Ainslee's Magazine/The Breaker of Idols

by Charles Beadle

The Breaker of Idols

By Charles Beadle
Author of “The Christman,” “Uncle,” etc.

Of Loie the family had expected much matrimonially, of course. A blond beauty and brilliant, she had met eligibles from Bar Harbor to Palm Beach; yet, in spite of that, she had earned the title of The Immaculate. The world gossiped and wondered; but her mother knew—and deplored, as mothers do.

When Gerald Ruland entered her world, she was attracted and repelled. The sallow stranger, hair flecked with gray, in whose eyes was the infinity of the dweller in solitudes, intrigued and disappointed her. On their first meeting, he regarded her with the irritating stare of a savage watching a railway train—as if wondering what kind of a devil was inside. Yet he had an elusive quality that fascinated—a taciturnity that was companionable and never irksome, in contrast to the chattering persistency of the average man constrained to pelt others with the confetti of banalities.

And when Loie heard that he had a distinguished record in the Belgian Congo service, in which he had spent the major portion of his life, her interest, for very natural reasons, was whetted. Loie decided to cultivate him. He replied “yes” and “no.” Loie was piqued. She made a distinct effort to break what her friends had dubbed his “wall of silent contempt.”

As naïve to the ways of women as any backwoodsman, Ruland thawed in the warmth of her suasion like a prisoned rose of Jericho in the sun. But what all the world could see, Loie, absorbed in his tales of Africa, did not suspect until a visit to their bungalow in the Adirondacks provided an intimacy made uneasy by certain interrogative glances in the eyes of her mother.

So it was that Loie lounged, one hot July afternoon, in a basket chair, twiddling a thin gold chain around her neck as she watched the fitful air spangle the green of the lake with silver sequins. A canoe that glided from underneath two leaning pines, clinging with desperate roots from the crush of their serried fellows, made her glance around apprehensively at the comfortable form of Mrs. Charteris, dozing over a book in a hammock.

“Mother,” said Loie, “d'you mind entertaining Mr. Ruland? The heat has given me an awful headache, and I think I'd rather lie down a while.”

Mrs. Charteris put down her book, blinked, and scanned the lake. Eyes of mother and daughter met. The mother smiled slightly.

“I think, dear,” said she firmly, “that the lake is much cooler than it is here. You'd better go.”

“Will—you come, too, dearest?”

“In the canoe? Never!” Mrs. Charteris wriggled her ample proportions deeper into the hammock. “Go, dear! I'm sure it'll do you good! Loie, please do, dear!”

Loie pouted rebelliously.

“All right, mother!” she announced at length, as she rose.

Rather naturally, Mrs. Charteris disapproved of the romantic loyalty which had already devoured the best years of her daughter's life; so, as she watched the lithe figure stepping down the slope to the water, she smiled hopefully and grimly.

Ruland assisted Loie into the canoe, but, in his customary manner, made no comment beyond a curt inquiry as to her comfort. Evenly across the lake he began to paddle. As they glided into the lee of an island, Loie became aware of an unusual tension in his manner. Uneasy reflections returned. She dabbled her fingers in the water with absorbing interest. He paddled steadily. At last, compelled by the directness of his gaze, she glanced up.

“Aren't those fir tops black against the purple of the sky?” she remarked hastily.

“Yes,” he assented gravely.

“Do you ever see them as black as that in Africa?”

“Sometimes I think that I never want to see Africa again,” he said solemnly.

“Oh—er—why not?” She wanted to laugh loudly.

“Africa is so black—too black. This country is so white.” Loie stared interestedly at the firs, acutely conscious of the timbre of his voice. “I wonder if you've ever—ever realized what it means to—to a lonely man who has spent many years in the wilds to meet——”

“Oh, look at that fish!” cried Loie desperately, pointing at random across the lake. “Oh, how silly of me! It's only a stick! Why, it looked like one of those crocodiles you were telling me about. And, oh, you've never told me the story of the—the white witch doctor, wasn't it?”

He stopped paddling and regarded her in a disconcerting manner. Loie gazed persistently at the firs, wondering why she could not keep away from Africa. His glance swept slowly over her and rested upon her hand, trailing like a white flower in the water.

“Very well,” he remarked simply, “I will tell you.”

He extracted a pipe from his pocket, as Loie settled herself deeper in the cushions, conscious of satisfaction at the ease with which she had handled him, He placed the paddle in the canoe and filled the pipe.

“We'll drift,” he announced, as he lighted his pipe reflectively. “This is the story of an idol that ought to interest—us both.”

Loie glanced at him swiftly.

“Away over there,” he began, sitting forward, elbows on knees, “everything is so black ” He paused, as if he were fumbling for a better word; then repeated, as in confirmation of his choice, “Yes, black. That's why it's so difficult to tell people things. Understand?”

“Oh, yes,” said Loie, wondering what he did mean.

“You don't. But I'll try to tell you.” He puffed for a moment, staring across the blue lake into the cold green shadows. As he turned his head, he looked like a bather gathering himself together for a dive.

“The place where I've lived for so many long years is just like a—a spot of cigarette ash in the middle of a carpet. It feels singed. That feeling gets into you somehow, after years—a feeling that there's a great, big thing—an obstruction, between you and the world, something you can't see properly, but like a clammy thing round your brain. You can't think—and don't want to any more. I mean, things that happen in Europe seem silly—not nearly so important as that some one has stolen a goat from the village. Understand?

“This place, Bazindu, is four hundred miles from anywhere. Of course you can understand that better here than they do in Europe, don't you? But yet it's quite different. When we went there, it was just—just all sand and scrub—bare. Yes, you think it's either forest or desert in Africa, but it isn't—just as Europeans think America is all cowboys and beef factories. There's lots of places here that look just like Africa—only it's black. Of course I don't mean things, but—but—yes, the air's black. That's it.

“This place wasn't far from the forest on one side—to the south—but to the north it was all scrub—hard, dry, bare scrub. Flat—very flat. Well, we built this station with bricks made from the river clay, and a sort of fort—just houses built in a square. Well, when we came—five other whites with me, a Norwegian, a Frenchman, a German, and two Greeks—the people were very scattered and timid. You see, all their lives they'd been raided and taken as slaves by a powerful tribe called the Munyasi. The Munyasi lived to the east. These Kavumbi people were glad to see the white man come because they hoped that we'd protect them.

“Well, of course we couldn't do everything at once, which they couldn't understand. They expected us to make magic and kill all their enemies right away. You see, they thought that because we had rifles, we could do anything—that we were a kind of god. They argued that if you could make fire from a bit of stick, you could perform any miracle. Understand?”

“How perfectly stupid!” remarked Loie, watching him interestedly,

“Oh, no—that is, not more than civilized people.”

“But surely——”

“These savages saw me in the light of—of a power to better their condition. Well, a social reformer is the same thing. Don't the people always want everything changed in five minutes, and want to kill or throw down the reformer if it isn't? Both states of mind result from inability to think.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose that's more or less true,” admitted Loie. “But I don't like to think that we're no better than savages.”

“Yes; hurts our vanity, doesn't it?” Ruland gave a slow twitch of the lips.

“Yes,” agreed Loie, smiling; then, with a provoking enthusiasm, “That's what Mr. Carruthers always said—exactly.”

“And who is this wise man?”

“Mr. Carruthers? Oh”—Loie looked across the lake vexedly—“oh, he's a friend of mine—an explorer. Why, he——”

“Well?”

“Oh,” with a slight flush, “I took it for granted that you'd heard of him—in Africa.”

“Africa's quite big, you know.”

“Oh, how absurd!” she laughed, “But he's quite famous, you see. He—— But please go on with the story.”

“You know this Mr. Carruthers—well?” He regarded her gravely.

“Yes, oh, yes! Ever since I was a child. He—— But, oh, do go on, please!”

He restoked his pipe, staring at her hand in the water. Loie began to fidget, wondering why on earth she had mentioned her lover's name, and why she had always. refrained from doing so before.

“Please!”

He gazed at her steadily as he lighted his pipe.

“Where was I?”

“You were telling about those poor people who were raided and enslaved.”

“Not more than your people are here.”

“Oh, please!”

“Very good. Well, we found those people very glad to see us. They were submissive, and caused practically no trouble at all. They brought in much rubber and ivory, and did all they could to propitiate us. Now and again the Munyasi would raid and kill. Several times we managed to catch a raiding party and punished them severely.”

“You mean you killed them all?”

“Yes. Still, that's better than being enslaved for life, isn't it? But I don't believe in these methods. Blood and fire always lead to blood and fire.” He stared reflectively. “Well, the policy of catching and punishing odd raiding parties of course proved quite unsatisfactory. Besides failing to intimidate them into keeping away, it caused us to lose prestige with our own people, who, as I have told you, expected us to do everything in five minutes. There was only one thing to do, and that was to quell these turbulent people.

“Now the usual method is to attempt to negotiate with the chief, who usually proves tractable enough at first, but is given to becoming avaricious and to making trouble before the administration is firmly established; particularly when—when whites are permitted in the country. There are others, of course, who give trouble from the first, again usually as a result of their experience with white men—unauthorized traders, adventurers, gun runners, who rob and murder out of hand. These people cause more trouble to the government than all the natives put together. They are, in fact, responsible for the scandalous reports of the Congo atrocities.”

“But haven't they ever occurred, then?”

“Oh, yes, but only at the hands of these adventurers. The administration never sanctions——”

“Yes, Mr. Carruthers said that the administration never sanctions anything, but that they go on all the same—that the government winks at them.”

“Mr. Carruthers seems to have very decided opinions on the country.”

“Oh, he has! He's been there so long—thirteen years.”

“Indeed! What part?”

“In the Congo. Of course I can't tell you what part, because all those queer names sound alike to me.”

“Strange that I've never heard of him.”

“Yes, that's what I thought. But do go on with the story, please.”

“Well, as I said, I decided to go north, but to carry out my own methods. As in all cases with the administration, these things have to be considered as a matter of policy.”

“That's what Mr. Carruthers said was their chief fault.”

Ruland bit his pipe a little irritably.

“Well, it was a matter of some years before I could begin to carry out my plans, but all the time our prestige with our people was weakening until I saw that I must act immediately or there would be trouble. At last the boma—headquarters, you know—arranged for other officials to take over my district, and after a lot more delays, we made a start. The expedition consisted of three assistants, whom I had had with me fer years, and two companies of askaries and a white officer.

“As I have told you, I intended to carry out my own theory—to avoid bloodshed if possible. As you know, without cohesion—unity—any race or tribe can be easily conquered and controlled. Unity makes for strength; strength means resistance; overcoming resistance means much bloodshed; therefore, remove the factor which gives unity. That was my plan, and I've followed it.” He uttered the last sentence a little defiantly.

“I see.”

He chewed his pipe absently; apparently he had forgotten the personality of the girl in his interest in fighting the old battles again.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering why nobody, apparently, has ever discovered the truth of this theory before. It's so simple. But then all truths are simple, aren't they? Well, the Munyasi had, of course, known that sooner or later the white man would come. They knew, too, from native gossip, that we had been preparing a war expedition; a fact that I considered responsible for an increase in the frequency of their raids—a kind of childish defiance, you know. But the real question was whether they would oppose our entry at their border and force a fight—the very thing I wished to avoid. With that object, I purposely sent out rumors that we should be unable to leave until after the end of the wet season. In my part of the country, there is a very small rainfall, but sufficient to form a plausible excuse, because the Munyasi country is wet—therefore, very rich.

“Immediately after the rumors had had time to reach the king of the Munyasi, we set out to the south—made a great detour through the edge of the forest. All that sounds very easy and quickly done, but traveling through the forest is difficult and slow. But it was the only way of flanking the Munyasi and avoiding detection, for they are an open country people; so they never—do not dare to—enter the forest. You see, the whole point was that, if they opposed our entrance at the border, we should have to fight our way to the chief village in the interior; whereas, if we could succeed in reaching that village by surprise, I could, even in the event of resistance, carry out my plans at a minimum of bloodshed.”

“But why couldn't you do whatever you intended to do without going into their territory?”

“Because the power that made them strong—formed the force of cohesion and unity—lay at the chief's village—an idol. Understand? I will explain. All through the history of the world, you'll find that people who have been dominant have always possessed a strong fetich, a belief in the omniscient power of the supernatural or their particular interpretation of that force. If all the people believe in the same god, there is unity of purpose and action;. but if their opinions are divided on the subject, their power is divided, and inevitably they fall a prey to a race united by a fixed belief. For example, the Munyasi were controlled by the witch doctors of an idol of which the king was high priest. The Kavumbi had no idols or united belief in any particular superstition; hence they were disorganized and open to easy conquest. The method usually employed in conquering a people or a race was by violence. Would it not be better to do violence to the god and not to the people? To prove, by one strong stroke, the impotence and falsity of their witch doctors, instead of making their innocent dupes pay a terrible price in blood? That is what I thought—and what I did.”

“How?” Loie, too, had forgotten the personal.

“You see, these savages believed implicitly in their idol—the god Sangha. But if harm came to the god, they blamed the god and despised him. Understand? So I smashed their idol!”

He made a triumphant gesture with his pipestem, as if stabbing an invisible something.

“We came upon them suddenly from the east, the last direction from which they expected to see us. The village was stockaded; all their villages are. There was great excitement and terror. The chief wanted to parley, to gain time to call up his warriors. I demanded to hold a shauri—a conference, you know—in the village, as the custom is. He lost his head and refused. We had to take the village immediately. There was bloodshed, of course, but not as much as if we'd had to fight the whole tribe.

“As a matter of fact, they didn't have much chance, as we rushed the place without warning. In the middle of the village was the idol—a huge, ugly thing carved from a tree—a disgusting thing, as all those native things are. The priest king rallied his men—yes, they put up a good fight—round the idol, but we swept the square with machine guns. Then, before all the people, I took an ax and cut down that hideous figure.”

“But what did they do?” demanded Loie.

“Do? Oh, nothing. What could they? The thing in which they believed was destroyed before their eyes.”

Ruland paused to plug his pipe and blinked at the water.

“It was queer, in a way. When they saw me lay the first blows at the idol, do you know, they cried out—just as if I were hacking at their bodies? And then, when it fell, a curious moaning cry rose up from the whole people. Queer! Just like the passing of a spirit.”

“Oh, but don't you see that it was?” cried Loie, “A belief is a thing—spirit! You destroyed it! Poor things!”

He stared at her, mildly surprised.

“But you don't understand. You—you have no idea what their practices were, what their sacrifices were to that hideous idol. Cannibalism was the least.”

“But, poor things, couldn't you have taught them differently without breaking their belief so—so rudely—so painfully?”

“There's where the weakness of sentimentality comes in. If a surgeon is going to be sentimental about the patient, how is he ever going to perform the operation?”

“Yes, I suppose that's true. But what happened after? Did they think that you were a more powerful god—want to worship and obey you?”

“They obeyed me. But I would have none of the god business. For one thing, the faith of a people must always be fed—the more primitive, the stronger the demand—must be always fed by petty miracles—by tricks and a pandering to the vulgar taste for spectacular proofs of the godhead. Of course that was impossible.”

He knocked out the cuttle of his pipe and fumbled for his tobacco pouch.

“Is that the end of the story, then?” inquired Loie perplexedly.

“No. It isn't—unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately? Why?”

Ruland seemed to have forgotten her, for he stared gloomily at the water, replugging his pipe with a vigorous, irritable action. He lighted up, restoked until the pipe drew sweetly, and gazed at her questioningly.

“You know,” he said abruptly, “I'm rather sorry that I began to tell you this story.”

“Oh, why?” The gathering twilight matched her eyes.

“Because it's a story of a failure—my failure. But,” a little explosively, “I'm going to retrieve that, by God!”

“Oh, that's fine!” exclaimed Loie.

“H'm.”

He set his teeth on his pipestem and stared out across the lake. Loie feared that he was going to relapse into one of his monosyllabic moods.

“Yes?”

“I beg your pardon! I was thinking of you.”

“Oh, please don't!” exclaimed Loie involuntarily.

He met her eyes and smiled grimly.

“Do finish the story!” she begged, smiling nervously, “Why was it a failure?”

“Because of the usual destructive agent—the person who will—will butt in—for the good of humanity, but expressly for his own profit. Understand?”

“No, I'm afraid I don't.”

“Of course not. I mean, I'll explain.” Ruland tapped his teeth with the pipestem as if seeking a method of expression. “The longer you live in solitude, the more difficult it becomes to—to express yourself in words.”

“Oh, but you express yourself so well,” protested Loie. “Others——”

“Have nothing to express,” he cut in quickly.

“How unkind!” commented Loie and laughed. “But please do go on.”

“Well, then, we established a station—right on the site of the fallen god. The people caused no trouble. Their unity was gone. They became peaceable. We began to teach their chiefs how to govern, and they obeyed willingly, learning to work, bringing ivory and rubber, of which the country was full. Of course there were malcontents—as everywhere—and the mass of the people was inclined to be sullen for a time. It was a long job, requiring much tact and more patience.

“Well, after things were running smoothly, I took a double furlough. I had preferred to miss the previous one in order to—to advance the scheme. But a year after I had been away—each furlough is for twelve months, you know—I learned that—that everything I had done—all my work and labor—had been in vain. Suddenly the Munyasi had revolted—had massacred the whole station.”

“Oh, how dreadful!”

“Yes. At first I couldn't understand. I knew that something must have gone amiss, that somebody—— Yet Olsen, the Norwegian whom I had left in command, was a very capable man of long experience. I had had every confidence in him. And he was honest.”

“Was he killed, too?”

"Oh, yes—not a soul escaped. Treachery in the night. As far as I can ascertain, they—servants and chiefs—must have known—must have been in the plot.”

He regarded Loie's knees gloomily, struck a match, glanced at it, threw it into the lake, and began to polish the pipestem with two fingers.

“What happened then?”

“Oh”—he glanced up at her and back to the pipe—“oh, after the massacre, the Munyasi reverted, of course, to their former practices—sacrifices and slave raiding—just as before.”

“How terrible! Then your theory of the breaking of the idol and unity was quite wrong?”

“No!” Ruland leaned forward, tapping one lean finger on the pipe bowl emphatically, his eyes earnest. “No! For they had put up another idol!”

“Another one!”

“Yes, yes!” impatiently. “A new god—which was, of course, the symbol of their revived superstitions.”

“But how? I thought you said——”

“Exactly. But—— They could never have done it. The inevitable trouble maker had come in from outside—a white man, of course, unprincipled, a drunkard whom I had had to have put out of my jurisdiction years before for gun running, looting, and—and other charges. Murder, too, was against him, but not proven. I had made a mistake. I ought to have—— This scoundrel—he spoke the dialects like a native; he's been about thirteen years in the country—this scoundrel went up into the interior, got in with the witch doctors and the son of the late king, who was hereditary high priest, and revived all the witchcraft which I had almost stamped out; even making—so the report implies—this new idol. Carved it himself. Then undoubtedly he smuggled in guns and liquor—through the French Congo, probably—and incited the tribe to rise.”

“But what a terrible, fearfully wicked thing to do!” exclaimed Loie.

“H'm.”

Ruland stuck the pipe in his mouth savagely.

“But what made him do it?”

“Oh, the usual motive of such men—money. Apparently he's a sort of king of the tribe now. They say that the new idol is back on the site of the old one, that the god Sangha has returned, of course—on the ruins of my station. And he'll be trading all the rubber and ivory out of the country through the French Congo or the Sudan—until I get back!”

He picked up a paddle with an air of finality.

“What will you do when you catch this man?”

“Shoot him!” he replied grimly. “But possibly that won't be necessary, as he'll probably be dead before then. That type—I've met him, remember—always drinks himself to death, and quickly in that climate—besides other things.”

“How awful! Poor soul! But do you—are you sure that it was all his fault? Wouldn't the witch doctors perhaps have incited the people to revolt even if that white man had not helped them?”

“No. Their priest king had been slain and their god destroyed; therefore, they had no unity left, for the tangible symbol of their faith was broken. They would have caused no more trouble.”

Loie regarded him perplexedly.

“Yet I can't somehow help feeling sorry for the poor people,” said she. “I shouldn't like to have my idols broken.”

“Nobody does. But sometimes it's necessary and good for the patient to have symbols of superstition destroyed.”

“Oh, I don't believe it! I shouldn't like to be without faith in something! Oh, I couldn't be!”

He stopped paddling to stare at her; the tension grew again in his face.

“I shouldn't like to believe that of you. I shouldn't like to be anybody's idol.”

Loie looked away swiftly.

“I'm going back there soon,” he said slowly.

Loie began to dabble in the water.

“I hope you won't break any more idols,” she said, smiling nervously.

“Idols should always be broken,” he said sharply. He paddled on for a few minutes in silence. “That's what I'm going back for.”

“Don't you think that we'd better turn,” she suggested uneasily. “The light has nearly gone.”

He swung the canoe around.

“When we came out this afternoon,” he, began abruptly, “I intended to—to ask you something, but—but there much doesn't seem chance for me—now?” She shook her head slowly. “I'm afraid my story hasn't—hasn't helped me.”

“Oh, no, no, it isn't that!” she asserted hastily. “But——”

“Mr. Carruthers?”

She nodded.

“Ah, I thought so.”

He paddled steadily across the lake.

As they neared the landing place, he smiled slightly, a painful contortion.

“I'm afraid I've spent too many years in Africa to make a wooer of women. I was stupid to talk about African idols.”

“I hope you'll never break my idol!”

“I hope not. Still, all idols get broken sooner or later.”

“Oh, not mine!”

Loie's eyes gleamed in the blue twilight. She looked at the man. His sallow face seemed gray—even haggard; the air of solitude appeared to envelop him like a cloak. He was going back to more years of loneliness—without an idol; and Loie knew intuitively, as well as because “he” had told her so often, what an idol a woman may become to a man dwelling in a city or a desert. Her sympathy welled. She reached out and touched his lean, brown hand upon the paddle.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” she whispered; then, snatching impulsively at the gold chain around her neck, she drew out a small locket. “Look!” she exclaimed. “That's why I—I can't—— That is my idol!”

In silence he tilted the locket to catch the light. He saw a young man, clean shaven of jaw, with a rather weak a mouth and soft eyes.

“He gave it to me years ago. You see, we've been engaged ever since—oh, since we were boy and girl. I wonder you've never met him out there.”

“Thank you—very much,” he said dully.

As Loie thrust back the locket, she wondered whether she had hurt him unnecessarily, for his voice was strangely somber.

In silence he drove the canoe with powerful, almost angry, strokes across the lake, his pipe stuck in the corner of a mouth compressed. But he spoke no word until he assisted her to land. Then he bared his head as he took her her hand.

“Good-by,” he said slowly. “I'm going back soon—there. And I promise that I'll never again smash—anybody's idol.”

As he kissed her fingers, a harsh voice cried out:

“Loie! What in——”

They started violently and turned. From the shadows of the pine wood came a stocky figure hurrying upon them. The step was short and erratic; the clean-shaven face was pallid, with small, excited eyes that blinked like an angry ape's. Loie stared in amazement.

“What do you——” began Ruland, standing very erect and unconsciously clutching Loie's fingers.

“Loie!” cried the voice again, slightly hoarse. “Don't you know me?”

The fact of recognition caught at Loie's throat. She cried out as if stung and raised her other hand as if warding off some horrid thought.

“Hell!” the man ejaculated. “Can't you speak?”

“Jack!” gasped Loie, as if reluctantly admitting the evidence of her senses, recognizing in this loose-mouthed and puffy face, lined like a Chicago terminal, the ideal lover of her youth.

“Jack!” he mocked savagely. “Who the devil did you think I was? But I suppose, like any other girl, you've—— I come home to give you a surprise, and then your mother tells me—— Who the devil's this bounder, anyway?” As he spoke, he glanced at the stiff form of Ruland, glanced and peered through the twilight. “———!” he ejaculated. “You!”

Loie, her small mouth tight pressed, strove to recover her control. She took a step backward and unconsciously away from the man as she said coldly:

“I think—that you're rather excited—Jack. This—this is Mr. Ruland, who comes from——”

“I know where ——— the comes from!” snapped Carruthers, glaring. The erect, silent form appeared to infuriate him. He showed his yellow teeth in an ugly snarl. “This isn't the first time we've met, by God! But I put it over on you last time, and I'll do it this—even if you do try to sneak in and blackguard me to my girl! D'you hear? Oh, I know what you've said!”

Loie's face was blanched; her eyes were like a wounded fawn's. Ruland stood tensely with his hat in one hand, the other straight by his side; the sallow face was like tortured ivory.

“Jack! Oh, please!”

At the words, he turned upon her menacingly, the small eyes glittering with rage. As he spoke, she caught the odor of spirits, and recoiled.

“Dear God!” she muttered. “After eight years—this!”

“What did you say? Eight years! Yes, after eight years of toil and bloody sweat among stinking niggers for you, this is what I find! You fooling round in a canoe making love with the first man who comes along!” He swung again to Ruland. “Get out! D'you understand?” Ruland stood silent, quivering. “Why the hell can't you speak?”

“Jack! You're insulting my guest! Please try to control yourself!” The words came authoritatively, sharply, from Loie's tense lips. Her small chin was in the air, and her eyes were bright with anger.

“I'd better wish you——” Ruland began slowly.

“You keep your tongue quiet and get out,” shouted Carruthers, clenching his fists, “or I'll make you! Get that?”

As Ruland glanced at Loie's dead-white face, in which the delicate nostrils were quivering, Carruthers made a step forward, drawing back his arm. That act of physical menace split the sorely strained constraint of Ruland as a glove is split by a clenched fist. In one movement, he wheeled and had struck. Carruthers spun and pitched forward onto his face. As he began to rise, he saw the tense, erect figure of Ruland, but the Ruland of the Dark Continent, the ruler over men, clothed in authority; and he knew, too, that Loie saw and had recognized the man, So he sat still and scowled.

“You get up and go!” commanded Ruland. “When you've come to your senses, you may make any charge you wish against me and—you know where to find me. Now go! And go quick!”

Carruthers' snarling lips did not utter words. His face averted, he rose sullenly and went.

As Ruland turned to Loie, the apology upon his tongue was slain by her eyes.

“Thank you!” she whispered, as she gave him both her hands. “Oh, thank you, my—dear breaker of idols!”