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Updated: June 12, 2025
Ian had an allusiveness of conversation which made human intercourse a perpetual entertainment, and Jasmine's intercourse with him a delight which lingered after his going until his coming again. The contrast was prodigious and perplexing, for Rudyard Byng had qualities which compelled her interest. She sighed as she reflected.
A year later, in 1756, Jervis went to the Mediterranean with Admiral Hawke, sent to relieve Byng after the fiasco at Minorca which brought that unhappy commander to trial and to death.
She was sitting on the stone seat where Reggie Byng had sat and meditated on his love for Alice Faraday and his unfortunate habit of slicing his approach-shots. To George, as he stood beside her, she was a white blur in the darkness. He could not see her face. "I don't know!" he said frankly. Nor did he.
There was in the wronged husband's eyes the wild, reckless, unseeing thing which disregards consequences, which would rush blindly on the throne of God itself to snatch its vengeance. He spoke again: and just in time. "I think what you think, Byng, but I would not do what you want to do. I would do something else."
Presently he rang for Gleg. "Show Mr. Mappin in," he said. In a moment the great surgeon was seated, looking reflectively round him. Soon, however, he said brusquely, "I hope your friend Jigger is going on all right?" "Yes, yes, thanks to you." "No, no, Mr. Stafford, thanks to you and Mrs. Byng chiefly. It was care and nursing that did it.
With a low cry Byng ran forward, the sjambok swung through the air, and the terrible whip descended on the crouching half-caste. Krool gave one cry and fell back a little, but he made no attempt to resist. Suddenly Byng went to a window and threw it open. "You can jump from there or take the sjambok. Which?" he said with a passion not that of a man wholly sane. "Which?"
"Now, one tiny thrust of this steel point, which has been dipped in a certain acid, would kill Mrs. Byng as surely as though she had been shot through the heart. Yet it would leave scarcely the faintest sign. No blood, no wound, just a tiny pin-prick, as it were; and who would be the wiser?
Barry Whalen had seen Rudyard's danger, but had been unable to do anything. His hands were more than full, his life in danger; but in the instant that he had secured his own safety, he heard the cry of "Baas! Baas!" Then he saw the levelled rifle fall from the hands of the Boer who had aimed at Byng, and its owner collapse in a heap.
As for Robert Byng, the supposed narrator of the tale, his name seems to have been given him in order wantonly to increase the confusion caused by the contradictory traits with which he is accredited. The whole atmosphere of the story is unreal, fantastic, obscure.
He was much among his own wounded, much with others who were comforted by his solicitude, by the courage of his eye, and the grasp of his firm, friendly hand. It was at what the soldiers called the Stay Awhile Hospital that he came in living touch again with the life he had left behind. He knew that Rudyard Byng had come to South Africa; but he knew no more.
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