Barbara Harding was horror-stricken.  She suddenly realized that she had commenced to feel that this giant of the slums was invulnerable, and with the thought came another—­that to him she had come to look more than to Theriere for eventual rescue; and now, here she found herself in the center of a savage island, surrounded as she felt confident she was by skulking murderers, with only two dying white men and a brown hostage as companions.

And now Oda Iseka took in the situation, and with a grin of triumph raised his voice in a loud halloo.

“Come quickly, my people!” he cried; “for both the white men are dying,” and from the jungle below them came an answering shout.

“We come, Oda Iseka, Lord of Yoka!  Your faithful samurai come!”

CHAPTER XIII

A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE

At the sound of the harsh voices so close upon her Barbara Harding was galvanized into instant action.  Springing to Byrne’s side she whipped Theriere’s revolver from his belt, where it reposed about the fallen mucker’s hips, and with it turned like a tigress upon the youth.

“Quick!” she cried.  “Tell them to go back—­that I shall kill you if they come closer.”

The boy shrank back in terror before the fiery eyes and menacing attitude of the white girl, and then with the terror that animated him ringing plainly in his voice he screamed to his henchmen to halt.

Relieved for a moment at least from immediate danger Barbara Harding turned her attention toward the two unconscious men at her feet.  From appearances it seemed that either might breathe his last at any moment, and as she looked at Theriere a wave of compassion swept over her, and the tears welled to her eyes; yet it was to the mucker that she first ministered—­why, she could not for the life of her have explained.

She dashed cold water from the spring upon his face.  She bathed his wrists, and washed his wounds, tearing strips from her skirt to bandage the horrid gash upon his breast in an effort to stanch the flow of lifeblood that welled forth with the man’s every breath.

And at last she was rewarded by seeing the flow of blood quelled and signs of returning consciousness appear.  The mucker opened his eyes.  Close above him bent the radiant vision of Barbara Harding’s face.  Upon his fevered forehead he felt the soothing strokes of her cool, soft hand.  He closed his eyes again to battle with the effeminate realization that he enjoyed this strange, new sensation—­the sensation of being ministered to by a gentle woman—­and, perish the thought, by a gentlewoman!

With an effort he raised himself to one elbow, scowling at her.

“Gwan,” he said; “I ain’t no boob dude.  Cut out de mush.  Lemme be.  Beat it!”

Hurt, more than she would have cared to admit, Barbara Harding turned away from her ungrateful and ungracious patient, to repeat her ministrations to the Frenchman.  The mucker read in her expression something of the wound his words had inflicted, and he lay thinking upon the matter for some time, watching her deft, white fingers as they worked over the scarce breathing Theriere.