en shaken into a
crucible where the fire of pain and revolt burned on and on and on.
From the crucible there had come as yet no precipitation of life's
elements, and she scarcely knew what was in her heart. She tried to
smother every thought concerning the past. She did not seek to find her
bearings, or to realize in what country of the senses and the emotions
she was travelling.

One thing was present, however, at times, and when it rushed over her
in its fulness, it shook her as the wind shakes the leaf on a tree--a
sense of indignation, of anger, or resentment. Against whom? Against
all. Against Rudyard, against Ian Stafford; but most of all, a thousand
times most against a dead man, who had been swept out of life, leaving
behind a memory which could sting murderously.

Now, when she heard of Rudyard's bravery at Wortmann's Drift, a curious
thrill of excitement ran through her veins, or it would be truer to say
that a sensation new and strange vibrated in her blood. She had heard
many tales of valour in this war, and more than one hero of the
Victoria Cross had been in her charge at Durban; but as a child's heart
might beat faster at the first words of a wonderful story, so she felt
a faint suffocation in the throat and her brooding eyes took on a
brighter, a more objective look, as she heard the tale of Wortmann's
Drift.

"Tell me about it," she said, yet turned her head away from her eager
historian.

Corporal Shorter's words were addressed to the smallest pink ear he had
ever seen except on a baby, but he was only dimly conscious of that. He
was full of a man's pride in a man's deed.

"Well, it was like this," he recited. "Gunter's horse bolted--Dick
Gunter's in the South African Horse same as Colonel Byng--his lot. Old
Gunter's horse gits away with him into the wide open. I s'pose there'd
been a hunderd Boers firing at the runaway for three minutes, and at
last off comes Gunter. He don't stir for a minute or more, then we see
him pick himself up a bit quick, but settle back again. And while we
was lookin' and tossin' pennies like as to his chances out there, a
grey New Zealand mare nips out across the veld stretchin' every string.
We knowed her all right, that grey mare--a regular Mrs. Mephisto, w'ich
belongs to Colonel Byng. Do the Boojers fire at him? Don't they! We
could see the spots of dust where the bullets struck, spittin',
spittin', spittin', and Lord knows how many hunderd more there was that
did