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here to keep these scoundrels in order, and by the Lord that
made me, I’ll do it!’
‘Maurice, do not talk like that. Think how slight an acci-
dent might have made any one of us like one of these men.
What is the matter, Mr. North?’
Mr. North has suddenly turned pale.
‘Nothing,’ returned the clergyman, gasping—‘a sudden
faintness!’ The windows were thrown open, and the chap-
lain gradually recovered, as he did in Burgess’s parlour, at
Port Arthur, seven years ago. ‘I am liable to these attacks. A
touch of heart disease, I think. I shall have to rest for a day
or so.’ ‘Ah, take a spell,’ said Frere; ‘you overwork yourself.’
North, sitting, gasping and pale, smiles in a ghastly man-
ner. ‘I—I will. If I do not appear for a week, Mrs. Frere, you
will know the reason.’
‘A week! Surely it will not last so long as that!’ exclaims
Sylvia.
The ambiguous ‘it’ appears to annoy him, for he flushes
painfully, replying, ‘Sometimes longer. It is, a—um—uncer-
tain,’ in a confused and shame-faced manner, and is luckily
relieved by the entry of Jenkins.
‘A message from Mr. Troke, sir.’
‘Troke! What’s the matter now?’
‘Dawes, sir, ‘s been violent and assaulted Mr. Troke. Mr.
Troke said you’d left orders to be told at onst of the insubor-
dination of prisoners.’
‘Quite right. Where is he?’ ‘In the cells, I think, sir. They
had a hard fight to get him there, I am told, your honour.’
‘Had they? Give my compliments to Mr. Troke, and tell

1 For the Term of His Natural Life