She shrank back with another cry, and found Nick Ratcliffe’s arm thrust protectingly about her.

“It’s all right,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.  “You’re not frightened at flying-foxes, are you?”

Recalled to the fact of his presence, she turned sharply, and flung his arm away as though it had been a snake.  “Don’t touch me!” she gasped, passionate loathing in voice and gesture.

“Sorry,” said Nick imperturbably.  “I meant well.”

He began to busy himself with a small bundle that lay upon the ground, whistling softly between his teeth, and for a few seconds Muriel sat and watched him.  He was dressed in a flowing native garment, that covered him from head to foot.  Out of the heavy enveloping folds his smooth, yellow face looked forth, sinister and terrible to her fevered vision.  He looked like some evil bird, she thought to herself.

Glancing down, she saw that she was likewise attired, save that her head was bare.  The hair hung wet on her forehead, and the water dripped down her face.  She put up her hand half-mechanically to wipe the drops away.  Her fear was mounting rapidly higher.

She knew now what had happened.  He had drugged her forcibly—­she shivered at the remembrance—­and had borne her away to this dreadful place during her unconsciousness.  Her father was left behind in the fort.  He had sanctioned her removal.  He had given her, a helpless captive, into this man’s keeping.

But no!  Her whole soul rose up in sudden fierce denial of this.  He had never done this thing.  He had never given his consent to an act so cowardly and so brutal.  He was incapable of parting with her thus.  He could never have permitted so base a trick, so cruel, so outrageous, a deed of treachery.

Strength came suddenly to her—­the strength of frenzy.  She leaped to her feet.  She would escape.  She would go back to him through all the hordes of the enemy.  She would face anything—­anything in the world—­rather than remain at the mercy of this man.

But—­he had not been looking at her, and he did not look at her,—­his arm shot out as she moved, and his hand fastened claw-like upon her dress.

“Sorry,” he said again, in the same practical tone.  “But you’ll have something to eat before you go.”

She stooped and strove wildly, frantically, to shake off the detaining hand.  But it held her like a vice, with awful skeleton fingers that she could not, dared not, touch.

“Let me go!” she cried impotently.  “How dare you?  How dare you?”

Still he did not raise his head.  He was on his knees, and he would not even trouble himself to rise.

“I can’t help myself,” he told her coolly.  “It’s not my fault.  It’s yours.”

She made a final, violent effort to wrest herself free.  And then—­it was as if all power were suddenly taken from her—­her strained nerves gave way completely, and she dropped down upon the ground again in a quivering agony of helplessness.