Many of the rebels had fallen to the revolvers of the white men at bay, and many more to the rifles of the patrol. Two of their leaders had perished before their eyes, and the death of one of them, slave to the fixed eyes and whispered words of the King, had seemed to them miraculous. How could they have been mad enough to contend against such a power? Spiritless and unarmed, thrust on by the patrol with the butt of the rifle, they staggered down the slopes to their huts on the beach.

But the King knew well enough how dangerously incomplete his victory was. The youngest of the three brothers had got clear away, and he had taken men with him. They should have been followed of course, but the King had been reluctant to spare a man until he was certain of the main body of the rebels. The first sign of his mistake was a cloud of smoke rolling up from his offices and stores on the beach below. The King thought of his spirit-vats and galloped off.

The fire was extinguished soon after the King reached the spot. There were plenty of buckets, and the beaten rebels, no longer rebellious, worked hard to prove their return to loyalty. They formed a line down to the sea, and the buckets passed quickly from hand to hand. Very little damage was done. But the incendiary had gained all he wanted—a certain amount of time and a clear road up to the King’s house.

But the watchers up at the King’s house also saw the cloud of smoke, and it made them alert again, just when they had come to the conclusion that all was well over and that the King had won.

“Of course it may have been an accident,” said Pryce to Lechworthy. “With all these torches dodging about, there’s nothing more likely. And the fact that it was put out so quickly looks like that. Still, it’s just possible that there’s somebody who’s not quite satisfied yet. We’ll take no risks.”

“Quite so,” said Lechworthy. “I’ll keep my eye on the road. The light’s not so good as it was.”

“We shall have the dawn in less than an hour now.”

Pryce snatched a moment for a word with Hilda, and went on his round of his men. On his way back some minutes later Lechworthy came towards him.

“Come and look at this, doctor. Those lights far down the road—are they coming or going?”

Pryce looked in silence for a few seconds. “Coming,” he said. “Also the chaps appear to be singing. You’ve done well, Lechworthy. Now you go on to the house while we teach them to sing a different tune.”

He went off along the bank. Lechworthy did not go to the house; he stood back where he could see what happened without being in the way.

Pryce returned with his six men and placed them. They could not be seen, and their rifles commanded the road. They were steady and quiet. Pryce showed them a point on the road. When the rebels reached that point, Pryce would give the word to fire. They seemed to come very slowly.

But they neared the point at last. One man walked before the rest, waving a torch and singing loudly. At parts of his song the rest broke into laughter. They came noisily, in disorder, without precaution; evidently they looked for an easy and certain triumph, in the absence of the King and the patrol.

“Sampson,” said Pryce to the man nearest him, “what’s that chap singing?” Pryce could not make it out, though he knew something of the native language.

The patrol man whom he had addressed as Sampson prided himself on his English. He translated a few phrases of the song. They concerned the white woman at the King’s house.

“Thanks,” said Pryce. “I’m just going to give the word. Mark the singer, Sampson, and let’s see if you can shoot. Fire!”

There were about a score of men on the road, and four fell at the first volley; the singer was one of the four, and Sampson smiled. The rest stood gaping, taken utterly by surprise. A second and a third volley followed in quick succession. The few who were left fled down the road in panic.

Sampson straightened his back and patted his rifle. “Very good,” he said complacently. “Dead shot. Very good.”

“You’re all right,” said Pryce, “but the two at the end of the line spoiled the bag.” Pryce sent them off now to the back of the house, and as he turned saw Lechworthy. “So you meant to see the last of it after all,” he said.

“But it’s terrible,” said Lechworthy, “terrible. I’ve seen nothing like this before, you know. One moment dancing and singing—the next moment dead.”

“Well,” said Pryce, “we didn’t invite them. And somebody had got to die over this game.”

“It’s self-defence, I know. Doctor, where should we have been without you? We owe everything to you.”

“Me?” said Pryce, cheerfully. “Why, I’ve had my hands in my pockets all the time. I haven’t done a blessed thing. I—”

He stopped short. Far away down the road came the sound of rifle-fire.

“What’s that mean, doctor?”

“In all probability it means that the few who escaped from us have had the bad luck to run into Smith and his patrol on their way back to the house. They’ll be here in five minutes. You might go and tell Hilda that the show’s over.”

“I will,” said Lechworthy. He had been much moved. He almost resented the flippancy with which Pryce spoke, though he knew that this flippancy was but part of a mask that hid something fine.

As Lechworthy turned away, Pryce pulled his papers and pouch from his pocket. He could smoke at last. He rolled a cigarette—a cigarette that he was not destined to smoke.

Lechworthy was about twenty yards away when a dark figure rose suddenly from the bushes and made a dash at him with knife raised. Pryce’s revolver was just in time; the man dropped almost at Lechworthy’s feet.

“Run for the house,” shouted Pryce, and at the same moment he was stabbed with two quick thrusts in the back and in the right arm. His revolver dropped on the ground, and he flung himself on it. His assailant rushed on towards Lechworthy, who still stood irresolute.

Pryce raised himself on his knees, taking his revolver in his left hand, less conscious of physical pain than of pleasure in his knowledge that he had made left-hand shooting his speciality. Lechworthy was in the line of fire and he had to be very careful; it was his second shot that brought the native down.

He still waited on his knees, his revolver in his hand. He did not know in the least who these two men were who had appeared just at the very moment when all danger of attack seemed over. It did not appear that there were more than two. He could hear his own six men running towards him—they had heard the sound of firing—and he could hear distinctly on the road the sound of a horse’s hoofs and the tramp of men. It was all right then, and the King had returned. The warm blood poured steadily down his right arm. Suddenly he was conscious that Lechworthy was standing by him. “Are you hurt, Pryce?” Lechworthy was saying anxiously. “Are you hurt?”

“Bit of a scratch,” said Pryce. “Better say nothing to her. Probably looks worse—”

And then he collapsed, just as the King and the patrol entered the garden.

It has already been said that the youngest of the three brothers who led the rebellion had by firing the stores and offices on the beach gained time and a clear road to the King’s house. He had drawn the King and the patrol down from the point which they should have occupied. But he started on his way up to the King’s house with his small following absolutely out of hand. They had triumphed over the white man, the King himself had failed to lay hands on them, they had burnt the King’s stores; and now they would burn the King’s house, and it would all be perfectly easy. They had drunk freely on the lawn of the Exiles’ Club and had found more liquor on the beach. Their leader would have had them go up in silence, without torches, working their way through the thick of the plantation. But they found the road easier, and in their intoxication insisted on treating this last advance as a triumphant procession. Noisy and disorderly, they never noticed that their nominal leader had left them, taking one man with him, and turned into the plantation by the roadside.

These two men advanced parallel with the noisy crowd, but at a long distance from them. And when the rifle fire was drawn, and the attention of the defenders concentrated on the road, they took that chance to rush across the clearing, up the bank, and through the scant hedge into the garden. They knew the game was up. Their one aim was to sell their lives as dearly as might be.

When Pryce came to himself, he lay on his bed. His coat, waistcoat and shirt had been cut off. The early sunlight filtered through the green plaited blinds. There were two dark shadows by the bed, and the shadows slowly became the King and Lechworthy. Pryce, a little surprised to find himself alive, investigated with a slow and feeble movement of his left hand the injuries he had received. When he spoke, his voice sounded so funny, so unlike his voice, that he smiled.

“Who fixed the tourniquet?” he asked.

“That was Hilda,” and then Lechworthy’s voice seemed to become a dull rumble. Pryce caught stray words: “Huddersfield ... ambulance lectures ... Providence.”

And then the King was holding a glass to his lips. Pryce smelled the brandy, and put it aside. He asked for water, and drank eagerly.

“Hilda?” he said.

“She came out when she heard the firing so near to the house.”

“All wrong,” said Pryce, feebly. “Plucky though.” He paused awhile with his eyes closed. Then he opened them, and his voice seemed stronger. “There were only two, you know—two beggars who got through?”

He was assured that there had been no others. All was well.

“Better get some sleep soon,” said Pryce. “The jab in the back is nothing much—must have glanced off a rib. Breathing’s pretty easy. Bad shot of his—but he was hurried.”

He began to get drowsy, but roused himself.

“Might bring those chests of mine in here—dressings, clips, and so on. I’ll tell you what to do. Then we can rest.”

“Hilda’s getting them,” said Lechworthy.

There were steps outside, and Lechworthy went out of the room. Pryce could hear low voices outside the door. Then Lechworthy and Hilda came in together, Lechworthy carrying a tray of things.

Hilda looked towards the bed. “We’ve changed places,” she said in a low voice. “You’ll have to be my patient now.” Then she went over to the window. “We shall want more light, I think.”

Pryce made a quick sign with his left hand. The King nodded and turned to Lechworthy. “Come with me,” he said. “We can do nothing more here for the present.”

A little surprised, Lechworthy looked at Hilda. “Yes, that’s right,” she said. “If I should want you, I’ll send; but I’ve got Tiva and Ioia, you know, and servants besides.”

“I’m not going to bed,” said Lechworthy when they were outside the room. “Who knows? I might be wanted. And I shall sleep in a chair all right—or anywhere. I’m done.”

“A chair will be good enough for me,” said the King.

They sat down in the verandah in the warm sun. Lechworthy, perhaps for the first time in his life, filled and lit a pipe in the morning.

“You see it all, I suppose,” said the King.

“See what?”

“Those two—in there.”

“Hilda and Pryce? You don’t mean—?”

“I do. I thought you knew.”

“I was a little puzzled. She was very quiet and very—useful. But she looked—almost as if she were going mad. Yes, I suppose it is so.”

“If he recovers, they marry,” said the King. “At least you will find it very difficult to prevent it; and he will not go to England, you know. But he has lost very much blood. Perhaps—”

“Don’t say that,” said Lechworthy, sharply.

For a moment or two he smoked and meditated. Then he went on: “It will have to be as Hilda says. I daren’t interfere in such a case—wouldn’t anyhow. If any man has the right to her, then he has. Not a great marriage, of course—there will be people in London who will think she has thrown herself away. They’ll condole, I daresay, and make themselves unpleasant in other ways too. But there are too many people in England who sacrifice too much to get the good opinion of a few others who don’t really care for them. Are you awake?”

The King opened his eyes. “Awake? Oh, yes. What was the name of that thing Miss Auriol put on his arm?”

“Tourniquet.”

“Ah, tourniquet—new word to me. I must remember.” And in two seconds he was fast asleep.

Lechworthy watched him with a smile, and then closed his own eyes. His pipe slipped out of his mouth and fell on the floor beside him. He also slept.

When he woke again, the King had gone and Hilda stood on the verandah beside him.

“Dear me!” said Lechworthy. “I’ve slept a long time, I think. How is he?”

“I thought he would have fainted again when we were dressing the wounds. But afterwards he seemed more comfortable, and now he’s fallen asleep. He made me promise to go and rest as soon as he was asleep—one of the boys is waiting in the room with him, to fetch me if I’m wanted. He’s—he’s so sensible, you know. He tells us exactly what to do, just as if it was some other case he was attending. And he will thank for everything—I wish he wouldn’t. Only, he used to be so active—so quick, and now he can’t move much.” There came a catch in Hilda’s voice. “And he doesn’t seem to know, not in the least, that’s he’s done anything much for us, or even to think about it. He’s—”

She dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands. For a few moments she could not speak for sobbing. Lechworthy stood over her, trying to soothe her.

“Don’t you know?” she wailed. “Don’t you know?”

“Yes, dear,” said Lechworthy, “I know. And—that’ll be all right. With God’s help, we’ll pull him through, for he’s too good to lose, and—and that’ll be all right, dear. You’ve been doing too much, and you mustn’t break down now. Come and get some rest. You promised him, you know.”

Hilda went to her room.

Some days later the King and Lechworthy stood on the lawn of the Exiles’ Club. Much money and much trouble had been expended to make that lawn. And now it was scorched with fire and soaked with blood, spoiled and trampled. A few oranges on a tree that had stood nearest to the fire were withered and discoloured amid brown shrivelled leaves. A long line of natives, laden with flat baskets, passed and repassed, carrying the debris of the burned house down to the shore. It was forced labour, the punishment given them by the King, and six men of the patrol, armed with rifles, watched them at their work. Other gangs had been sent out to work at road-making. They hated the work, but they did it submissively, lest worse should befall them. There was not a corner of the island now in which Hilda or Pryce, or Lechworthy might not have walked with perfect security, unarmed, by day or night. But Hilda would not let Pryce do much walking yet—from his room to the verandah, perhaps, but that was all.

The King pointed to a safe, looking incongruously official among charred timbers, with sunlight streaming on it and birds singing around it.

“That must be got out,” said the King. “If it is claimed by those who have the right, I hand it over.”

“I think nothing will be claimed,” said Lechworthy.

“Sir John Sweetling chose well,” said the King, with a sweep of his arm. “Look—the finest site on the island. Here your native church might have stood.”

“It may stand there yet. I know, sir, how much you feel my abandonment of your scheme. It is no longer possible, but the results which you wished to obtain by it are still possible. Listen—in one night many British subjects were murdered here. Remember that, whenever you think that I could still do as I had intended.”

“They were criminals.”

“Great Britain would not recognise the right of your people to punish them. And one of the men was a police-officer, sent here, doing his duty.”

“But my people—think how they were provoked into rebellion. Have they not been punished? They have given more than a life for a life. And those that survive are still being punished. I have done all that I could.”

“That is true. The blame is not with the responsible government of the island. Be thankful for that; otherwise you would have had a punitive expedition here. As it is, the whole story must be told to Scotland Yard and to those of my friends to whom I have already written. I hope that I shall convince and satisfy them, and my story will be supported by the sworn statement which I shall get from Pryce. I think you have nothing to fear. But you must no longer expect protection of the kind you wanted. At the best, that would perhaps only have been possible if there had been raised a strong public sentiment, in France as well as in Great Britain, on the depopulation question, and if the two powers had been willing to co-operate. If this story were told, public sentiment would be dead against you. You may understand, and I may understand, how all this happened, but the public would never understand. Your people would seem to them cruel and bloodthirsty; your government of them would seem unstable and impotent; they would not wish to perpetuate either. There would be no public sympathy. If I attempted to carry out your scheme, the only result would be that a few travellers would turn out of their course from curiosity to visit your island, and that precautions would be taken, of a kind which you would resent, to see that they came to no harm.”

“My people are not cruel,” said the King. “They are gentle, a little lazy, but good-humoured, if the white man will leave them alone. To-day I have more power than ever before; I shall not be again disobeyed.”

“I believe that to be true,” said Lechworthy. “But we are a cautious people, and this outbreak is dead against you. It spoils the record. Facts matter less than the way people will look at them. Once one has to explain away, one exposes a weakness and provokes a mistrust; the chance was never too strong, and with that weakness the chance vanishes altogether.”

The King wrinkled his brows. “I do not much understand these political affairs, but I trust you. If you say that it is so, it is so.”

“You had much better trust me,” said Lechworthy, without temper and quite placidly. “You see, Scotland Yard has lost a man, and it knows the route to Faloo, and it does not let things slide. It is only my story of what happened which can save serious trouble for this island.”

“Still,” said the King, “when we discussed this last night, I did think what might happen if you said nothing of this—this mistake of my people.”

“That is already answered. If I do not tell, it is likely to be worse for you. Not in any spot in the globe can the treacherous slaughter of many British subjects be over-looked.”

“And yet you tell me that, though the scheme goes, its results are still possible.”

“I do. And it depends principally on you.”

“On me? There is nothing I would not do.”

“You have made money, and might make much more. You have adopted the English language—our names and dress. You have studied much. You could let that go?”

The King snapped his fingers. “Like that,” he said.

“Very well. Go back to your people. Speak their language and wear native dress. Be a King and not a trader. Break up the stills and empty the vats into the sea. Sell your trading-vessels, the one link that binds Faloo to the world outside. You tell me that the island produces all that a native needs; limit yourself to that. It may be that trade of its own accord will come to you; some soap manufacturer may try to buy your plantation or even the entire island. Refuse him. Do not be tempted. If chance visitors should come here, treat them with humanity but without hospitality; make it unlikely that they will return. The story of the Exiles’ Club will be known, and the island will no longer be a refuge for the uncaught criminal. Go back to the simplicity of your fathers and trust to the obscurity of your kingdom, and here the race may recover.”

“No communication with what you call the world outside. No mail. No trade. You would lose by that, Lechworthy.”

“Yes, yes, never mind about that. Did you not tell me that you had used a bad weapon once, and that it had hurt your hand, but that you would burn it with a little powder and it would be clean? It has been burned with powder. It is clean now. The chance for the native Faloo begins to-day.”

They talked long and earnestly on their way back to the house together.

Late that evening Lechworthy found himself alone with his niece.

“So it comes to an end,” he said. “To-morrow the Snowflake. You’re sure he’s strong enough for it?”

Hilda laughed. “If I didn’t feel sure, I wouldn’t let him go.”

“And in a month—five weeks—some such time—you will be married. And after that when shall we meet again?”

“You must come out here. We’ve been talking about that.”

“Well, it’s quite likely. And perhaps, not now but, in a few years, he will come back to England.”

“He says he cannot. I—I don’t think I should like to try to persuade him.”

“Certainly not. Possibly the suggestion will come from him. His views may be altered by—er—circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

But her uncle changed the subject.

COLSTONS LIMITED, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH