friend, that you have saved me?"

He had stopped, and she was looking up to him, half-smiling, half-
entreating, wholly alluring. He looked down into her dark face, with
a sudden quickening about the heart.

"And all this fighting," she continued, as though he were to be
convinced of something. "You conquer men as though you were bred on
the roofs of Mozambique. You fight like--like a hero. It is a rush, a
blow, a tumble, and you have them lying at your feet. And when you
remember all this, will you not be glad, friend--will you not be glad
that it was for me?"

He nodded, clearing his throat huskily. Her hand on his shoulder was
a thing to charm him to fire.

"I'd fight--I'd fight for you," he replied uneasily, "as long as--as
long as there was any one to fight."

He was feeling his way in speech, as best he could, past
conventionalities. There had dawned on him, duskily and half-seen,
the unfitness of little proprieties and verbose frills while he went
to war across the roofs with this woman of passion.

"You would," she said fervently, with half-closed eyes. "I know you
would."

She dropped her hand, and stood beside him in silence. There was a
long pause. He guessed she was waiting for the next move from him,
and he nerved himself to be adequate to her unspoken demand.