tself; then he asked John to explain. The good fellow saw that if
John could give his trouble words it would be lightened enormously. He
divined what had been suppressed.

"What is it that you will never know, John?"

At that John spoke, laying bare his heart. He gave details of the
never-ending struggle between Scaife and himself for the soul of his
friend; gave them with a clearness of expression which proved beyond
all else how his thoughts had crystallized in his mind. Warde
listened, holding John's hand, gripping it with sympathy and affection.
The romance of this friendship stirred him profoundly; the romance of
the struggle for good and evil; a struggle of which the issues remained
still in doubt; a romance which Death had cruelly left unfinished--this
had poignant significance for the house-master.

"I shall never know now," John repeated, in conclusion.

"But you have faith in your friend."

"He never wrote to me," said John.

At last it was out, the thorn in his side which had tormented him.

"If he had written," John continued, "if only he had written once.
When we parted it was good-bye--just that, nothing more; but I thought
he would write, and that everything would be cleared up. And now,
silence."

The week wore itself away. A few details were forthcoming: enough to
prove that a glorious deed had been done at the cost of a gallant life.
England was thrilled because the hero happened to be the son of a
popular Minister. The name of Desmond rang through the Empire. John
bought every paper and devoured the meagre lines which left so much
between them. It seemed that a certain position had to be taken--a
small hill. For the hundredth time in this campaign too few men were
detailed for the task. The reek of that awful slaughter on Spion Kop
was still strong in men's nostrils. Beauregard and his soldiers halted
at the foot of the hill, halted in the teeth of a storm of bullets.
Then the word was given to attack. But the fire from invisible foes
simply exterminated the leading files. The moment came when those
behind wavered and recoiled. And then Desmond darted forward--alone,
cheering on his fellows. They were all afoot. The men rallied and
followed. But they could not overtake the gallant figure pressing on
in front. He ran--so the Special Correspondent reported--as if he were
racing for a goal. The men staggered after him, aflame with his
ardour. They reached the top, captured