ssly made a plaything of her love, and her heart was cold
and heavy within her, for she had bought that life at a great price--
even the price of herself.

Adrian from his tent door watched her retreating form, and his triumph
and delight were unbounded. He had won all along the line; and Aletta
had immolated herself all to no purpose. For he had no intention of
fulfilling his side of the compact. Even though he won her, his peace
and happiness in her possession would never be secure while Colvin
Kershaw lived; therefore, Colvin should die at dawn, and in a few days
he would satisfy Aletta that he had fulfilled his bargain by showing her
that other Kershaw whose likeness had deceived her before, but under
circumstances which would preclude speech--even as upon that other
occasion.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

IN THE SHADOW OF DOOM.

"Curious sort of `condemned cell' this," whimsically thought Colvin
Kershaw to himself, as he gazed around the place wherein he was
confined, and whence Frank Wenlock had escaped. For Commandant
Schoeman's promise that he should take the late prisoner's place had
been carried out to the letter, and here he was, shut up within Gideon
Roux' stable, only to leave it to go forth and meet his death.

He had pleaded to be allowed the use of the tent he had hitherto
occupied--at any rate, until nightfall. Not many more hours of God's
air and sunshine would be his, he had urged. But a decided refusal had
been returned--a refusal tinged with characteristic sanctimoniousness.
He would be better in confinement. There he would find nothing to
distract his thoughts in his preparation for the great and solemn
change, he was told, as would be the case if he were where he could see
and hear everyday sights and sounds, and others moving about him. So
here he was, under a strong guard, locked up within a not very clean or
sweet-smelling stable for the few remaining hours of his life.

He looked around. Even then he could hardly realise it. More than once
he had been in here before, seeing to his horse, on such occasions as he
visited Gideon Roux. The worm-eaten and much bitten crib, the pile of
old forage ends, and stamped-in grains of stale mealies underneath it,
and a curry-comb and brush, and an old headstall or two hanging from a
peg--the forage cutter had been taken away--all looked so home-like and
everyday. It seemed incredible, incongruous, even absurd to try and
realise that this place