"Good," said Burke, and turned to Sylvia. "Get out the brandy,
will you?"

She hastened to do his bidding. There was a blueness about Guy's
lips that frightened her, and she saw that his hands were clenched.

Yet, as Burke bent over him a few moments later, he laughed with
something of challenge in, his eyes. "Ripping sport, old chap!" he
said, and drank with a feverish eagerness.

Burke's hand was on his shoulder. She could not read his
expression, but she was aware of something unusual between them,
something that was wholly outside her experience. Then he spoke,
his voice very quiet and steady.

"Go slow, man! You've had a bit of a knockout."

Guy looked across at her, and there was triumph in his look. "It's
been--sport," he said again. "Ripping sport!" It was so boyishly
uttered, and his whole attitude was so reminiscent of the old days,
that she felt herself thrill in answer. She moved quickly to him.

"What has been happening? Tell me!" she said.

He laughed again. "My dear girl, we've been fighting the devil in
his own element, and we've beat him off the field." He sprang to
his feet. "Here, give me another drink, or I shall die! My throat
is a bed of live cinders."