Hours later Roger found himself on the bank of the river far below Garman's house. He had wandered wildly, avoiding paths, dodging clearings, holding to dark, shaded jungle-land, like a hurt animal seeking to hide its wounds from the light of day. The joy of victory over Garman glowed steadily in his bosom, yet though he knew that Garman now was a broken man and that he no longer would attempt to play king in the district, he also knew that the fruits of the victory were like ashes upon his tongue. He felt old and defeated, like a man suddenly robbed of his illusions. Garman had been right; he had been dwelling in the Fool's Paradise of Youth, accepting dreams for realities. Now, he had "torn the mask of illusions from the face of Life and seen the old hag as she really is."

Garman's phrases kept ringing in his ears, and with repetition they came to hold a note of mocking triumph.

Garman was whipped, yet he had won. His words remained to cut and torture. In his state of semidelirium Roger began to doubt that he had won over Garman. The doubt became a certainty. Defeat, not victory, was his portion. Garman's was the victory, the victory of bitter knowledge over the vaporish ideals of youth.

Roger stooped to drink from a clear pool at the river's brink and shrank back at the reflection he beheld in the water. A strange, lined face stared up at him. He shut his eyes as he drank, then plunged his head into the pool. Cooled off and cleansed, he again studied his reflection. The traces of dust and combat were washed away, and he saw how little they had to do with the transformation. The change was deeper than the skin, deeper than the flesh. It had bitten into the spirit; and the bitterness and hate in his eyes, the cynical sneer that leered up at him, sprang from the change that had taken place in his soul.

Garman was still winning.

Roger laughed aloud, and at the sound of his voice checked himself abruptly. He turned away from the pool, cursing it for what it had revealed, and stumbled back into the darkness of the jungle.

In time he came to the spot where he and Garman had fought. His enemy was gone. It was some minutes before Roger realized how this disappointed him. He had returned to tell Garman he was right. He no longer hated Garman. Garman made him see the truth.

Later, as he sat near the spot where his foe had fallen, he saw that others had visited the spot recently. There were a multitude of fresh tracks in the sand about the palmetto scrub. He regarded them indifferently until he saw the deep marks of Higgins' hunting boots. Besides these he saw other men's tracks, including the marks of Willy High Pocket's bare feet. And then he saw that which sent the blood racing to his head.

Clearly outlined in the sand were the marks of a girl's tennis slippers, and he knew they were Annette's.

He searched the sand like a hound now, seeking signs of what had happened. He saw where the tracks had come into the clearing—Higgins, Willy High Pocket and Annette. They had been running. Then he saw how they had scattered, searching the country round, and had returned to the spot where Garman lay. From there they had gone toward the path leading to Garman's house. There were tracks of half a dozen men. Garman's was among them. He had, apparently, been helped to his feet and led away.

As the last rays of the setting sun were gilding the palm tops Roger pushed aside a curtain of moon vine and looked out upon Garman's house and the little lake beyond. To his surprise the Egret lay at the dock, the captain on the bridge, ready to start downstream. Higgins, Davis and Willy High Pockets were standing near the pergola looking toward the house. Presently they turned and walked slowly out of sight and hearing.

Garman came tottering out of the house onto the walk leading to the
dock. He was freshly clad and extensively bandaged. Beside him walked
Annette, supporting him with the strength of her tall young body.
Garman was broken physically, but his spirit remained strong.

Suddenly he halted, painfully freeing his arm from her supporting hand.

"No," he mumbled through his bandages, "I can't let you do that."

"But I want to help you to the boat," she protested. "You're very weak, you know."

Garman tottered, yet he gestured her away. He spoke slowly, each word an effort.

"Might it occur to you that even in my present condition I might be capable of feeling a sense of humiliation at being helped away—by you?"

"I wouldn't want you to feel that," she replied.

"Ha!" he laughed faintly, "The magnanimity of victorious youth toward the conquered. Star-eyed youth has won, and——"

"Oh, please don't take up that old strain, Mr. Garman. You are badly hurt; you must think of getting to a doctor at once."

"Can the leopard change his spots?" he said. "No. He doesn't want to.
I was very weak a moment ago. My strength is returning. But I am not.
A strong man leaves and forgets the scene of his defeat, and the
defeat. You will never see me again. Can you bear up under that?"

"I'm very sorry to hear you say things like that."

Garman swayed like a broken tree, but despite it he smiled sardonically.

"You had hoped I had changed?" His voice was little more than a painful whisper. Swaying drunkenly, almost falling, he drove himself on to speak. "That the leopard's spots had become whiter than snow? My dear Miss Fairclothe, people don't change like that. Behold yourself: even the jungle and sun, even I, couldn't change you. The flesh wavered, but the soul held true. I won't play the hypocrite and say I am glad you were too strong for me. I am not. I wish I could have made you like myself. Now I'm going away and forget you and all this, and the whole affair of civilization. If you feel sorry for me your emotion is wasted. On the whole it will be a relief for me. Business, and so on—I was getting pretty well bored with the whole thing."

He staggered grotesquely toward the dock and halted.

"And don't you worry about Payne. You'll find him. Trust the woman to find the man she's marked for her victim! No, no! Don't grow indignant; I'll change 'victim' to 'mate.' There's really little difference. Payne's all right." A quiver of pain convulsed him. "He's got some brains, too. Not too much, but enough. You two are too perfectly matched for anything to keep you apart, and, having joined one another, too perfectly matched to avoid fighting." He chuckled faintly behind his bandages. "Oh, yes, you'll fight, my dear girl, take my word for that; he's got a will of his own, too. But your fights will be embraces in disguise."

He tottered toward the river and again turned.

"Will you shake hands with me before I go?" he asked.

"Why, yes," she said. "Of course."

Garman chuckled, but turned away without touching her proffered hand.

"I merely wanted to know," he said, and went staggering on his away aboard the Egret. He mumbled an order and an oath to the captain. The Egret slipped swiftly down the river.

Annette watched until the yacht had gone. When she turned round Roger was coming toward her. She cried out, a cry of relief, of happiness, of love.

"Annette!" he whispered, and came close to her.

"Wait, wait!" she said. "There are things to be explained."

"I know." He moved back a step. "I was a brute, too."

"What?"

"Garman——"

"Oh—that! It was terrible, I know, but you were not the aggressor. I mean about the note."

"Do notes—or things like it—matter now?" he asked.

"Yes; they matter very, very much. I wish to explain. I—I went out there to Palm Island to fight out my fight with myself."

He looked at her radiant young face and said: "You won."

"Yes, that is the wonderful part of it: I didn't know whether I would win when I went there. Garman was so terribly strong. He dominated me, and seemed to control my thoughts and feelings. But—do you remember what you said in the path there the other day—when I asked you to go away—when Garman spied on us?"

"What was it?" he asked.

"Oh! Don't you remember?"

"Let me see—I called Garman a cad."

"Oh, no, no, no! You remember you said—you said——"

He looked in her eyes and understood.

"I said I loved you."

"Yes. That's what saved me. I knew. I felt it here in my heart how you loved me. Roger, I felt it from the moment we met."

"Yes," he said, "I loved you from that moment, Annette."

"And I you, Roger. But it seemed so impossible. I used to think it must be a dream. Aunty, father, Garman and all the selfishness; and then in the midst of it all finding such a love—such a love as girls dream of, Roger. And I was afraid Garman had me in his power. So I went to the island and fought it out. And then I knew it was all right—because all I thought of was you. So I sent him that note. I was a little afraid of him, and I wanted to lure him away, so I could—well, I wanted him away."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you, dear."

"Why?"

"Please don't make me tell. I'm ashamed."

"Very well then."

She turned her flushed face up toward him.

"Do you really want to know?"

"If you wish to tell me."

"I wanted him away—so I could come to you. I hurried straight to your camp. Am I shameless, Roger? Then we hunted for you. Roger——"

"I am not worthy of you," he said, "but I love you."

"Roger?"

"Yes, dear."

"Do you think we will really fight?"

They laughed together, the joyous laughter of youth, her head upon his breast and his arms about her.

"Probably," he said.

And they laughed again.