[Illustration:  The boar hunt.]

The week of boar-hunting was spent out-of-doors, on horseback, and in tents; the women in two wide circular ones, and the men in another, with a mess tent, which they shared in common, pitched between them.  They had only one change of clothes each, one wet and one dry, and they were in the saddle from nine in the morning until late at night, when they gathered in a wide circle around the wood-fire and played banjoes and listened to stories.  Holcombe grew as red as a sailor, and jumped his horse over gaping crevasses in the hard sun-baked earth as recklessly as though there were nothing in this world so well worth sacrificing one’s life for as to be the first in at a dumb brute’s death.  He was on friendly terms with them all now—­with Miss Terrill, the young girl who had been awakened by night and told to leave Monte Carlo before daybreak, and with Mrs. Darhah, who would answer to Lady Taunton if so addressed, and with Andrews, the Scotch bank clerk, and Ollid the boy officer from Gibraltar, who had found some difficulty in making the mess account balance.  They were all his very good friends, and he was especially courteous and attentive to Miss Terrill’s wants and interests, and fixed her stirrup and once let her pass him to charge the boar in his place.  She was a silently distant young woman, and strangely gentle for one who had had to leave a place, and such a place, between days; and her hair, which was very fine and light, ran away from under her white helmet in disconnected curls.  At night, Holcombe used to watch her from out of the shadow when the firelight lit up the circle and the tips of the palms above them, and when the story-teller’s voice was accompanied by bursts of occasional laughter from the dragomen in the grove beyond, and the stamping and neighing of the horses at their pickets, and the unceasing chorus of the insect life about them.  She used to sit on one of the rugs with her hands clasped about her knees, and with her head resting on Mrs. Hornby’s broad shoulder, looking down into the embers of the fire, and with the story of her life written on her girl’s face as irrevocably as though old age had set its seal there.  Holcombe was kind to them all now, even to Meakim, when that gentleman rode leisurely out to the camp with the mail and the latest Paris Herald, which was their one bond of union with the great outside world.

Carroll sat smoking his pipe one night, and bending forward over the fire to get its light on the pages of the latest copy of this paper.  Suddenly he dropped it between his knees.  “I say, Holcombe,” he cried, “here’s news!  Winthrop Allen has absconded with three hundred thousand dollars, and no one knows where.”

Holcombe was sitting on the other side of the fire, prying at the rowel of his spur with a hunting-knife.  He raised his head and laughed.  “Another good man gone wrong, hey?” he said.