scouts could be seen half a mile ahead. Not a sign of natives had been
discovered on the march. More than once Barre had expressed his anxiety
at this. He knew it pointed to concentrated trouble ahead, and, just as
they neared the edge of the free country, he rose in his saddle and
looked around carefully. Shorland imitated his action, and, as he
resumed his seat, he felt his spur-strap break. He leaned back, and drew
up the foot to take off the spur. As he did so, he felt a sudden twitch
at his side, and Barre swayed in his saddle with a spear in the groin.
Shorland caught him and prevented him falling to the ground. A wild cry
rose from the jungle behind and from the clearing ahead, and in a moment
the infuriated French soldiers were in the thick of a hand-to-hand fray
under a rain of spears and clubs. The spear that had struck Barre would
have struck Shorland had he not bent backward when he did. As it was the
weapon had torn a piece of cloth from his coat.

A moment, and the wounded man was lifted to the ground. The surgeon
shook his head in sad negation. Death already blanched the young
officer's face. Shorland looked into the misty eyes with a sadness only
known to those who can gauge the regard of men who suffer for each other.
Four days ago this gallant young officer had taken risk for him, had
saved him from injury, perhaps death; to-day the spear meant for him
had stricken down this same young officer, never to rise again. The
vicarious sacrifice seemed none the less noble to the Englishman because
it was involuntary and an accident. The only point clear in his mind was
that had he not leant back, Barre would be the whole man and he the
wounded one.

"How goes it, my friend?" said Shorland, bending over him.

Alencon Barre looked up, agony twitching his nostrils and a dry white