rsley."

"No?" said Averil indifferently. "And, why, please do you call him a
monster?"

Steele laughed a little. "Didn't you know?" he said. "Why, he is the
King of Evil in these parts!"

Averil felt her face slowly flushing. "I don't understand," she said.

"Don't you?" said Steele. "Honestly now?"

The flush heightened. "Of course I don't," she said. "Otherwise why
should I tell you so?"

"Pardon!" said Steele, unabashed. "Well, then, you must know that we are
all frightened of Carlyon of the Frontier. We hate him badly, but he has
the whip-hand of us, and so we have to do the tame trot for him. Over
there"--he jerked his head towards the mountains--"they would lie down
in a row miles long and let him walk over their necks. And not a single
blackguard among them would dare to stab upwards, because Carlyon is
immortal, as everyone knows, and it wouldn't be worth the blackguard's
while to survive the deed.

"They don't call him Carlyon in the mountains, but it's the same man,
for all that. He is a prophet, a deity, among them. They believe in him
blindly as a special messenger from Heaven. And he plays with them,
barters them, betrays them, every single day he spends among them. He is
strong, he is unscrupulous, he is merciless. He respects no friendship.
He keeps no oath. He betrays, he tortures, he slays. Even we, the
enlightened race, shrink from him as if he were the very fiend
incarnate.

"But he is a valuable man. The information he obtains is priceless. But
he trades with blood. He lives on treachery. He is more subtle than the
subtlest Pathan. He would betray any one or all of us to death if it
were to the interest of the Empire that we should be sacrified. That,
you know, in reason, is all very well. But, personally, I would sooner
tread barefoot on a scorpion than get entangled in Carlyon's web. He is
more false and more cruel than a serpent. At least, that is his
reputation among us. And those heathen beggars trust him so utterly."

Steele stopped abruptly. He had spoken with strong passion. His honest
face was glowing with indignation. He was British to the backbone, and
he loathed all treachery instinctively.

Suddenly he saw that the girl beside him had turned very white. He
paused in his walk with an awkward sense of having spoken unadvisedly.

"Of course," he said, with a boyish effort to recover his ground, "it
has to be done. Someone must do the dirty work. But that doesn't make
you like