While the men talked thus, Bertram Ingledew's ears ought to have
burned behind the bushes. But, to say the truth, he cared little
for their conversation; for had he not turned aside down one of the
retired gravel paths in the garden, alone with Frida?

"That's General Claviger of Herat, I suppose," he said in a low
tone, as they retreated out of ear-shot beside the clump of
syringas. "What a stern old man he is, to be sure, with what a
stern old face! He looks like a person capable of doing or ordering
all the strange things I've read of him in the papers."

"Oh, yes," Frida answered, misunderstanding for the moment her
companion's meaning. "He's a very clever man, I believe, and a most
distinguished officer."

Bertram smiled in spite of himself. "Oh, I didn't mean that," he
cried, with the same odd gleam in his eyes Frida had so often
noticed there. "I meant, he looked capable of doing or ordering all
the horrible crimes he's credited with in history. You remember, it
was he who was employed in massacring the poor savage Zulus in
their last stand at bay, and in driving the Afghan women and
children to die of cold and starvation on the mountain-tops after
the taking of Kabul. A terrible fighter, indeed! A terrible
history!"

"But I believe he's a very good man in private life," Frida put in