“And he will talk down the Matabele,” I went on, “even if he doesn’t know their language.  But I suspect he does; for, you must remember, he was three years in South Africa as a young man, on a scientific expedition, collecting specimens.  He can ride like a trooper; and he knows the country.  His masterful ways, his austere face, will cow the natives.  Then, again, he has the air of a prophet; and prophets always stir the negro.  I can imagine with what air he will bid them drive out the intrusive white men who have usurped their land, and draw them flattering pictures of a new Matabele empire about to arise under a new chief, too strong for these gold-grubbing, diamond-hunting mobs from over sea to meddle with.”

She reflected once more.  “Do you mean to say anything of our suspicions in Salisbury, Hubert?” she asked at last.

“It is useless,” I answered.  “The Salisbury folk believe there is a white man at the bottom of this trouble already.  They will try to catch him; that’s all that is necessary.  If we said it was Sebastian, people would only laugh at us.  They must understand Sebastian, as you and I understand him, before they would think such a move credible.  As a rule in life, if you know anything which other people do not know, better keep it to yourself; you will only get laughed at as a fool for telling it.”

“I think so, too.  That is why I never say what I suspect or infer from my knowledge of types—­except to a few who can understand and appreciate.  Hubert, if they all arm for the defence of the town, you will stop here, I suppose, to tend the wounded?”

Her lips trembled as she spoke, and she gazed at me with a strange wistfulness.  “No, dearest,” I answered at once, taking her face in my hands.  “I shall fight with the rest.  Salisbury has more need to-day of fighters than of healers.”

“I thought you would,” she answered, slowly.  “And I think you do right.”  Her face was set white; she played nervously with the baby.  “I would not urge you; but I am glad you say so.  I want you to stop; yet I could not love you so much if I did not see you ready to play the man at such a crisis.”

“I shall give in my name with the rest,” I answered.

“Hubert, it is hard to spare you—­hard to send you to such danger.  But for one other thing, I am glad you are going. . . .  They must take Sebastian alive; they must not kill him.”

“They will shoot him red-handed if they catch him,” I answered confidently.  “A white man who sides with the blacks in an insurrection!”

“Then you must see that they do not do it.  They must bring him in alive, and try him legally.  For me—­and therefore for you—­that is of the first importance.”

“Why so, Hilda?”

“Hubert, you want to marry me.”  I nodded vehemently.  “Well, you know I can only marry you on one condition—­that I have succeeded first in clearing my father’s memory.  Now, the only man living who can clear it is Sebastian.  If Sebastian were to be shot, it could never be cleared—­and then, law of Medes and Persians, I could never marry you.”