er she had ever seen or could form any possible idea of. Ah, if it
were only that one! Yet, on the whole, she was glad to see Warren. He
might even have brought her some news, he who seemed in touch with
everybody.

Le Sage and his guest were standing at the gate.

"Take round the horses, kiddies," said the former, shortly, as they
dismounted. "And--don't come back here until you're sent for. D'you
hear?"

The small boys obeyed without question. There was that in their
father's tone which precluded anything of the kind.

"What is it?" Lalante managed to get out, in a catching sort of gasp,
her great eyes fixed upon their faces, her own cold and white. The two
men looked at each other.

"Oh, you tell her, Le Sage, for God's sake," muttered Warren. "I
can't." And turning, he went indoors.

"What is it, father?" repeated the girl, the lividness of her face truly
awful as she pressed her hands convulsively on her heaving heart.
"Don't beat about the bush. Tell me."

"For Heaven's sake, child, keep up," he answered jerkily. "It's about
Wyvern. Disturbances in Zululand. He's--"

"Dead?"

Le Sage nodded. He could trust himself for no further words, in the
face of that fearful stony-eyed grief. Viewing this, at the moment he
would have given much to have seen Wyvern standing there alive and well.
He had obtained his bitter, oft repeated, but secret wish, and now he
would have given half he possessed had he not, as he read the effect of
the shock in Lalante's face.

"Keep up, child. For God's sake keep up. You'll get over it," he
jerked forth, as the tall, fine figure of the girl swayed for a moment,
then leaned against one of the gate posts for support. Was she going to
faint? No, she was made of stronger stuff.

"Get over it?" The words seemed almost demoniacal in their mockery.
"Get over it!" Why the world had come to an end for her from that
moment. "Get over it?" Something of a wan smile came to her lips, at
the bare irony suggested by the idea, as she stood, still grasping the
gate post as in an iron grip. The face was white as marble, and the
lips were set and blue. Only the great eyes moved, roaming listlessly
here and there, but resting on nobody.

"And you--sent--him--to--his--death."

Le Sage shivered beneath the words as beneath the cutting of a lash.
The one awful fear then in his mind was that Lalante might lose her
reason. In a rush of penitential tenderness, surprising