and quiet beside her. "Are you hurt?" he
asked her.

She fought with herself, but could not answer him. A ridiculous
desire to dissolve into tears possessed her. She gripped his arm
with both hands, saying no word.

"Stick to it!" he said.

"I--I'm an awful idiot!" she managed to articulate.

"No, you're not. You're a brave girl," he said. "I was a fool not
to warn you. I forgot you didn't know your way. Did you hurt
yourself when you fell?"

"My knee--a little," she said. "It'll be all right directly." She
released his arm. "Thank you. I'm better now. Oh, what is that?
Rain?"

"Yes, rain," he said.

It began like the rushing of a thousand wings, sweeping
irresistibly down from the hills. It swelled into a pandemonium of
sound that was unlike anything she had ever heard. It was as if
they had suddenly been caught by a seething torrent. Again the
lightning flared, dancing a quivering, zigzag measure across the
verandah in which she sat, and the thunder burst overhead, numbing
the senses.

By that awful leaping glare Sylvia saw her companion. He was
stooping over her. He spoke; but she could not hear a word he
uttered.

Then again his arms were about her and he lifted her. She yielded
herself to him with the confidence of a child, and he carried her
into his home while the glancing lightning showed the way.

The noise within the house was less overwhelming. He put her down
on a long chair in almost total darkness, but a few moments later
the lightning glimmered again and showed her vividly the room in
which she lay. It was a man's room, half-office, half-lounge,
extremely bare, and devoid of all ornament with the exception of a
few native weapons on the walls.

The kindling of a lamp confirmed this first impression, but the
presence of the man himself diverted her attention from her
surroundings. He turned from lighting the lamp to survey her. She
thought he looked somewhat stern.

"What about this knee of yours?" he said. "Is it badly damaged?"

"Oh, not badly," she answered. "I'm sure not badly. What a lot of
trouble I am giving you! I am so sorry."

"You needn't be sorry on that account," he said. "I blame myself
alone. Do you mind letting me, see it? I am used to giving
first-aid."

"Oh, I don't think that is necessary," said Sylvia. "I--can quite
easily doctor myself."

"I thought we were to be comrades," he observed bluntly.

She coloured and faintly laughed, "Y