"It must be a pretty rotten country," soliloquized the valet, "when a single-eye-glassed, right-about-turn, warranted-not-to-shrink-wear-or-tear gent like that gets buggy before breakfast."
The commander-in-chief rode from the gardens by the same gate at which he had entered for the first time only a month before. He did not return the salute of a corporal in the door of the guard-house. He did not notice the little brown soldier at the gate, who stood at attention upon his approach, and presented arms as he passed—which was, perhaps, just as well, for a freshly lighted cigarette smoked on the ground at the man's feet. He turned his horse's head northward. On both sides of the street arose the straight brown boles of the royal palms, and high above the morning wind sang in the stiff foliage. At the end of the street he turned into the path by which he had first entered the town. The country folk urged their horses into the bush that he might pass, and he rode by unheeding. In their simple minds they wondered at this, for the fame of his alert perception and flashing eye-glass had gone far and near. Of his own accord the white stallion came to a standstill before a hut. Hemming looked up, his reverie broken, and his thoughts returned to Pernamba.
A woman came to the narrow doorway and greeted him with reverence. He recognized in her the woman who had first welcomed him to the country. He dismounted and held out his hand.
"How is the little fellow?" he asked. At that the tears sprang into her eyes, and Hemming saw that her face was drawn with sorrow. He followed her into the dim interior of the hut. The boy lay in a corner, upon an untidy bed, and above him stood the English doctor. The two men shook hands.
"I can clear him of the fever," said the doctor, "but what for? It's easier to die of fever than of starvation."
"Starvation," exclaimed Hemming, "why starvation?"
"The señor does not know," said the woman. "It is not in his kind heart to ruin the poor, and bring sorrow to the humble."
"But," said the doctor, looking at Hemming, "to Englishmen of our class, a nigger is a nigger, say what you please, and the ends-of-the-earth is a place to make money and London is the place to spend it."
The soldier's face whitened beneath the tan.
"Don't judge me by your own standards, Scott, simply because you were born a gentleman," he said.