over his horse's head was cased in riding trousers and a neat little
top-boot of brown leather.

He slipped from the saddle with a litheness which contrasted strangely
with his closely cropped grey hair and white moustache and Imperial. He
walked towards Agar's tent after the manner of one who had sat in the
saddle for many hours. His spurs clanked with a sharp, business-like
ring, and his every movement had that neat finish which indicates the
soldier born and bred.

Wheeling round he faced Agar, who had followed him with a more leisurely
gait based on longer legs, looking up keenly into the quiet fair face.
Turning he shot his sword home into its scabbard with a click.

"Thank God," he said, "you're safe!"

Agar awaited for further observations. This was not the man whom he
had expected, but another, far greater, far higher up in the military
scale--a man whom he had only met once before, and that at an official
reception.

Seeing that his guest was unbuckling his sword, he presumed that the task
of continuing this conversation lay with himself.

"M' yes!" he replied, rubbing his pannikin out clean with the corner of a
towel, and proceeding to mix some brandy and water; "why?"

"Why!" answered the little man scornfully, "WHY! damn it, sir, Stevenor's
command has been cut off by the enemy in force--massacred to a man. That
is why I say 'Thank God, you're safe!' It is more than I expected."