the Cause
amongst savage tribes; for he himself was a missionary of many years
standing. He told how once he and a companion had been sent to a
nation, who named themselves the Sons of Fire because their god was the
lightning, if indeed they could be said to boast any gods other than
the Spear and the King. In simple language he narrated his terrible
adventures among these savages, the murder of his companion by command
of the Council of Wizards, and his own flight for his life; a tale
so interesting and vivid that even the bucolic sleepers awakened and
listened open-mouthed.

"But this is by the way," he went on; "for my Society does not ask you
to subscribe towards the conversion of the Children of Fire. Until that
people is conquered--which very likely will not be for generations,
seeing that they live in Central Africa, occupying a territory that
white men do not desire--no missionary will dare again to visit them."

At this moment something caused him to look a second time at Thomas
Owen. He was leaning forward in his place listening eagerly, and a
strange light filled the large, dark eyes that shone in the pallor of
his delicate, nervous face.

"There is a man who would dare, if he were put to it," thought the
Deputation to himself. Then he ended his sermon.

That evening the two men sat at dinner in the rectory. It was a very
fine rectory, beautifully furnished; for Owen was a man of taste which
he had the means to gratify. Also, although they were alone, the dinner
was good--so good that the poor broken-down missionary, sipping his
unaccustomed port, a vintage wine, sighed aloud in admiration and
involuntary envy.

"What is the matter?" asked Owen.

"Nothing, Mr. Owen;" then, of a sudden thawing into candour, he
added: "that is, everything. Heaven forgive me; but I, who enjoy your
hospitality, am envious of you. Don't think too hardly of me; I have a
large family to support, and if only you knew what a struggle my life
is, and has been for the last twenty years, you would not, I am sure.
But you have never experienced it, and could not understand. 'The
labourer is worthy of his hire.' Well, my hire is under two hundred a
year, and eight of us must live--or starve--on it. And I have worked,
ay, until my health is broken. A labourer indeed! I am a very hodman, a
spiritual Sisyphus. And now I must go back to carry my load and roll
my stone again and again among those hopeless savages till I die of
it--till