It was the neck not of a man, but of a brute.

The curious repulsion of the previous evening, when he had carried me into the house, came over me again.

From junction of arm and body protruded six inches of the steel-covered life-preserver, the washleather that hid its ghastly knob staring at me blankly.

I hated the thing.

The gallant English officer--and in my time I have known and loved a many of the most gallant--does not go about in private life fondling a trophy reeking with the blood of his enemies.