 16 To Miriam, in her new home, the days passed quickly. At first she was all anxiety to be off into the jungle searching for her corag. Buona, as she insisted upon calling her benefactor, dissuaded her from making the attempt at once by dispatching a headman with a party of blacks to Kovudu's village with instructions to learn from the old savage how he came into possession of the white girl, and as much of her antecedence as might be called from the black chieftain. Buona particularly charged his headman with the duty of questioning Kovudu relative to the strange character whom the girl called Korak, and of searching for the ape-man if he found the slightest evidence upon which to ground a belief in the existence of such an individual. Buona was more than fully convinced that Korak was a creature of the girl's disordered imagination. He believed that the terrors and hardships she had undergone during captivity among the blacks and her frightful experience with the two Swedes had unbalanced her mind. But as the days passed and he became better acquainted with her and able to observe her under the ordinary conditions of the quiet of his African home, he was forced to admit that her strange tale puzzled him not a little, for there was no other evidence whatever that Miriam was not in full possession of her normal faculties. The white man's wife, whom Miriam had christened, my dear, from having first heard her thus addressed by Buona, took not only a deep interest in the little jungle-wave, because of her forlorn and friendless state, but grew to love her as well for her sunny disposition and natural charm of temperament. And Miriam, similarly impressed by little attributes in the gentle, cultured woman, reciprocated the other's regard and affection. And so the days flew by while Miriam waited the return of the headman and his party from the country of Kovudu. They were short days, for into them were crowded many hours of insidious instruction of the unlettered girl by the lonely woman. She commenced at once to teach the girl English without forcing it upon her as a task. She varied the instruction with lessons in sewing and deportment, nor once did she let Miriam guess that it was not all play. Nor was this difficult, since the girl was avid to learn. Then there were pretty dresses to be made to take the place of the single leopard skin, and in this she found the child as responsive and enthusiastic as any civilized mess of her acquaintance. A month passed before the headman returned, a month that had transformed the savage, half-naked little tarmangani into a daintily frocked girl of at least outward civilization. Miriam had progressed rapidly with the intricacies of the English language, for Buona and my dear had persistently refused to speak Arabic from the time they had decided that Miriam must learn English, which had been a day or two after her introduction into their home. The report of the headman plunged Miriam into a period of despondency, for he had found the village of Kovudu deserted, nor search as he would could he discover a single native anywhere in the vicinity. For some time he had camped near the village, spending the days in a systematic search of the environs for traces of Miriam's Korak. But in this quest too had he failed. He had seen neither apes nor ape-man. Miriam at first insisted upon setting forth herself in search of Korak, but Buona prevailed upon her to wait. He would go himself, he assured her, as soon as he could find the time, and at last Miriam consented to abide by his wishes. But it was months before she ceased to mourn almost hourly for her Korak. My dear grieved with the grieving girl, and did her best to comfort and cheer her. She told her that if Korak lived he would find her. But all the time she believed that Korak had never existed beyond the child's dreams. She planned amusements to distract Miriam's attention from her sorrow, and she instituted a well-designed campaign to impress upon the child the desirability of civilized life and customs, nor was this difficult as she was soon to learn, for it rapidly became evident that beneath the uncouth savagery of the girl was a bedrock of innate refinement, a nicety of taste, and predilection that quite equal that of her instructor. My dear was delighted. She was lonely and childless, and so she lavished upon this little stranger all the mother-love that would have gone to her own had she had one. The result was that by the end of the first year none might have guessed that Miriam ever had existed beyond the lap of culture and luxury. She was sixteen now, though she easily might have passed for nineteen, and she was very good to look upon, with her black hair and her tan skin and all the freshness and purity of health and innocence. Yet she still nursed her secret sorrow, though she no longer mentioned it to my dear, scarce an hour past that did not bring its recollection of Korak and its poignant yearning to see him again. Miriam spoke English fluently now, and read and wrote it as well. One day my dear spoke jokingly to her in French, and to her surprise Miriam replied in the same tongue. Slowly it is true and haltingly, but nonetheless in excellent French, such though as a little child might use. Thereafter they spoke a little French each day, and my dear often marveled that the girl learned this language with a facility that was at times almost uncanny. At first Miriam had puckered her narrow, arched little eyebrows as though trying to force recollection of something all but forgotten which the new words suggested, and then to her own astonishment as well as to that of her teacher she had used other French words than those in the lessons, used them properly, and with a pronunciation that the English woman knew was more perfect than her own. But Miriam could neither read nor write what she spoke so well, and as my dear considered a knowledge of correct English of the first importance other than conversational French was postponed for a later day. You doubtless heard French spoken at times in your father's duar, suggested my dear as the most reasonable explanation, Miriam shook her head. It may be, she said, but I do not recall ever having seen a Frenchman in my father's company. He hated them and would have nothing whatever to do with them, and I am quite sure that I never heard any of these words before, yet at the same time I find them all familiar, I cannot understand it, neither can I, agreed my dear. It was about this time that a runner brought a letter that when she learned the contents filled Miriam with excitement, visitors were coming, a number of English ladies and gentlemen had accepted my dear's invitation to spend a month of hunting and exploring with them. Miriam was all expectancy. What would these strangers be like? Would they be as nice to her as had Buona and my dear, or would they be like the other white folks she had known, cruel and relentless? My dear assured her that they all were gentle folk and that she would find them kind, considerate, and honourable. To my dear's surprise there was none of the shyness of the wild creature in Miriam's anticipation of the visit of the strangers. She looked forward to their coming with curiosity and with a certain pleasurable anticipation when once she was assured that they would not bite her. In fact, she appeared no different than with any pretty young miss who had learned of the expected coming of company. Korak's image was still often in her thoughts, but it aroused now a less well-defined sense of bereavement. A quiet sadness pervaded Miriam when she thought of him, but the poignant grief of her loss when it was young no longer goaded her to desperation. Yet she was still loyal to him. She still hoped that some day he would find her, nor did she doubt for a moment but that he was searching for her if he still lived. It was this last suggestion that caused her the greatest perturbation. Korak might be dead. It scarce seemed possible that one so well-equipped to meet the emergencies of jungle life should have succumbed so young. Yet when she had last seen him he had been beset by a horde of armed warriors and should he have returned to the village again as she well knew he must have, he may have been killed. Even her Korak could not single-handed slay an entire tribe. At last the visitors arrived. There were three men and two women, the wives of the two older men. The youngest member of the party was Honorable Morrison Baines, a young man of considerable wealth who, having exhausted all the possibilities for pleasure offered by the capitals of Europe, had gladly seized upon this opportunity to turn to another continent for excitement and adventure. He looked upon all things un-European as rather more than less impossible. Still he was not at all averse to enjoying the novelty of unaccustomed places and making the most of strangers indigenous thereto, however unspeakable they might have seemed to him at home. In manner he was suave and courteous to all, if possible a trifle more punctilious toward those he considered of meaner clay than toward the few he mentally admitted to equality. Nature had favored him with a splendid physique and a handsome face, and also with sufficient good judgment to appreciate that while he might enjoy the contemplation of his superiority to the masses there was little likelihood of the masses being equally entranced by the same cause. And so he easily maintained the reputation of being a most democratic and likable fellow, and indeed he was likable. Just a shade of his egotism was occasionally apparent, never sufficient to become a burden to his associates. And this briefly was the Honorable Morrison Baines of luxurious European civilization. What would be the Honorable Morrison Baines of Central Africa? It were difficult to guess. Miriam at first was shy and reserved in the presence of the strangers. Her benefactors had seen fit to ignore mention of her strange past, and so she passed as their ward, whose antecedents not having been mentioned were not to be inquired into. The guest found her sweet and unassuming, laughing, vivacious, and a never-exhausted storehouse of quaint and interesting jungle lore. She had ridden much during her year with Buona and my dear. She knew each favorite clump of concealing reeds along the river that the buffalo loved best. She knew a dozen places where lions lared and every drinking-hole in the drier country twenty-five miles back from the river. With an airing precision that was almost uncanny, she could track the largest or the smallest beast to his hiding place. But the thing that baffled them all was her instant consciousness of the presence of carnivora that others, exerting their faculties to the utmost, could neither see nor hear. The Honorable Morrison Baines found Miriam a most beautiful and charming companion. He was delighted with her from the first, particularly so, it is possible, because he had not thought to find companionship of this sort upon the African estate of his London friends. They were together a great deal, as they were the only unmarried couple in the little company. Miriam, entirely unaccustomed to the companionship of such as Baines, was fascinated by him. His tales of the great, gay cities with which he was familiar filled her with admiration and with wonder. If the Honorable Morrison always shone to advantage in these narratives, Miriam saw in that fact but a most natural consequence to his presence upon the scene of his story. Wherever Morrison might be he must be a hero, so thought the girl. With the actual presence and companionship of the young Englishman, the image of Korak became less real. Where before it had been an actuality to her, she now realized that Korak was but a memory. To that memory she still was loyal, but what weight has a memory in the presence of a fascinating reality? Miriam had never accompanied the men upon a hunt since the rival of the guests. She never had cared particularly for the sport of killing, the tracking she enjoyed, but the mere killing for the sake of killing she could not find pleasure in, little savages that she had been and still, to some measure, was. When Buona had gone forth to shoot for meat she had always been his enthusiastic companion, but with the coming of the London gas the hunting had deteriorated into mere killing. Slaughter the host would not permit, yet the purpose of the hunts were for heads and skins and not for food, so Miriam remained behind and spent her days either with my dear upon the shaded veranda, or riding her favorite pony across the plains or to the forest edge. Here she would leave him untethered while she took to the trees for the moment's unalloyed pleasures of a return to the wild free existence of her earlier childhood. Then would come again visions of Korak, and tired at last of leaping and swinging through the trees, she would stretch herself comfortably upon a branch and dream, and presently, as to-day, she found the features of Korak slowly dissolve and merge into those of another, and the figure of a tanned half-naked tarmungani became a khaki clothed Englishman astride a hunting pony. And while she dreamed there came to her ears from a distance, faintly, the terrified bleeding of a kid. Miriam was instantly alert. Your eye even had we been able to hear the pitiful wail at so great distance could not have interpreted it, but to Miriam it meant a species of terror that afflicts the ruminant when a carnivore is near and escape impossible. It had been both a pleasure and a sport of Koraks to rob Numa of his prey whenever possible, and Miriam too had often enjoyed in the thrill of snatching some dainty morsel almost from the very jaws of the king of beasts. Now, at the sound of the kid's bleat, all the well-remembered thrills recurred. Instantly she was all excitement to play again the game of hide and seek with death. Quickly she loosened her riding skirt and tossed it aside. It was a heavy handicap to successful travel in the trees. Her boots and stockings followed the skirt, for the bare sole of the human foot does not slip upon dry or even wet bark as does the hard leather of a boot. She would have liked to discard her riding breeches also, but the motherly admonitions of my dear had convinced Miriam that it was not good form to go naked through the world. At her hip hung a hunting knife, her rifle was still in its boot at her pony's withers, her revolver she had not brought. The kid was still bleating as Miriam started rapidly in its direction, which she knew was straight toward a certain water-hole which had once been famous as a rendezvous for lions. Of late there had been no evidence of carnivora in the neighborhood of this drinking place, but Miriam was positive that the bleating of the kid was due to the presence of either lion or panther, but she would soon know, for she was rapidly approaching the terrified animal. She wondered as she hastened onward that the sounds continued to come from the same point. Why did the kid not run away? And then she came inside of the little animal and knew the kid was tethered to a state beside the water-hole. Miriam paused in the branches of a nearby tree and scanned the surrounding clearing with quick, penetrating eyes. Where was the hunter? Buona and his people did not hunt thus. Who could have tethered this poor little beast as allure to Numa? Buona never countenance such acts in his country, and his word was law among those who hunted within radius of many miles of his estate. Some wandering savages doubtless, thought Miriam, but where were they? Not even her keen eyes could discover them. And where was Numa? Why had he not long since sprung upon this delicious and defenseless morsel, that he was close by was attested by the pitiful crying of the kid? Ah, now she saw him. He was lying close in a clump of brush a few yards to her right. The kid was downwind from him and getting the full benefit of his terrorizing scent which did not reach Miriam. To circle to the opposite side of the clearing where the trees approached closer to the kid, to leap quickly to the little animal's side and cut the tether that held him would be the work of but a moment. In that moment Numa might charge and then there would be scarce time to regain the safety of the trees. Yet it might be done. Miriam had escaped from closer quarters than that many times before. The doubt that gave her momentary pause was caused by fear of the unseen hunters more than by fear of Numa. If they were stranger blacks, the spears that they held in readiness for Numa might as readily be loosed upon whomever dared release their bait as upon the prey they sought thus to trap. Again the kid struggled to be free. Again his piteous wail touched the tender heartstrings of the girl. Tossing discretion aside she commenced to circle the clearing. Only from Numa did she attempt to conceal her presence. At last she reached the opposite trees. An instant she paused a look toward the great lion and at the same moment she saw the huge beast rise slowly to his full height. A low roar betokened that he was ready. Miriam loosened her knife and leaped to the ground. A quick run brought her to the side of the kid. Numa saw her. He lashed his tail against his tawny sides. He roared terribly, but for an instant he remained where he stood, surprised into inaction doubtless by the strange apparition that had sprung so unexpectedly from the jungle. Other eyes were upon Miriam too, eyes in which were no less surprised than that reflected in the yellow-green orbs of the carnivore. A white man hiding in a thorn-boma, half-rose as the young girl leaped into the clearing and dashed toward the kid. He saw Numa hesitate. He raised his rifle and covered the beast's breast. The girl reached the kid's side. Her knife flashed and the little prisoner was free. With a parting bleat it dashed off into the jungle. Then the girl turned to retreat toward the safety of the tree from which she had dropped so suddenly and unexpectedly into the surprised view of the lion, the kid and the man. As she turned the girl's face was turned toward the hunter. His eyes went wide as he saw her features. He gave a little gasp of surprise. But now the lion demanded all his attention. The baffled angry beast was charging. His breast was still covered by the motionless rifle. The man could have fired and stopped the charge at once. But for some reason, since he had seen the girl's face, he hesitated. Could it be that he did not care to save her? Or did he prefer, if possible, to remain unseen by her? It must have been the latter cause which kept the trigger-finger of the steady hand from exerting the little pressure that would have brought the great beast to at least a temporary pause. Like an eagle the man watched the race for life the girl was making. A second or two measured the time which the whole exciting event consumed from the moment that the lion broke into his charge. Nor once did the rifle sights fail to cover the broad breast of the tawny sire as the lion's course took him a little to the man's left. Once at the very last moment when escape seemed impossible the hunter's finger tightened ever so little upon the trigger, but almost coincidentally the girl leaped for an overhanging branch and seized it. The lion leaped too, but the nimble merriam had swung herself beyond his reach without a second or an inch to spare. The man breathed a sigh of relief as he lured his rifle. He saw the girl fling a grimace at the angry roaring man-eater beneath her and then laughing speed away into the forest. For an hour the lion remained about the water-hole. A hundred times could the hunter have bagged his prey. Why did he fail to do so? Was he afraid that the shot might attract the girl and cause her to return? At last Numa, still roaring angrily, strode majestically into the jungle. The hunter crawled from his Boma and half an hour later was entering a little camp snugly hidden in the forest. A handful of black followers greeted his return with sullen indifference. He was a great bearded man, a huge yellow-bearded giant when he entered his tent. Half an hour later he emerged smooth-shaven. His blacks looked at him in astonishment. Would you know me? he asked. The hyena that bore you would not know you, Buona? replied one. The man aimed a heavy fist at the black's face, but long experience in dodging similar blows saved the presumptuous one. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Son of Tarzan This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Son of Tarzan by Edgar Rice Burroughs Chapter 17 Miriam returned slowly toward the tree in which she had left her skirt, her shoes and her stockings. She was singing blithely, but her song came to a sudden stop when she came with inside of the tree for there, desporting themselves with glee and pulling and hauling upon her belongings, were a number of baboons. When they saw her they showed no signs of terror. Instead they bared their fangs and growled at her. What was there to fear in a single sheatarm and guanny? Nothing, absolutely nothing. In the open plain beyond the forest the hunters were returning from the day's sport. They were widely separated, hoping to raise a wandering lion on the homeward journey across the plain. The honourable Morrison Baines rode closest to the forest. As his eyes wandered back and forth across the undulating shrub-sprinkled ground they fell upon the form of a creature close beside the thick jungle where it terminated abruptly at the plain's edge. He reigned his mount in the direction of his discovery. It was yet too far away for his untrained eyes to recognize it. But as he came closer he saw that it was a horse and was about to resume the original direction of his way when he thought that he discerned a saddle upon the beast's back. He rode a little closer. Yes, the animal was saddled. The honourable Morrison approached yet nearer and as he did so his eyes expressed a pleasurable emotion of anticipation, for they had now recognized the pony as the special favourite of Miriam. He galloped to the animal's side. Miriam must be within the wood. The man shuddered a little at the thought of an unprotected girl alone in the jungle that was still to him a fearful place of terrors and stealthily stalking death. He dismounted and left his horse beside Miriam's. On foot he entered the jungle. He knew that she was probably safe enough and he wished to surprise her by coming suddenly upon her. He had gone but a short distance into the wood when he heard a great jabbering in a nearby tree. Coming closer he saw a band of baboons snarling over something. Looking intently he saw that one of them held a woman's riding skirt and that others had boots and stockings. His heart almost ceased to beat as he quite naturally placed the most direful explanation upon the scene. The baboons had killed Miriam and stripped this clothing from her body. Morrison shuddered. He was about to call aloud in the hope that after all the girl still lived when he saw her in a tree close beside that was occupied by the baboons and now he saw that they were snarling and jabbering at her. To his amazement he saw the girl swing ape-like into the tree below the huge beasts. He saw her paws upon a branch a few feet from the nearest baboon. He was about to raise his rifle and put a bullet through the hideous creature that seemed about to leap upon her when he heard the girl speak. He almost dropped his rifle from surprise as a strange jabbering identical with that of the apes broke from Miriam's lips. The baboons stopped there snarling and listened. It was quite evident that they were as much surprised as the honourable Morrison Baines. Slowly and one by one they approached the girl. She gave not the slightest evidence of fear of them. They quite surrounded her now so that Baines could not have fired without endangering the girl's life. But he no longer desired to fire. He was consumed with curiosity. For several minutes the girl carried on what could be nothing less than a conversation with the baboons, and then with seeming alacrity every article of her apparel in their position was handed over to her. The baboons still crowded eagerly about her as she donned them. They chattered to her and she chattered back. The honourable Morrison Baines sat down at the foot of a tree and mopped his perspiring brow. Then he rose and made his way back to his mount. When Miriam emerged from the forest a few minutes later she found him there, and he eyed her with wide eyes in which were both wonder and a sort of terror. "'I saw your horse here,' he explained, and thought that I would await and ride home with you. You do not mind?' "'Of course not,' she replied. "'It will be lovely.'" As they made their way stirrup to stirrup across the plain the honourable Morrison caught himself many times watching the girl's regular profile and wondering if his eyes had deceived him, or if in truth he really had seen this lovely creature consorting with grotesque baboons and conversing with them as fluently as she conversed with him. The thing was uncanny, impossible. Yet he had seen it with his own eyes, and as he watched her another thought persisted in obtruding itself into his mind she was most beautiful and very desirable. But what did he know of her? Was she not altogether impossible? Was the scene that he had but just witnessed not sufficient proof of her impossibility? A woman who climbed trees and conversed with the baboons of the jungle. It was quite horrible. Again the honourable Morrison mopped his brow. Miriam glanced toward him. "'You are warm,' she said. "'Now that the sun is setting I find it quite cool. Why do you perspire now?' He had not intended to let her know that he had seen her with the baboons, but quite suddenly before he realized what he was saying he had blurted it out. "'I perspire from emotion,' he said. "'I went into the jungle and I discovered your pony. I wanted to surprise you, but it was I who was surprised. I saw you in the trees with the baboons.' "'Yes,' she said quite unemotionally, as though it was a matter of little moment that a young girl should be upon inhumant terms with savage jungle beasts. It was horrible,' ejaculated the honourable Morrison. "'Horrible,' repeated Miriam, puckering her brows in bewilderment. "'What was horrible about it? They are my friends. Is it horrible to talk with one's friends?' "'You were really talking with them then,' cried the honourable Morrison. "'You understood them and they understood you?' "'Certainly. But they are hideous creatures—degraded beasts of a lower order. How could you speak the language of beasts?' "'They are not hideous and they are not degraded,' replied Miriam. "'Friends are never like that. I lived among them for years before Buona found me and brought me here. I scarce knew any other tongue than that of the mangani. Should I refuse to know them now simply because I happen for the present to live among humans?' "'For the present,' ejaculated the honourable Morrison, "'you cannot mean that you expect to return to live among them? Come, come! What foolishness are we talking! The very idea! You are spoofing me, Miss Miriam. You have been kind to these baboons here and they know you and do not molest you. But that you once lived among them? No, that is preposterous. "'But I did, though,' insisted the girl, seeing the real horror that the man felt in the presence of such an idea, reflected in his tone and manner, and rather enjoying, baiting him still further. "'Yes, I lived almost naked, among the great apes, and the lesser apes. I dwelt among the branches of the trees. I pounced upon the smaller prey and devoured it, raw. With Korak and Ahut I hunted the yantelope and the boar, and I sat upon a tree limb and made faces at Numa, the lion, and threw sticks at him, and annoyed him until he roared so terribly in his rage that the earth shook. And Korak built me a layer high among the branches of a mighty tree. He brought me fruits and flesh. He fought for me and was kind to me, until I came to Buona and my dear. I do not recall that any other than Korak was ever kind to me. There was a wistful note in the girl's voice now, and she had forgotten that she was bantering the honourable Morrison. She was thinking of Korak. She had not thought of him a great deal of late. For a time both were silently absorbed in their own reflections as they rode on toward the bungalow of their host. The girl was thinking of a godlike figure, a leopard skin half concealing his smooth brown hide, as he leaped nimbly through the trees to lay an offering of food before her on his return from a successful hunt. Behind him, shaggy and powerful, swung a huge anthrapoid ape, while she, Miriam laughing and shouting her welcome, swung upon a swaying limb before the entrance to her silvan bower. It was a pretty picture as she recalled it. The other side seldom obtruded itself upon her memory. The long black nights, the chill, terrible jungle nights, the cold and damp and discomfort of the rainy season, the hideous mouthings of the savage carnivora as they prowled through the stygian darkness beneath, the constant menace of Sheeta, the panther, and Hista, the snake, the stinging insects, the lonesome vermin. For in truth all these had been outweighed by the happiness of the sunny days, the freedom of it all, and most the companionship of Korak. The man's thoughts were rather jumbled. He had suddenly realized that he had come mighty near falling in love with this girl, of whom he had known nothing up to the previous moment when she had voluntarily revealed a portion of her past to him. The more he thought upon the matter, the more evident it became to him that he had given her his love, that he had been upon the verge of offering her his honorable name. He trembled a little at the narrowness of his escape. Yet he still loved her. There was no objection to that according to the ethics of the honorable Morrison Baines and his kind. She was a meaner clay than he. He could no more have taken her in marriage than he could have taken one of her baboon friends, nor would she, of course, expect such an offer from him. To have his love would be sufficient honor for her. His name he would, naturally, bestow upon one in his own elevated social sphere. A girl who had consorted with apes, who, according to her own admission, had lived almost naked among them, could have no considerable sense of the finer qualities of virtue, the love that he would offer her then would, far from offending her, probably cover all that she might desire or expect. The more the honorable Morrison Baines thought upon the subject, the more fully convinced he became that he was contemplating a most chivalrous and unselfish act. Europeans will better understand his point of view than Americans, poor, benighted provincials, who are denied a true appreciation of caste and of the fact that the king can do no wrong. He did not even have to argue the point that she would be much happier amidst the luxuries of a London apartment, fortified as she would be by both his love and his bank account, than lawfully wed to such a one as her social position warranted. There was one question, however, which he wished to have definitely answered before he committed himself even to the program he was considering. Who were Korak and Ahut, he asked? Ahut was a mangani, replied Miriam, and Korak a tarmangani. And what prey might a mangani be, and a tarmangani? The girl laughed. You are a tarmangani, she replied. The mangani are covered with hair. You would call them apes. Then Korak was a white man, he asked. And he was, ah, your, ah, your... He paused, for he found it rather difficult to go on with that line of questioning, while the girl's clear, beautiful eyes were looking straight into his. My what, insisted Miriam, far too unsophisticated, in her unspoiled innocence to guess what the Honourable Morrison was driving at. Why, ah, your brother, he stumbled. No, Korak was not my brother, she replied. Was he, ah, your husband, then, he finally blurted out. Far from taking a fence, Miriam broke into a merry laugh. My husband, she cried. Why, how old do you think I am? I am too young to have a husband. I had never thought of such a thing. Korak was, why, and now she hesitated too, for she never before had attempted to analyze the relationship that existed between herself and Korak. Why, Korak was just Korak. And again she broke into a gay laugh as she realized the illuminating quality of her description. Looking at her and listening to her, the man beside her could not believe that depravity of any sort or degree entered into the girl's nature. Yet he wanted to believe that she had not been virtuous, for otherwise his task was less a sine cure. The Honorable Morrison was not entirely without conscience. For several days the Honorable Morrison made no appreciable progress toward the consummation of his scheme. Sometimes he almost abandoned it, for he found himself time and again wondering how slight might be the provocation necessary to trick him into making a bonafide offer of marriage to Miriam if he permitted himself to fall more deeply in love with her, and it was difficult to see her daily and not love her. There was a quality about her which, all unknown to the Honorable Morrison, was making his task an extremely difficult one. It was that quality of innate goodness and cleanness, which is a good girl's stoutest bulwark and protection, an impregnable barrier that only degeneracy has the effrontery to assail. The Honorable Morrison Baines would never be considered a degenerate. He was sitting with Miriam upon the veranda one evening after the others had retired. Earlier they had been playing tennis, a game in which the Honorable Morrison shone to advantage, as in truth he did in most all manly sports. He was telling Miriam stories of London and Paris, of balls and banquets, of wonderful women and their wonderful gowns, of the pleasures and pastimes of the rich and powerful. The Honorable Morrison was a past master in the art of insidious boasting. His egotism was never flagrant or tiresome, he was never crude in it, for crudeness was a plebianism that the Honorable Morrison studiously avoided. Yet the impression derived by a listener to the Honorable Morrison was one that was not at all calculated to detract from the glory of the House of Baines or from that of its representative. Miriam was entranced. His tales were like fairy stories to this little jungle maid. The Honorable Morrison loomed large and wonderful and magnificent in her mind's eye. He fascinated her, and when he drew closer to her after a short silence and took her hand she thrilled, as one might thrill beneath the touch of a deity, a thrill of exaltation not unmixed with fear. He bent his lips close to her ear. "'Miriam,' he whispered, "'my little Miriam, may I hope to have the right to call you, my little Miriam?' The girl turned wide eyes upward to his face. But it was in shadow. She trembled, but she did not draw away. The man put an arm about her and drew her closer. "'I love you,' he whispered. She did not reply. She did not know what to say. She knew nothing of love. She had never given her the thought, but she did know that it was very nice to be loved, whatever it meant. It was nice to have people kind to one. She had known so little of kindness or affection. "'Tell me,' he said, "'that you return my love.' His lips came steadily closer to hers. They had almost touched when a vision of Korak sprang like a miracle before her eyes. She saw Korak's face close to hers. She felt his lips hot against hers, and then for the first time in her life she guessed what love meant. She drew away gently. "'I am not sure,' she said. "'That I love you. Let us wait. There is plenty of time. I am too young to marry yet, and I am not sure that I should be happy in London or Paris. They rather frighten me.' How easily and naturally she had connected his avowal of love with the idea of marriage! The Honourable Morrison was perfectly sure that he had not mentioned marriage. He had been particularly careful not to do so, and then she was not sure that she loved him. That too came rather in the nature of a shock to his vanity. It seemed incredible that this little barbarian should have any doubts whatsoever as to the desirability of the Honourable Morrison veins. The first flush of passion cooled. The Honourable Morrison was enabled to reason more logically. The start had been all wrong. It would be better now to wait and prepare her mind gradually for the only proposition which his exalted estate would permit him to offer her. He would go slow. He glanced down at the girl's profile. It was bathed in the silvery light of the great tropic moon. The Honourable Morrison veins wondered if it were to be so easy a matter to go slow. She was most alluring. From Rose the vision of Korak was still before her. "'Good night,' she said. "'It is almost too beautiful to leave.' She waved her hand in a comprehensive gesture which took in the starry heavens, the great moon, the broad, silvered plain, and the dense shadows in the distance that marked the jungle. "'Oh, how I love it! You would love London more,' he said earnestly, "'and London would love you. You would be a famous beauty in any capital of Europe. You would have the world at your feet, Miriam.' "'Good night,' she repeated, and left him. The Honourable Morrison selected a cigarette from his crested case, lighted it, blew a thin line of blue smoke toward the moon, and smiled. CHAPTER XVIII Miriam and Buona were sitting on the veranda together the following day when a horseman appeared in the distance riding across the plain toward the bungalow. Buona shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed out toward the oncoming rider. He was puzzled. Strangers were few in Central Africa. Even the blacks, for a distance of many miles in every direction, were well known to him. No white man came within a hundred miles that word of his coming did not reach Buona long before the stranger. His every move was reported to the big Buona, just what animals he killed, and how many of each species, how he killed them too, for Buona would not permit the use of prusic acid or strychnine, and how he treated his boys. Several European sportsmen had been turned back to the coast by the big Englishman's orders because of unwarranted cruelty to their black followers, and one whose name had long been heralded in civilized communities as that of a great sportsman was driven from Africa with orders never to return when Buona found that his big bag of fourteen lions had been made by the diligent use of poisoned bait. The result was that all good sportsmen and all the natives loved and respected him. His word was law where there had never been law before. There was scarce a head man from coast to coast who would not heed the big Buona's commands in preference to those of the hunters who employed them, and so it was easy to turn back any undesirable stranger. Buona had simply to threaten to order his boys to desert him. But there was evidently one who had slipped into the country unheralded. Buona could not imagine who the approaching horseman might be. After the manner of frontier hospitality, the globe round, he met the newcomer at the gate, welcoming him even before he had dismounted. He saw a tall, well-knit man of thirty or over, blonde hair and smooth shaven. There was a tantalizing familiarity about him that convinced Buona that he should be able to call the visitor by name. Yet he was unable to do so. The newcomer was evidently of Scandinavian origin, both his appearance and accent denoted that. His manner was rough, but open. He made a good impression upon the Englishman, who was want to accept strangers in this wild and savage country at their own valuation, asking no questions and assuming the best of them, until they proved themselves undeserving of his friendship and hospitality. It is rather unusual that a white man comes unheralded, he said, as they walked together toward the field into which he had suggested that the traveller might turn his pony. My friends, the natives, keep us rather well posted. It is probably due to the fact that I came from the south, explained the stranger, that you did not hear of my coming. I have seen no village for several marches. No, there are none to the south of us for many miles, replied Buona. Since Kovudu deserted his country I rather doubt that one could find a native in that direction under two or three hundred miles. Buona was wondering how a lone white man could have made his way through the savage, unhospitable miles that lay toward the south. As though guessing what must be passing through the other's mind, the stranger bounced safe to an explanation. I came down from the north to do a little trading and hunting, he said, and got way off the beaten track. My head man, who was the only member of the safari who had ever been in the country, took sick and died. We could find no natives to guide us, and so I simply swung back straight north. We have been living on the fruits of our guns for over a month. Didn't have an idea there was a white man within a thousand miles of us when we camped last night by a water-hole at the edge of the plain. This morning I started out to hunt and saw the smoke from your chimney, so I sent my gun-bearer back to camp with the good news and rode straight over here myself. Of course I've heard of you, everybody who comes into Central Africa does, and I'd be mighty glad to have permission to rest up and hunt around here for a couple of weeks. Certainly, replied Buona, move your camp up close to the river below my boy's camp and make yourself at home. They had reached the veranda now, and Buona was introducing the stranger to Miriam and my dear, who had just come from the bungalows interior. This is Mr. Hanson, he said, using the name the man had given him. He is a trader who has lost his way in the jungle to the south. My dear and Miriam bowed their acknowledgments of the introduction. The man seemed rather ill at ease in their presence. His host attributed this to the fact that his guest was unaccustomed to the society of cultured women, and so found a pretext to quickly extricate him from his seemingly unpleasant position and lead him away to his study and the brandy and soda which were evidently much less embarrassing to Mr. Hanson. When the two had left them, Miriam turned toward my dear. It is odd, she said, but I could almost swear that I had known Mr. Hanson in the past. It is odd, but quite impossible," and she gave the matter no further thought. Hanson did not accept Buona's invitation to move his camp closer to the bungalow. He said his boys were inclined to be quarrelsome and so were better off at a distance, and he himself was around but little and then always avoided coming into contact with the ladies, a fact which naturally aroused only laughing comment on the rough trader's bashfulness. He accompanied the men on several hunting trips where they found him perfectly at home and well versed in all the finer points of big game hunting. Of an evening he often spent much time with the white foreman of the big farm, evidently finding in the society of this rougher man more common interest than the cultured guests of Buona possessed for him. Though it came that his was a familiar figure about the premises by night, he came and went, as he saw fit, often wandering along in the great flower garden that was the special pride and joy of my dear, and Miriam. The first time that he had been surprised there he apologized gruffly, explaining that he had always been fond of the good old blooms of northern Europe which my dear had so successfully transplanted in African soil. Was it, though, the ever-beautiful blossoms of hollyhocks and flocks that drew him to the perfumed air of the garden, or that other infinitely more beautiful flower who wandered often among the blooms beneath the great moon, the black-haired, sun-tanned Miriam? For three weeks Hanson had remained. During this time he said that his boys were resting and gaining strength after their terrible ordeals in the untracked jungle to the south, but he had not been as idle as he appeared to have been. He divided his small following into two parties, entrusting the leadership of each to men whom he believed that he could trust. To them he explained his plans and the rich reward that they would win from him if they carried his designs to a successful conclusion. One party he moved very slowly northward along the trail that connects with the great caravan routes entering the Sahara from the south. The other he ordered straight westward with orders to halt and go into permanent camp just beyond the great river which marks the natural boundary of the country that the Big Buona rightfully considers almost his own. To his host he explained that he was moving his safari slowly toward the north. He said nothing of the party moving westward. Then one day he announced that half his boys had deserted, for a hunting party from the bungalow had come across his northerly camp and he feared that they might have noticed the reduced numbers of his following. And thus matters stood when one hot night Miriam unable to sleep rose and wandered out into the garden. The Honorable Morrison had been urging his suit once more that evening and the girl's mind was in such turmoil that she had been unable to sleep. The wide heavens about her seemed to promise a greater freedom from doubt and questioning. Morrison had urged her to tell him that she loved him. A dozen times she thought that she might honestly give him the answer that he demanded. Korak fast was becoming but a memory. That he was dead she had come to believe since otherwise he would have sought her out. She did not know that he had even better reason to believe her dead and that it was because of that belief he had made no effort to find her after his raid upon the village of Kovudu. In a great flowering shrub Hanson lay gazing at the stars and waiting. He had lain thus and there many nights before. For what was he waiting or for whom? He heard the girl approaching and half raised himself to his elbow. A dozen paces away the rains looked over a fence post stood his pony. Miriam walking slowly approached the bush behind which the waiter lay. Hanson drew a large bandana handkerchief from his pocket and rose stealthily to his knees, a pony-nade down at the corrals, far out across the plain a lion roared. Hanson changed his position until he squatted upon both feet, ready to come erect quickly. Again the pony-nade, this time closer. There was the sound of his body brushing against the shrubbery. Hanson heard and wondered how the animal had gotten from the corral, for it was evident that he was already in the garden. The man turned his head in the direction of the beast. What he saw sent him to the ground huddled close beneath the shrubbery. A man was coming, leading two ponies. Miriam heard now and stopped to look and listen. A moment later the honourable Morrison Baines drew near, the two saddled mounts at his heels. Miriam looked up at him in surprise. The honourable Morrison grinned sheepishly. I couldn't sleep, he explained, and was going for a bit of a ride when I chanced to see you out here, and I thought you'd like to join me. Ripping good sport, you know, night-writing. Come on." Miriam laughed. The adventure appealed to her. All right, she said. Hanson swore beneath his breath. The two led their horses from the garden to the gate and through it. There they discovered Hanson's mount. Why, here's the trader's pony, remarked Baines. He's probably down visiting with the foreman, said Miriam. Pretty late for him, isn't it, remarked the honourable Morrison. I'd hate to have to ride back through that jungle at night to his camp. As though to give weight to his apprehensions, the distant lion roared again. The honourable Morrison shivered and glanced at the girl to note the effect of the uncanny sound upon her. She appeared not to have noticed it. A moment later the two had mounted and were moving slowly across the moon-bathed plain. The girl turned her pony's head straight toward the jungle. It was in the direction of the roaring of the hungry lion. Hudden't we bet a steer clear of that fellow, suggested the honourable Morrison. I guess you didn't hear him. Yes, I heard him, that Miriam, let's ride over and call on him. The honourable Morrison laughed uneasily. He didn't care to appear at a disadvantage before this girl, nor did he care either to approach a hungry lion too closely at night. He carried his rifle in his saddle-boot, but moonlight is an uncertain light to shoot by, nor ever had he faced a lion alone, even by day. The thought gave him a distinct nausea. The beast ceased his roaring now, they heard him no more, and the honourable Morrison gained courage accordingly. They were riding downwind toward the jungle. The lion lay in a little swale to their right. He was old, for two nights he had not fed, for no longer was his charge as swift or as spring as mighty as in the days of his prime when he spread terror among the creatures of his wild domain. For two nights and days he had gone empty, and for a long time before that he had fed only upon carrion. He was old, but he was yet a terrible engine of destruction. At the edge of the forest the honourable Morrison drew rain. He had no desire to go further. Numa, silent upon his padded feet, crept into the jungle beyond them. The wind now was blowing gently between him and his intended prey. He had come a long way in search of man, for even in his youth he had tasted human flesh, and while it was poor stuff by comparison with Elan and Zebra it was less difficult to kill. In Numa's estimation man was a slow-witted, slow-footed creature which commanded no respect unless accompanied by the acrid order which spelled to the monarch's sensitive nostrils the great noise and the blinding flash of an express rifle. He caught the dangerous scent tonight, but he was ravenous to madness. He would face a dozen rifles if necessary to fill his empty belly. He circled about into the forest that he might again be downwind from his victims, for should they get his scent he could not hope to overtake them. Numa was famished, but he was old and crafty. Deep in the jungle another caught faintly the scent of man and of Numa both. He raised his head and sniffed. He cocked it upon one side and listened. Come on, said Miriam, let's ride in away. The forest is wonderful at night. It is open enough to permit us to ride. The Honourable Morrison hesitated. He shrank from revealing his fear in the presence of the girl. A braver man, sure of his own position, would have had the courage to have refused uselessly to expose the girl to danger. He would not have thought of himself at all, but the egotism of the Honourable Morrison required that he think always of self first. He had planned the ride to get Miriam away from the bungalow. He wanted to talk to her alone, and far enough away, so should she take offense at his proposed suggestion, he would have time in which to attempt to write himself in her eyes before they reached home. He had little doubt, of course, but that he should succeed, but it is to his credit that he did have some slight doubts. You needn't be afraid of the lion, said Miriam, noting his slight hesitancy. There hasn't been a man eat her around here for two years, says, and the game is so plentiful that there is no necessity to drive Numa to human flesh. Then he has been so often hunted that he rather keeps out of man's way. Oh, I'm not afraid of lions, replied the Honourable Morrison. I was just thinking what a beastly, uncomfortable place a forest is to ride in. What with the underbrush and the low branches and all that. You know it's not exactly cut out for pleasure-writing. Let's go a foot, then, suggested Miriam, and started to dismount. Oh, no! cried the Honourable Morrison, aghast at this suggestion. Let's ride! And he reigned his pony into the dark shadows of the wood. Behind him came Miriam, and in front, prowling ahead, waiting a favourable opportunity, sculpt Numa the Lion. Out upon the plain a lone horseman muttered a low curse as he saw the two disappear from sight. It was Hanson. They had followed them from the bungalow. Their way led in the direction of his camp, so he had a ready and plausible excuse should they discover him, but they had not seen him, for they had not turned their eyes behind. Now he turned directly toward the spot at which they had entered the jungle. He no longer cared whether he was observed or not. There were two reasons for his indifference. The first was that he saw in Bain's Act a counterpart of his own planned abduction of the girl. In some way he might turn the thing to his own purposes. At least he would keep in touch with them and make sure that Bain's did not get her. His other reason was based on his knowledge of an event that had transpired at his camp the previous night, an event which he had not mentioned at the bungalow for fear of drawing undesired attention to his movements and bringing the blacks of the big buana into dangerous intercourse with his own boys. He had told at the bungalow that half his men had deserted. That story might be quickly disproved should his boys and buanas grow confidential. The event that he had failed to mention, and which now urged him hurriedly after the girl and her escort, had occurred during his absence early the preceding evening. His men had been sitting around their campfire entirely encircled by a high thorn-boma, when without the slightest warning a huge lion had leaped amongst them and seized one of their number. It had been solely due to the loyalty and courage of his comrades that his life had been saved, and then only after a battle royal with the hunger-enraged beast had they been able to drive him off with burning brands, spears, and rifles. From this Hanson knew that a man-eater had wandered into the district or been developed by the aging of one of the many lions who ranged the plains and hills by night, or lay up in the cool wood by day. He had heard the roaring of a hungry lion not half an hour before, and there was little doubt in his mind but that the man-eater was stalking Miriam and Baines. He cursed the Englishman for a fool, and spurred rapidly after them. Miriam and Baines had drawn up in a small natural clearing. A hundred yards beyond them Numa lay crouching in the underbrush, his yellow-green eyes fixed upon his prey, the tip of his sinuous tail jerking spasmodically. He was measuring the distance between him and them. He was wondering if he dared venture a charge, or should he wait yet a little longer in the hope that they might ride straight into his jaws. He was very hungry, but also was he very crafty. He could not chance losing his meat by hasty and ill-considered brush. Had he waited the night before, until the black slept, he would not have been forced to go hungry for another twenty-four hours. Behind him the other that had caught his scent and that of man together came to a sitting posture upon the branch of a tree in which he had reposed himself for slumber. Beneath him a lumbering gray hulk swayed to and fro in the darkness. The beast in the tree uttered a low guttural and dropped to the back of the gray mass. He whispered a word in one of the great ears, and Tantor, the elephant, raised his trunk aloft, swinging it high and low to catch the scent that the word had warned him of. There was another whispered word. Was it a command? And the lumbering beast wheeled into an awkward yet silent shuffle in the direction of Numa the lion, and the stranger Tarmangani his rider had scented. Onward they went, the scent of the lion and his prey becoming stronger and stronger. Numa was becoming impatient. How much longer must he wait for his meat to come his way? He last his tail viciously now. He almost growled. All unconscious of their danger the man and the girl sat talking in the little clearing. Their horses were pressed side by side. Baines had found Miriam's hand, and was pressing it as he poured words of love into her ear, and Miriam was listening. Come to London with me, urged the Honourable Morrison. I can gather a safari, and we can be a whole day upon the way to the coast before they guess that we have gone. Why must we go that way, asked the girl? Buona and my dear would not object to our marriage. I cannot marry you just yet, explained the Honourable Morrison. There are some formalities to be attended to first. You do not understand. It will be all right. We will go to London. I cannot wait. If you love me, you will come. What of the apes you lived with? Did they bother about marriage? They love as we love. Had you stayed among them, you would have mated as they made. It is the law of nature. No man made law can abrogate the laws of God. What difference does it make if we love one another? What do we care for anyone in the world besides ourselves? I would give my life for you. Would you give nothing for me? You love me, she said. You will marry me when we have reached London? I swear it, he cried. I will go with you, she whispered, though I do not understand why it is necessary. She leaned toward him and he took her in his arms and bent to press his lips to hers. At the same instant the head of a huge tusker poked through the trees that fringed the clearing. The Honourable Morrison and Merriam with eyes and ears for one another alone did not see or hear, but Numa did. The man upon Tantor's broad head saw the girl in the man's arms. It was Korak, but in the trim figure of the neatly garbed girl he did not recognize his Merriam. He only saw a tarmangani with his she. Then Numa charged, with a frightful roar fearful lest Tantor had come to frighten away his prey, the great beast leaped from his hiding place. The earth trembled to his mighty voice. The pony stood for an instant transfixed with terror. The Honourable Morrison bans went white and cold. The lion was charging toward them full in the brilliant light of the magnificent moon. The muscles of the Honourable Morrison no longer obeyed his will. They flexed to the urge of a greater power, the power of nature's first law. They drove his spurred heels deep into his pony's flanks. They bore the rain against the brute's neck that wheeled him with an impetuous drive toward the plain and safety. The girl's pony, squealing in terror, reared and plunged upon the heels of his mate. The lion was close upon him, only the girl was cool, the girl and the half-naked savage who bestowed the neck of his mighty mount and grinned at the exciting spectacle chance had staked for his enjoyment. To Korak here were but two strange Tarmangani pursued by Numa, who was empty. It was Numa's right to pray. But one was a she. Korak felt an intuitive urge to rush to her protection. Why he could not guess. All Tarmangani were enemies now. He had lived too long a beast to feel strongly the humanitarian impulses that were inherent in him, yet feel them he did, for the girl, at least. The urge tanned her forward. He raised his heavy spear and hurled it at the flying target of the lion's body. The girl's pony had reached the trees upon the opposite side of the clearing. Here he would become easy prey to the swiftly moving lion. But Numa, infuriated, preferred the woman upon his back. It was for her he leaped. Korak gave an exclamation of astonishment and approval as Numa landed upon the pony's rump, and at the same instant the girl swung free of her mount to the branches of a tree above her. Korak's spear struck Numa in the shoulder, knocking him from his precarious hold upon the frantically plunging horse. Freed of the weight of both girl and lion, the pony raced ahead toward safety. Numa tore and struck at the missile in his shoulder, but could not dislodge it. Then he resumed the chase. Korak guided Tantor into the seclusion of the jungle. He did not wish to be seen nor had he. Hanson had almost reached the wood when he heard the lion's terrific roars and knew that the charge had come. An instant later the honourable Morrison broke upon his vision, racing like mad for safety. The man lay flat upon his pony's back, hugging the animal's neck tightly with both arms and digging the spurs into his sides. An instant later the second pony appeared, writerless. Hanson groaned as he guessed what had happened out of sight in the jungle, with an oath he spurred on in the hope of driving the lion from his prey. His rifle was ready in his hand, and then the lion came into view behind the girl's pony. Hanson could not understand. He knew that if Numa had succeeded in seizing the girl he would not have continued in pursuit of the others. He drew in his own mount, took quick aim and fired. The lion stopped in his tracks, turned and bit at his side, then rolled over dead. Hanson rode on into the forest, calling aloud to the girl. "'Here I am,' came a quick response from the foliage of the trees just ahead. "'Did you hit him?' "'Yes,' replied Hanson. "'Where are you? You had a mighty narrow escape. It will teach you to keep out of the jungle at night.' Together they returned to the plain, where they found the honourable Morrison riding slowly back toward them. He explained that his pony had bolted, and that he had had hard work stopping him at all. Hanson grinned, for he recalled the pounding heels that he had seen driving sharp spurs into the flanks of Bain's Mount, but he said nothing of what he had seen. He took Marian up behind him, and the three rode in silence toward the bungalow. CHAPTER 19 Behind them Korak emerged from the jungle and recovered his spear from Numa's side. He still was smiling. He had enjoyed the spectacle exceedingly. There was one thing that troubled him, the agility with which the she had clamoured from her pony's back into the safety of the tree above her. That was more like mangani, more like his lost Miriam. He sighed, his lost Miriam, his little dead Miriam. He wondered if this she-stranger resembled his Miriam in other ways. A great longing to see her overwhelmed him. He looked after the three figures moving steadily across the plain. He wondered where might lie their destination. A desire to follow them came over him, but he only stood there watching until they had disappeared in the distance. The sight of the civilised girl and the dapper khaki-clad Englishman had aroused in Korak memories long dormant. Once he had dreamed of returning to the world of such as these, but with the death of Miriam hope and ambition seemed to have deserted him. He cared now only to pass the remainder of his life in solitude, as far from man as possible. With a sigh he turned slowly back into the jungle. Tantor, nervous by nature, had been far from reassured by close proximity to the three strange whites, and with the report of Hanson's rifle had turned and ambled away at his long, swinging shuffle. He was nowhere in sight when Korak returned to look for him. The eight-man, however, was little concerned by the absence of his friend. Tantor had a habit of wandering off unexpectedly. For a month they might not see one another, for Korak seldom took the trouble to follow the great Pachyderm, nor did he upon this occasion. Instead he found a comfortable perch in a large tree and was soon asleep. At the bungalow Buana had met the returning adventurers on the Beranda. In a moment of wakefulness he had heard the report of Hanson's rifle far out across the plain and wondered what it might mean. Presently it had occurred to him that the man whom he considered in the light of a guest might have met with an accident on his way back to camp, so he had arisen and gone to his foreman's quarters, where he had learned that Hanson had been there earlier in the evening but had departed several hours before. Returning from the foreman's quarters Buana had noticed that the corral gate was open, and further investigation revealed the fact that Miriam's pony was gone, and also the one most often used by Baines. Instantly Buana assumed that the shot had been fired by Honourable Morrison, and had again aroused his foreman and was making preparations to set forth in investigation when he had seen the party approaching across the plain. Explanation on the part of the Englishman met a rather chilly reception from his host. Miriam was silent. She saw that Buana was angry with her. It was the first time, and she was heartbroken. Go to your room, Miriam, he said, and Baines, if you will step into my study I'd like to have a word with you in a moment. He stepped toward Hanson as the others turned to obey him. There was something about Buana even in his gentlest moods that commanded instant obedience. How did you happen to be with them, Hanson? he asked. I'd been sitting in the garden, replied the trader, after leaving Gervis's quarters. I have a habit of doing that, as your lady probably knows. Tonight I fell asleep behind a bush, and was awakened by them two spooning. I couldn't hear what they said, but presently Baines brings two ponies, and they ride off. I didn't like to interfere, for it wasn't any of my business, but I knew they hadn't ought to be riding about that time of night, least ways not the girl. It wasn't right, and it wasn't safe. So I follows them, and it's just as well as I did. Baines was getting away from the lion as fast as he could, leaving the girls to take care of herself, when I got a lucky shot into the beast's shoulder that fixed him. Hanson paused. Both men were silent for a time. Presently the trader coughed, in an embarrassed manner, as though there was something on his mind he felt in duty bound to say, but hated to. What is it, Hanson? asked Bonne. You were about to say something, weren't you? Well, you see, it's like this, ventured Hanson, being around here evenings a good deal. I have seen them two together a lot, and begon your pardon, sir, but I don't think Mr. Baines means the girl any good. I've overheard enough to make me think he's trying to get her to run off with him. Hanson, to fit his own ends, hit nearer the truth than he knew. He was afraid that Baines would interfere with his own plans, and he had hit upon a scheme to both utilize the young Englishman and get rid of him at the same time. And I thought, continued the trader, that in as much as I am about due to move you might like to suggest to Mr. Baines that he go with me, I'd be valent to take him nor to the catavan trails as a favour to you, sir. Bonne stood in deep thought for a moment. Suddenly he looked up. Of course, Hanson, Mr. Baines is my guest, he said, a grim twinkle in his eye. Really I cannot accuse him of planning to run away with Miriam on the evidence that we have, and as he is my guest I should hate to be so discourteous as to ask him to leave. But if I recall his words correctly, it seems to me that he has spoken of returning home, and I am sure that nothing would delight him more than going north with you. You say you start tomorrow? I think Mr. Baines will accompany you. Drop over in the morning, if you please, and now good night, and thank you for keeping a watchful eye on Miriam. Hanson hid a grin as he turned and sought his saddle. Won a step from the veranda to his study, where he found the honourable Morrison pacing back and forth evidently very ill at ease. Baines, said Won a, coming directly to the point, Hanson is leaving for the north to-morrow. He has taken a great fancy to you, and just asked me to say to you that he'd be glad to have you accompany him. Good night, Baines. At Won a's suggestion Miriam kept to her room the following morning until after the honourable Morrison Baines had departed. Hanson had come for him early, in fact he had remained all night with the foreman Jervis that they might get an early start. The farewell exchanges between the honourable Morrison and his host were of the most formal type, and when at last the guest rode away Won a breathed a sigh of relief. It had been an unpleasant duty, and he was glad that it was over, but he did not regret his action. He had not been blind to Baines' infatuation for Miriam, and knowing the young man's pride in cast, he had never for a moment believed that his guest would offer his name to this nameless A-Rab girl, for extremely light in colour though she was for a full-blood A-Rab, Won a believed her to be such. He did not mention the subject again to Miriam, and in this he made a mistake, for the young girl, realising the debt of gratitude she owed Won a, and my dear, was both proud and sensitive, so that Won is action in sending Baines away and giving her no opportunity to explain or defend, hurt and mortified her. Also it did much toward making a martyr of Baines in her eyes, and arousing in her breast a keen feeling of loyalty toward him. What she had half mistaken for love before, she now wholly mistook for love. Won a and my dear might have told her much of the social barriers that they only too well knew Baines must feel existed between Miriam and himself, but they hesitated to wound her. It would have been better had they inflicted this lesser sorrow and saved the child the misery that was to follow because of her ignorance. As Hanson and Baines rode toward the former's camp, the Englishman maintained a morose silence. The other was attempting to formulate an opening that would lead naturally to the proposition he had in mind. He rode a neck behind his companion, grinning as he noted the sullen scowl upon the other's patrician face. Rather rough on you, wasn't he? He ventured at last, jerking his head back in the direction of the bungalow as Baines turned his eyes upon him at the remark. He thinks a lot of the girl, continued Hanson, and don't want nobody to marry her and take her away, but it looks to me as though he was doing her a more harm than good in sending you away. She ought to marry some time, and she couldn't do better than a fine young gentleman like you. Baines, who at first felt inclined to take a fence at the mention of his private affairs by this common fellow, was mollified by Hanson's final remark, and immediately commenced to see in him a man of fine discrimination. He's a darned bounder, grumbled the honourable Morrison, but I'll get even with him. He may be the whole thing in Central Africa, but I'm as big as he is in London, and he'll find it out when he comes home. If I would you, said Hanson, I wouldn't let any man keep me from gattening the girl I want. Between you and me I ain't got no use for him either, and if I can help you in any way, just call on me. It's mighty good of you, Hanson," replied Baines, warming up a bit, but what can a fellow do here in this god-forsaken whore? I know what I'd do," said Hanson, I'd take the girl along with me. If she loves you, she'll go all right. It can't be done, said Baines. He bosses this whole blooming country for miles around. He'd be sure to catch us. No, he wouldn't, not with me running things, said Hanson. I've been trading and hunting here for ten years, and I know as much about the country as he does. If you want to take the girl along, I'll help you, and I'll guarantee that there won't nobody catch up with us before we reach the coast. I'll tell you what. You write her a note, and I'll get it to her by my head, ma'am. Ask her to meet you to say goodbye. She won't refuse that. In the meantime we can be moving camp a little further north all the time, and you can make arrangements with her to be all ready on a certain night. Tell her I'll meet her then, while you wait for us in camp. That'll be better, for I know the country well and can cover it quicker than you. You can take care of the safari, and be moving along slow toward the north, and the girl and I'll catch up to you. But suppose she won't come, suggested Baines. Then make another date for a last goodbye, said Hanson, and instead of you, I'll be there and bring her along any way. She'll have to come, and after it's all over she won't feel so bad about it, especially after living with you for two months while we're making the coast. A shocked and angry protest rose to Baines' lips, but he did not utter it, for almost simultaneously came the realization that this was practically the same thing he had been planning upon himself. It had sounded brutal and criminal from the lips of the rough traitor, but nevertheless the young Englishman saw that with Hanson's help and his knowledge of African travel the possibilities of success would be much greater than as though the Honourable Morrison were to attempt the thing single-handed, and so he nodded a glum assent. The balance of the long ride to Hanson's northerly camp was made in silence, for both men were occupied with their own thoughts, most of which were far from being either complementary or loyal to the other. As they rode through the woods the sounds of their careless passage came to the ears of another jungle wayfarer. The killer had determined to come back to the place where he had seen the white girl who took to the trees with the ability of long attitude. There was a compelling something in the recollection of her that drew him irresistibly toward her. He wished to see her by the light of day, to see her features, to see the color of her eyes and hair. It seemed to him that she must bear a strong resemblance to his lost Miriam, and yet he knew that the chances were that she did not. The fleeting glimpse that he had had of her in the moonlight as she swung from the back of her plunging pony into the branches of the tree above her had shown him a girl of about the same height as his Miriam, but of a more rounded and developed femininity. Now he was moving lazily back in the direction of the spot where he had seen the girl when the sounds of the approaching horseman came to his sharp ears. He moved stealthily through the branches until he came within sight of the riders. The young man, he instantly recognized, is the same he had seen with his arms about the girl in the moonlight glade just the instant before Numa charged. The other he did not recognize, though there was a familiarity about his carriage and figure that puzzled Korak. The ape man decided that to find the girl again he would but have to keep in touch with the young Englishman, and so he fell in behind the pair, following them to Hanson's camp. Here the Honourable Morrison penned a brief note which Hanson gave into the keeping of one of his boys who started off forthwith toward the south. Korak remained in the vicinity of the camp, keeping a careful watch upon the Englishman. He had half expected to find the girl at the destination of the two riders and had been disappointed when no sign of her materialized about the camp. Baines was restless pacing back and forth beneath the trees when he should have been resting against the forced marches of the coming flight. Hanson lay in his hammock and smoked. They spoke but little. Korak lay stretched upon a branch among the dense foliage above them. Thus passed the balance of the afternoon. Korak became hungry and thirsty. He doubted that either of the men would leave camp now before morning so he withdrew, but toward the south, for there it seemed most likely the girl still was. In the garden beside the bungalow Miriam wandered thoughtfully in the moonlight. She still smarted from Buona's, to her unjust treatment of the Honourable Morrison Baines. Nothing had been explained to her, for both Buona and my dear had wished to spare her the mortification and sorrow of the true explanation of Baines' proposal. They knew, as Miriam did not, that the man had no intention of marrying her, else he would have come directly to Buona, knowing full well that no objection would be interposed if Miriam really cared for him. Miriam loved them both and was grateful to them for all that they had done for her. But deep in her little heart surged the savage love of liberty that her years of untrammeled freedom in the jungle had made part and parcel of her being. Now for the first time since she had come to them Miriam felt like a prisoner in the bungalow of Buona and my dear. Like a caged Tigris the girl paced the length of the enclosure. Once she paused near the outer fence, her head upon one side, listening. What was it she had heard? The pad of naked human feet just beyond the garden. She listened for a moment. The sound was not repeated. Then she resumed her restless walking. Down to the opposite end of the garden she passed, turned and retraced her steps toward the upper end. Upon the swad near the bushes that hid the fence, full in the glare of the moonlight, lay a white envelope that had not been there when she had turned almost upon the very spot a moment before. Miriam stopped short in her tracks, listening again and sniffing, more than ever the Tigris. Alert! Ready! Beyond the bushes a naked black runner squatted peering through the foliage. He saw her take a step closer to the letter. She had seen it. He rose quietly and following the shadows of the bushes that ran down to the corral was soon gone from sight. Miriam's trained ears heard his every move. She made no attempt to seek closer knowledge of his identity. Already she had guessed that he was a messenger from the honourable Morrison. She stooped and picked up the envelope. Tearing it open she easily read the contents by the moon's brilliant light. It was as she had guessed from Baines. I cannot go without seeing you again, it read. Come to the clearing early to-morrow morning and say good-bye to me. Come alone. There was a little more. Words that made her heart beat faster and a happy flush mount her cheek. CHAPTER 20 It was still dark when the honourable Morrison Baines set forth for the tristing place. He insisted upon having a guide, saying that he was not sure that he could find his way back to the little clearing. As a matter of fact the thought of that lonely ride through the darkness before the sun rose had been too much for his courage, and he craved company. A black, therefore, preceded him on foot. Behind and above him came Korak, whom the noise in the camp had awakened. It was nine o'clock before Baines drew rain in the clearing. Miriam had not yet arrived. The black lay down to rest. Baines lulled in his saddle. Korak stretched himself comfortably upon a lofty limb, where he could watch those beneath him without being seen. An hour passed. Baines gave evidence of nervousness. Korak had already guessed that the young Englishman had come here to meet another, nor was he at all in doubt as to the identity of that other. The killer was perfectly satisfied that he was soon again to see the nimble shee who had so forcefully reminded him of Miriam. Presently the sound of an approaching horse came to Korak's ears. She was coming. She had almost reached the clearing before Baines became aware of her presence, and then, as he looked up, the foliage parted to the head and shoulders of her mount and Miriam rode into view. Baines spurred to meet her. Korak looked searchingly down upon her, mentally anathematizing the broad brimmed hat that hid her features from his eyes. She was abreast the Englishman now. Korak saw the man take both her hands and draw her close to his breast. He saw the man's face concealed for a moment beneath the same broad brim that hid the girls. He could imagine their lips meeting, and a twinge of sorrow and sweet recollection combined to close his eyes for an instant in that involuntary muscular act with which we attempt to shut out from the mind's eye harrowing reflections. When he looked again they had drawn apart and were conversing earnestly. Korak could see the man urging something. It was equally evident that the girl was holding back. There were many of her gestures, and the way in which she tossed her head up and to the right, tipped tilting her chin, that reminded Korak still more strongly of Miriam. And then the conversation was over, and the man took the girl in his arms again to kiss her goodbye. She turned and rode toward the point from which she had come. The man sat on his horse watching her. At the edge of the jungle she turned to wave him a final farewell. To-night, she cried, throwing back her head as she called the words to him across the little distance which separated them, throwing back her head and revealing her face for the first time to the eyes of the killer in the tree above. Korak started as though pierced through the heart with an arrow. He trembled and shook like a leaf. He closed his eyes, pressing his palms across them, and then he opened them again and looked. But the girl was gone. Only the waving foliage of the jungle's rim marked where she had disappeared. It was impossible. It could not be true. And yet, with his own eyes, he had seen his Miriam, older a little, with figure more rounded by nearer maturity, and subtly changed in other ways, more beautiful than ever, yet still his little Miriam. Yes, he had seen the dead live again. He had seen his Miriam in the flesh. She lived. She had not died. He had seen her. He had seen his Miriam in the arms of another man. And that man sat below him now, within easy reach. Korak, the killer, fondled his heavy spear. He played with the grass-rope dangling from his G-string. He stroked the hunting knife at his hip, and the man beneath him called to his drowsy guide, bent the rain to his pony's neck, and moved off toward the north. Still sat Korak, the killer, alone among the trees. Now his hands hung idly at his sides. His weapons and what he had intended were forgotten for the moment. Korak was thinking. He had noted that subtle change in Miriam. When last he had seen her she had been his little half-naked mangani, wild, savage, and uncouth. She had not seemed uncouth to him then, but now in the change that had come over her he knew that such she had been. Yet no more uncouth than he, and he was still uncouth. In her had taken place the change. In her he had just seen a sweet and lovely flower of refinement and civilization, and he shuddered as he recalled the fate that he himself had planned for her to be the mate of an ape-man, his mate in the savage jungle. Then he had seen no wrong in it, for he had loved her, and the way he had planned had been the way of the jungle which they too had chosen as their home. But now, after having seen the Miriam of civilized attire, he realized the hideousness of his once cherished plan, and he thanked God that chance and the blacks of Kovudu had thwarted him. Yet he still loved her, and jealousy seared his soul as he recalled the sight of her in the arms of the dapper young Englishman. What were his intentions toward her? Did he really love her? How could one not love her? And she loved him, of that Korak had ample proof. Had she not loved him, she would not have accepted his kisses. His Miriam loved another. For a long time he let that awful truth sink deep, and from it he tried to reason out his future plan of action. In his heart was a great desire to follow the man and slay him, but ever there rose in his consciousness the thought she loves him. Could he slay the creature Miriam loved? Sadly he shook his head. No, he could not. Then came a partial decision to follow Miriam and speak with her. He half started, and then glanced down at his nakedness and was ashamed. He, the son of a British peer, had thus thrown away his life, and had thus degraded himself to the level of a beast that he was ashamed to go to the woman he loved and lay his love at her feet. He was ashamed to go to the little Arab maid who had been his jungle playmate for what had he to offer her. For years circumstances had prevented a return to his father and mother, and at last pride had stepped in and expunged from his mind the last vestige of any intention to return. In a spirit of boyish adventure he had cast his lot with the jungle ape. The killing of the crook in the coast in Miriam had filled his childish mind with terror of the law and driven him deeper into the wilds. The rebuffs that he had met at the hands of men, both black and white, had had their effect upon his mind while yet it was in a formative state and easily influenced. He had come to believe that the hand of man was against him, and then he had found in Miriam the only human association he required or craved. When she had been snatched from him his sorrow had been so deep that the thought of ever mingling again with human beings grew still more unutterably distasteful. Finally and for all time he thought the die was cast. Of his own volition he had become a beast, a beast he had lived, a beast he would die. Now that it was too late he regretted it, for now Miriam still living had been revealed to him in a guise of progress and advancement that had carried her completely out of his life. Death itself could not have further removed her from him. In her new world she loved a man of her own kind, and Korak knew that it was right. She was not for him, not for the naked, savvy jaipe. No, she was not for him, but he still was hers. If he could not have her and happiness he would at least do all that lay in his power to assure happiness to her. He would follow the young Englishman. In the first place he would know that he meant Miriam no harm, and after that, though jealousy wrenched his heart, he would watch over the man Miriam loved for Miriam's sake, but God helped that man if he thought to wrong her. Slowly he aroused himself. He stood erect and stretched his great frame, the muscles of his arms gliding sinuously beneath his tanned skin as he bent his clenched fists behind his head. A movement on the ground beneath caught his eye, and Antelope was entering the clearing. Immediately Korak became aware that he was empty. Again he was a beast. For a moment love had lifted him to sublime heights of honor and renunciation. The Antelope was crossing the clearing. Korak dropped to the ground upon the opposite side of the tree, and so lightly that not even the scented evers of the Antelope apprehended his presence. He uncoiled his grass-rope. It was the latest addition to his armament, yet he was proficient with it. Often he traveled with nothing more than his knife and his rope. They were light and easy to carry. His spear and bow and arrows were cumbersome, and he usually kept one or all of them hidden away in a private cache. Now he held a single coil of the long rope in his right hand, and the balance in his left. The Antelope was but a few paces from him. Silently Korak leaped from his hiding place, swinging the rope free from the entangling shrubbery. The Antelope sprang away almost instantly, but instantly too the coiled rope with its sliding noose flew through the air above him. With unairing precision it settled about the creature's neck. There was a quick wrist movement of the thrower, the noose tightened, the killer braced himself with the rope across his hip, and as the Antelope taughten the singing strands in a last frantic bound for liberty he was thrown over upon his back. Then, instead of approaching the fallen animal as a roper of the western plains might do, Korak dragged his captive to himself, pulling him in hand over hand, and when he was within reach leaping upon him even as Sheetha the panther might have done, and burying his teeth in the animal's neck while he found its heart with the point of his hunting knife. Recoiling his rope he cut a few generous strips from his kill, and took to the trees again where he ate in peace. Later he swung off in the direction of a nearby water-hole, and then he slept. In his mind, of course, was the suggestion of another meeting between Miriam and the young Englishman that had been born to him by the girl's parting, to-night. He had not followed Miriam because he knew from the direction from which she had come and in which she returned that wheresoever she had found an asylum it lay out across the plains, and not wishing to be discovered by the girl he had not cared to venture into the open after her. It would do as well to keep in touch with the young man, and that was precisely what he intended doing. To you or me the possibility of locating the Honorable Morrison in the jungle after having permitted him to get such a considerable start might have seemed remote, but to Korak it was not at all so. He guessed that the white man would return to his camp, but should he have done otherwise it would be a simple matter to the killer to trail a mounted man accompanied by another on foot. Days might pass and still such a spore would be sufficiently plain to lead Korak unfalteringly to its end, while a matter of a few hours only left it as clear to him as though the makers themselves were still in plain sight. And so it came that a few minutes after the Honorable Morrison Baines entered the camp to be greeted by Hanson, Korak slipped noiselessly into a nearby tree. There he lay until late afternoon, and still the young Englishman made no move to leave the camp. Korak wondered if Miriam were coming there. A little later Hanson and one of his black boys rode out of camp. Korak merely noted the fact. He was not particularly interested in what any other member of the company than the young Englishman did. Darkness came, and still the young man remained. He ate his evening meal, afterward smoking numerous cigarettes. Presently he began to pace back and forth before his tent. He kept his boy busy replenishing the fire. A lion coughed, and he went into his tent to reappear with an express rifle. Again he admonished the boy to throw more brush upon the fire. Korak saw that he was nervous and afraid at his lip-curled in a snare of contempt. Was this the creature who had supplanted him in the heart of his Miriam? Was this a man who trembled when pneumocoft? How could such as he protect Miriam from the countless dangers of the jungle? Ah, but he would not have to. They would live in the safety of European civilization, where men in uniforms were hired to protect them. What need had a European of prowess to protect his mate? Again the sneer-curled Korak's lip. Hanson and his boy had ridden directly to the clearing. It was already dark when they arrived. Leaving the boy there, Hanson rode to the edge of the plain, leading the boy's horse. There he waited. It was nine o'clock before he saw a solitary figure galloping toward him from the direction of the bungalow. A few moments later Miriam drew in her mount beside him. She was nervous and flushed. When she recognized Hanson, she drew back, startled. Mr. Bain's horse fell on him and sprained his ankle, Hanson hastened to explain. He co-ordined very well come, so he sent me to meet you and bring you to camp. The girl could not see in the darkness the gloating, triumphant expression on the speaker's face. We had better hurry, continued Hanson, for we'll have to move along pretty fast if we don't want to be overtaken. Is he hurt badly? asked Miriam. Only of a little sprain, replied Hanson. He can ride or ride, but we both thought he'd better lie up to-night and rest, for he'll have plenty hard riding in the next few weeks. Yes, agreed the girl. Hanson swung his pony about and Miriam followed him. They rode north along the edge of the jungle for a mile and then turned straight into it toward the west. Miriam following paid little attention to directions. She did not know exactly where Hanson's camp lay and so she did not guess that he was not leading her toward it. All night they rode straight toward the west. When morning came Hanson permitted a short halt for breakfast, which he had provided in well-filled saddlebags before leaving his camp. Then they pushed on again, nor did they halt a second time, until in the heat of the day he stopped and motioned the girl to dismount. We will sleep here for a time and let the ponies graze, he said. I had no idea the camp was so far away, said Miriam. I left orders that they were to move on at daybreak, explained the traitor, so that we could get a good start. I knew that you and I could easily overtake a lad in safari. It may not be until tomorrow that we will catch up with them. But though they traveled part of the night and all the following day no sign of the safari appeared ahead of them. Miriam, an adept in jungle-craft, knew that none had passed ahead of them for many days. Occasionally she saw indications of an old spore, a very old spore, of many men. For the most part they followed this well-marked trail along elephant paths and through park-like groves. It was an ideal trail for rapid traveling. Miriam at last became suspicious. Gradually the attitude of the man at her side had begun to change. Often she surprised him devouring her with his eyes. Steadily the former sensation of previous acquaintance-ship urged itself upon her. Somewhere, some time before, she had known this man. It was evident that he had not shaved for several days. A blonde stubble had commenced to cover his neck and cheeks and chin, and with it the assurance that he was no stranger continued to grow up on the girl. It was not until the second day, however, that Miriam rebelled. She drew in her pony at last and voiced her doubts. Hanson assured her that the camp was but a few miles further on. We should have overtaken them yesterday, he said. They must have marched much faster than I had believed possible. They have not marched here at all, said Miriam. The spore that we have been following is weeks old. Hanson laughed. Oh, that's it, is it, he cried. Why, didn't you say so before? I could have easily explained. We are not coming by that same route, but we will pick up their trail some time to-day, even if we don't overtake them. Now at last Miriam knew the man was lying to her. What a fool he must be to think that anyone could believe such a ridiculous explanation. Who was so stupid as to believe that they could have expected to overtake another party, and he had certainly assured her that momentarily he expected to do so when that party's route was not to meet theirs for several miles yet? She kept her own counsel, however, planning to escape at the first opportunity when she might have a sufficient start of her captor, as she now considered him, to give her some assurance of out-distancing him. She watched his face continually when she could without being observed. Tantalizingly the placing of his familiar features persisted in eluding her. Where had she known him? Under what conditions had they met before she had seen him about the farm of Buona? She ran over in her mind all the few white men she had ever known. There were some who had come to her father's duar in the jungle. Few it is true, but there had been some. Ah, now she had it! She had seen him there. She almost seized upon his identity, and then in an instant it had slipped from her again. It was mid-afternoon when they suddenly broke out of the jungle upon the banks of a broad and placid river. Beyond, upon the opposite shore, Miriam described a camp surrounded by a high thorn-boma. Here we are at last, said Hanson. He drew his revolver and fired in the air. Instantly the camp across the river was a stir. Black men ran down the river bank. Hanson hailed them, but there was no sign of the honourable Morrison Baines. In accordance with their master's instructions the blacks manned a canoe and rode across. Hanson placed Miriam in the little craft and entered it himself, leaving two boys to watch the horses which the canoe was to return for and swim across to the campside of the river. Once in the camp Miriam asked for Baines. For the moment her fears had been allayed by the sight of the camp which she had come to look upon as more or less a myth. Hanson pointed toward the single tent that stood in the centre of the enclosure. There, he said, and preceded her toward it. At the entrance he held the flap aside and motioned her within. Miriam entered and looked about. The tent was empty. She turned toward Hanson. There was a broad grin on his face. Where is Mr. Baines? she demanded. He ain't here, replied Hanson. Least wise I don't see him, do you? But I'm here, and I'm a damned sight better man than that thing ever was. You don't need him no more, you got me. And he laughed up roiously and reached for her. Miriam struggled to free herself. Hanson encircled her arms and body in his powerful grip and bore her slowly backward toward the pile of blankets at the far end of the tent. His face was bent close to hers. His eyes were narrowed to two slits of heat and passion and desire. Miriam was looking full into his face as she fought for freedom when there came over her a sudden recollection of a similar scene in which she had been a participant and with it full recognition of her assailant. He was the swede Malban who had attacked her once before, who had shot his companion who would have saved her and from whom she had been rescued by Buona. His smooth face had deceived her, but now with the growing beard and the similarity of conditions recognition came swift and sure. But today there would be no Buona to save her.