At her third heavy stumble, Nick stopped and made her swallow some raw brandy from his flask.  This buoyed her up for a while, but it was evident to them both that her strength was fast failing.  And presently he stopped again, and without a word lifted her in his arms.  She gasped a protest to which he made no response.  His arms compassed her like steel, making her feel helpless as an infant.  He was limping himself, she noticed; yet he bore her strongly, without faltering, sure-footed as a mountain goat over the broken ground, till he found at length what he deemed a safe halting-place in a clump of stunted trees.

The sunrise revealed a native village standing among rice and cotton fields in the valley below them.

“I shall have to go foraging,” Nick said.

But Muriel’s nerves that had been tottering on the verge of collapse for some time here broke down completely.  She clung to him hysterically and entreated him not to leave her.

“I can’t bear it!  I can’t bear it!” she kept reiterating.  “If you go, I must go too.  I can’t—­I can’t stay here alone.”

He gave way instantly, seeing that she was in a state of mind that bordered upon distraction, and that he could not safely leave her.  He sat down beside her, therefore, making her as comfortable as he could; and she presently slept with her head upon his shoulder.  It was but a broken slumber, however, and she awoke from it crying wildly that a man was being murdered—­murdered—­murdered—­and imploring him with agonised tears to intervene.

He quieted her with a steady insistence that gained its end, though she crouched against him sobbing for some time after.  As the sun rose higher her fever increased, but she remained conscious and suffering intensely, all through the heat of the day.  Then, as the evening drew on, she slipped into a heavy stupor.

It was the opportunity Nick had awaited for hours, and he seized it.  Laying her back in the deep shadow of a boulder, he went swiftly down into the valley.  The last light was passing as he strode through the village, a gaunt, silent figure in a hillman’s dress, a native dagger in his girdle.  Save that he had pulled the chuddah well over his face, he attempted no concealment.

He glided by a ring of old men seated about a fire, moving like a shadow through the glare.  They turned to view him, but he had already passed with the tread of a wolf, and the mud wall of one of the cottages hid him from sight.

Into this hut he dived as though some instinct guided him.  He paid no heed to a woman on a string-bedstead with a baby at her breast, who chattered shrilly at his entrance.  Preparations for a meal were in progress, and he scarcely paused before he lighted upon what he sought.  A small earthen pitcher stood on the mud floor.  He swooped upon it, caught it up, splashing milk in all directions, clapped his hand yellow and claw-like upon the mouth, and was gone.