year, and eight of us must live--or starve--on it. And I have worked,
ay, until my health is broken. A labourer indeed! I am a very hodman, a
spiritual Sisyphus. And now I must go back to carry my load and roll
my stone again and again among those hopeless savages till I die of
it--till I die of it!"

"At least it is a noble life and death!" exclaimed Owen, a sudden fire
of enthusiasm burning in his dark eyes.

"Yes, viewed from a distance. Were you asked to leave this living of two
thousand a year--I see that is what they put it at in Crockford--with
its English comforts and easy work, that _you_ might lead that life and
attain that death, then you would think differently. But why should
I bore you with such talk? Thank Heaven that your lines are cast in
pleasant places. Yes, please, I will take one more glass; it does me
good."

"Tell me some more about that tribe you were speaking of in your sermon,
the 'Sons of Fire' I think you called them," said Owen, as he passed him
the decanter.

So, with an eloquence induced by the generous wine and a quickened
imagination, the Deputation told him--told him many strange things and
terrible. For this people was an awful people: vigorous in mind
and body, and warriors from generation to generation, but
superstition-ridden and cruel. They lived in the far interior, some
months' journey by boat and ox-waggon from the coast, and of white men
and their ways they knew but little.

"How many of them are there?" asked Owen.