nts were dimly visible as they twirled their
fans,--and overhead the gleaming stars. They were alone.

"I've been talking an awful lot of rot about myself," Dominey said.
"Tell me a little about your career now and your life in Germany before
you came out here?"

Von Ragastein made no immediate reply, and a curious silence ebbed and
flowed between the two men. Every now and then a star shot across
the sky. The red rim of the moon rose a little higher from behind the
mountains. The bush stillness, always the most mysterious of silences,
seemed gradually to become charged with unvoiced passion. Soon the
animals began to call around them, creeping nearer and nearer to the
fire which burned at the end of the open space.

"My friend," Von Ragastein said at last, speaking with the air of a man
who has spent much time in deliberation, "you speak to me of Germany,
of my homeland. Perhaps you have guessed that it is not duty alone
which has brought me here to these wild places. I, too, left behind me a
tragedy."

Dominey's quick impulse of sympathy was smothered by the stern, almost
harsh repression of the other's manner. The words seemed to have been
torn from his throat. There was no spark of tenderness or regret in his
set face.

"Since the day of my banishment," he went on, "no word of this matter
has passed my lips. To-night it is not weakness which assails me, but
a desire to yield to the strange arm of coincidence. You and I,
schoolmates and college friends, though sons of a different country,
meet here in the wilderness, each with the iron in our souls. I shall
tell you the thing which happened to me, and you shall speak to me of
your own curse."

"I cannot!" Dominey groaned.

"But you will," was the stern reply. "Listen."

An hour passed, and the voices of the two men had ceased. The howling
of the animals had lessened with the paling of the fires, and a slow,
melancholy ripple of breeze was passing through the bush and lapping the
surface of the river. It was Von Ragastein who broke through what might
almost have seemed a trance. He rose to his feet, vanished inside the
banda, and reappeared a moment or two later with two tumblers. One he
set down in the space provided for it in the arm of his guest's chair.

"To-night I break what has become a rule with me," he announced. "I
shall drink a whisky and soda. I shall drink to the new things that may
yet come to both of us."

"You are giving up your work here?