Headlong as was his flight, the working of his brain was even swifter, and very soon, without slackening his speed, he was swerving round again towards the open.  He could see the moonlight gleaming through the trees, and he made a dash for it, utterly reckless, since caution was of no avail, but alert for every danger, cunning for every advantage, keen as the born fighter for every chance that offered.

And so at last, torn, bleeding, but undismayed, he struggled free from the undergrowth, and sprang away from that place of horrors, staggering slightly but running strongly still, till the dark line of jungle fell away behind him and he reached the river bank once more.

Here he stopped and loosened his grip upon the slight form he carried.  Her arms dropped from his neck.  She had fainted.

For a few seconds he stared down into her white face, seeing nothing else, while the fiery heart of him leapt and quivered like a wild thing in leash.  Then, suddenly, from the water a voice hailed him, and he looked up with a start.

“Hullo, Pat!  What on earth is the matter?  You have landed the wrong side of the stream.  Is anything wrong?”

It was Teddy Duncombe in a boat below him.  He saw his face of concern in the moonlight.

He pulled himself together.

“I was coming to warn you.  This infernal jungle is full of snakes.  We’ve had to run for it, and leave the boat behind.”

“Great Scotland!  And Mrs. Perceval?”

Again Hone’s eyes sought the white face on his arm.

“No, she isn’t hurt.  It’s just a faint.  Pull up close, and I’ll hand her down to you!”

Between them, they lowered her into the boat.  Hone followed, and raised her to lean against his knee.

Duncombe began to row swiftly across the stream, with an uneasy eye upon the two in the stern.

“What in the world made you go wrong, I wonder?” he said.  “No one ever goes that side, not even the natives.  They say it’s haunted.  We all landed near the old bathing ghat.”

Hone was moistening Nina Perceval’s face with his handkerchief.  He made no reply to Teddy’s words.  He was anxiously watching for some sign of returning consciousness.

It came very soon.  The dark eyes opened and gazed up at him, at first uncomprehendingly, then with a dawning wonder.

“St. Patrick!” she whispered.

“Princess!” he whispered back.

With an effort she raised herself, leaning against him.

“What happened?  Were you hurt?  Your face is all bleeding!”

“It’s nothing!” he said jerkily.  “It’s nothing!”

She took his handkerchief in her trembling hand and wiped the blood away.  She said no more of any sort.  Only when she gave it back to him her eyes were full of tears.

And Hone caught the little hand in passionate, dumb devotion, and pressed it to his lips.

VII