, the topic
was revived.

"I wonder why women are always such blind worshippers of mere pluck,"
Warren remarked.

"But you wouldn't have us hold cowardice in respect, would you?"

"You can't respect a negative--and cowardice is a negative."

"Well then, a man who is a coward?"

"Why not? I know at least two men who are that, and I happen to hold
them in some considerable respect. That astonishes you, does it?"

"Well, yes, naturally," said Lalante, with a laugh, and wondering
whether he was serious.

"Naturally, but illogically. That blind, instinctive shrinking from
risk which we call cowardice is constitutional, and its subject can no
more help it than he could have helped being born with a club foot, for
instance."

"You do put things well," said Lalante. "All the same you'll never
persuade the world in general that a coward is anything but a pitiable
object."

"If by that you mean deserving of pity, why then I agree with you--if of
contempt, then I don't. I'll tell you another who doesn't."

"Who's that?"

"Wyvern."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've seen him give practical proof of it."

The girl's face softened and her eyes filled.

"Him? Oh, he's goodness itself," she murmured. "He hasn't a fault,
except that of being unfortunate."

"Which isn't a fault. The fact is we are all cowards on some point or
other, and a good many of us all round, though we succeed in hiding it.
Look at that river now, that swirling, roaring monster against which the
strongest swimmer would have that much chance," with a snap of the
finger and thumb. "I should be uncommonly sorry to be put to the test
of having to jump in there after some other fellow who had tumbled in.
That would be something of a test wouldn't it; and I'm perfectly certain
I should funk it?"

"It would. But I'm perfectly certain you wouldn't funk it," laughed
Lalante.

And then, paling their faces and curdling their blood, came a shrill
piercing scream of agony and terror. As they turned towards it a small
boy came rushing headlong through the sparse mimosas growing along that
part of the bank.

"He's in," he screamed. "Charlie. He's in the river--there."

Following his pointing finger they could see nothing, then, borne
swiftly down towards them, a head rose to the surface, showing an
agonised little face, in the last degree of terror, and a pair of hands
feebly battling with the vast might of the flood. A second more and
L