The man who had lit the match laughed.  “That you, Jack?” he said.  “Well, you wouldn’t be so ready to call this bloke ‘mate’ if you knew what he’d been up to.”

“The—­swine!” commented Charley.

“Get a lantern,” commanded Mills to the Kafirs.  “What d’you mean?” he asked of the tall man.

“He shot a woman,” said Dave.  The tone was eloquent of the speaker’s rage and disgust.

Mills stared open-mouthed.  “A woman!” he gasped.

“A woman,” replied Dave.  “Shot her, as bold as the devil, on the street, in the daytime, and did a bolt for the bush.  Every man that could put foot to the ground is out after him.”

A kafir arrived then with the lantern Mills had designed for the Frenchman, and by its light he was able to see the faces of the men.  They were all known to him.  The man who was cording the prisoner’s arms had seen his daring work at Mandega’s.  He knelt on the prostrate form as he worked, and the Frenchman’s face showed like a waxen mask on the ground.  Blood was running from a deep cut on his cheek.

“I save yo’ life, Jone,” he gasped.

“Shut up!” snapped one of the men, and struck him on the mouth.

“Here,” protested Mills; “go slow, can’t you, There’s no call to bang him about.”

They stared at him with astonishment.  “Why, man,” exclaimed Charley, “didn’t we tell you he shot a woman?”

“What’s that he said about savin’ your life?” demanded Dave.

“He did,” explained Mills.  He told them the story, and they listened without sympathy.

“It was a bloomin’ plucky thing to do,” concluded the trader.  “I’d ha’ bin dead by now but for him, and I owe ’im one for it.”

“Oh, nobody’s sayin’ he isn’t plucky,” said the man who had ’been tying the Frenchman’s arms, as he rose to his feet.  “He’s the dare-devillist swine alive, but he’s done with it now.”

Dave came round and clapped Mills on the shoulder.

“It’s worked you a bit soft, old man,” he said.  “Why, hang it all, you wouldn’t have us let him go after shooting a woman, would you?”

“Oh! stow it,” broke in one of the others.  “If it wasn’t that ’e’s got to go back to Macequece to be shot, I’d blow his head off now.”

“I’m not asking you to let him go,” cried Mills.  “But give the bloke a chance, give ’im a run for it.  Why, I wouldn’t kill a dog so; it’s awful—­an’—­an’—­he saved my life, chaps; he saved my life.”

“But he shot a woman,” said Charley.

That closed the case—­the man had committed the ultimate crime.  Nothing could avail him now.  He had shot a woman—­he must suffer.

“Jone,” moaned the Frenchman—­the cords were eating into his flesh—­ “Jone, I saved yo’ life.”

“Why couldn’t you tell me?” cried Mills passionately; “why couldn’t you trust me?  I could ha’ got you away.”

“That’ll do,” interrupted Dave, thrusting Mills aside.  “We’ll trouble you for a drink and a bite, old boy, an’ then we’ll start back.”