And Redmond, smiling inscrutably into the deep-set, glittering eyes,
answered as simply: "I will, Sergeant!"

He declined an offer. "_Nemoyah_! (No) thanks, I've had enough."

For some unaccountable reason, Slavin smiled also. His huge clamping
right hand crushed George's, while the left described an arc heavenwards.
Came a throaty gurgle, a careless swing of the arm, and--

"Be lay loike a warrior takin' his rist,
Wid his--

"I misrimimber th' tail-ind av ut," sighed Sergeant Slavin, "'Tis toime
we turned in."


In silence they re-entered the detachment. Yorke, minus his moccasins,
fur-coat and red-serge, lay stretched out upon his cot sleeping heavily,
his flushed, reckless, high-bred face pillowed on one outflung arm.
Above him, silent guardians of his rest, his grotesque mixture of prints
gleamed duskily in the lamp-light.

Into Redmond's mind--sunk into a deep oblivion of dreamy, chaotic
thought--came again Slavin's words:

"Shtudy thim picthures, bhoy! an', by an' large ye have th' man himsilf"

Soon, too, he slept; and into his fitful slumbers drifted a ridiculously
disturbing dream. That of actually witnessing the terrible scene of the