and he knew he was not the man he had been. MacLeod was speaking, in
evident solicitude.

"Your brother has had an ill turn. He's all right now, aren't you,
Grant?"

Osmond looked at him, smiling grimly. MacLeod seemed to him his foe not
only for the sake of Rose, but because the man, great insolent child of
good fortune as he was, represented the other side of the joy of fight.
Osmond almost loved him, because it was through him that he had been
inducted into a knowledge of that unknown glory. MacLeod picked up his
pipe from the bench, tapped it empty, and pocketed it. He gave them a
pleasant inclusive nod of fellowship.

"I'll trot along," said he. "See you at dinner, Peter."

"What was it, Osmond? What was it?" Peter was asking, in a worried
voice.

Osmond suddenly looked tired. He passed his hand over his forehead, and
put back his matted hair.

"Pete," he said, "I suppose it was a hundred things. But all it really
was, was the rage for fight, plain fight. But whatever it was, I've got
something out of it."

"What?"

"I know how men--other men--feel."

"Other men don't want to tackle one another, as a general thing, like
bulldogs."

"Oh, yes! they recognize the instinct. They're ready to stamp on it. I
wasn't ready. I'm glad to have met that instinct. It's a healthy old
devil of an instinct. I respect it."

Peter was staring as if he did not know him.

"What was it, Osmond?" he asked again.

Osmond shook his head and laughed.

"I'll wash my hands," he said. "I feel as if there were dirt on them and
the touch of clothes that are not mine." He stopped on his way to the
bench where there was a basin and towel for hasty use. "Pete," he said,
"you don't want to scrap a little, do you?"

He did not look like the same man. Light was in his face, overlying the
flush of simple passions. He looked almost joyous. It was Peter who was
distraught, older with a puzzled sadness.

"Don't!" he said. "Don't think of such devilment. There's no good in it.