For a moment that seemed a moment of eternity, she lay on her bed, staring into the blank darkness. The storm burst with a crashing uproar that brought her to her feet, with a shriek. Her giant tree creaked and strained under the impact of the terrific hurricane blasts that came howling through the cleft like a rout of shrieking fiends. The peals of thunder merged into one continuous roar, beneath which the solid ledges of rock jarred and quivered. The sky was a pall of black clouds, meshed with a dazzling network of forked lightning.

The girl stood motionless, stunned by the uproar, appalled by the blinding glare of the thunder-bolts; yet even more fearful of the figure which every flash showed her still lurking beneath the door. A gust-borne bough struck with numbing force against her upraised arm. But she took no heed. She was unaware of the swirl of rain and sticks and leaves that was driving in through the open entrance.On a sudden the door shook free from its props and whirled violently around on its balance-bar. There was a shriek that pierced above the shrilling of the cyclone,–a single human shriek.

The girl sprang across the cave. The heavy door swished up before her and down again, its lower edge all but grazing her face. For a moment it stopped in a vertical position, and hung quivering, like a beast about to leap upon its prey. Too excited to comprehend the danger of the act, the girl sprang forward and shot one of the thick bars into its socket.

A fierce gust leaped against the outer face of the door and thrust in upon it, striving to burst it bodily from its bearings. The top and the free side of the bottom bowed in. But the branches were still green and tough, the bamboo like whalebone, and the shrunken creepers held the frame together as though the joints were lashed with wire rope. Failing to smash in the elastic structure, or to snap the crossbar, it were as if the blast flung itself alternately against the top and bottom in a fierce attempt to again whirl the frame about. The white glare streaming in through the interstices showed the girl her opportunity. She grasped another bar and shot it into its socket as the lower part of the door gave back with the shifting of the pressure to the top. It was then a simple matter to slide the remaining bars into the deep-sunk holes. Within half a minute she had made the door fast, from the first bar to the sixth.

A heavy spray was beating in upon her through the chinks of the framework. She drew back and sought shelter in a niche at the side. Narrow as was the slit above the top of the door, it let in a torrent of water, which spouted clear across and against the far wall of the cave. It gushed down upon her bed and was already flooding the cave floor.

She piled higher the cocoanuts stored in her niche, and perched herself upon the heap to keep above the water. But even in her sheltered corner the eddying wind showered her with spray. She waded across for her skin-covered sunshade, and returned to huddle beneath it, in the still misery and terror of a hunted animal that has crept wounded into a hole.

During the first hurricane there had been companions to whom she could look for help and comfort, and she had been to a degree unaware of the greatness of the danger. But in the few short weeks since, she had caught more than one glimpse of Primeval Nature,–she of the bloody fang, blind, remorseless, insensate, destroying, ever destroying.True, this was on solid land, while before there had been the peril of the sea. But now the girl was alone. Outside the straining walls of her refuge, the hurricane yelled and shrieked and roared,–a headless, formless monster, furious to burst in upon her, to overthrow her stanch old tree giant, that in his fall his shattered trunk might crush and mangle her. Or at any instant a thunder-bolt might rend open the great tower of living wood, and hurl her blackened body into the pool on the cave floor.

Once she fancied that she heard Blake shouting outside the door; but when she screamed a shrill response, the blast mocked her with echoing shrieks, and she dared not venture to free the door. If it were Blake, he did not shout again. After a time she began to think that the sound had been no more than a freak of the shifting wind. Yet the thought of him out in the full fury of the cyclone served to turn her thoughts from her own danger. She prayed aloud for his safety, beseeching her God that he be spared. She sought to pray even for Winthrope. But the vision of that beastly face rose up before her, and she could not–then.

Presently she became aware of a change in the storm. The terrific gusts blew with yet greater violence, the thunder crashed heavier, the lightning filled the air with a flame of dazzling white light. But the rain no longer gushed across on the spot where her bed had been. It was entering at a different angle, and its force was broken by the bend in the thick wall of the entrance. After a time the deluge dashed aslant the entrance, gushing down the door in a cataract of foam.

Another interval, and the driving downpour no longer struck even the edge of the opening. The wind was veering rapidly as the cyclone centre moved past on one side. The area of the hurricane was little more than thrice that of a tornado, and it was advancing along its course at great speed. An hour more, and the outermost rim of the huge whirl was passing over the cleft.

Quickly the hurricane gusts fell away to a gale; the gale became a breeze; the breeze lulled and died away, stifled by the torrential rain.

Within the baobab all was again dark and silent. Utterly exhausted, the girl had sunk back against the friendly wall of the tree, and fallen asleep.

She was wakened by a hoarse call: “Miss Jenny! Miss Jenny, answer me! Are you all right?”

She started up, barely saving herself from a fall as the big unhusked nuts rolled beneath her feet. The morning sunlight was streaming in over her door. She sprang down ankle-deep into the mire of the cave floor, and ran to loosen the bars. As the door swung up, she darted out, with a cry of delight: “You are safe–safe! Oh, I was so afraid for you! But you’re drenched! You must build a fire–dry yourself–at once!”

“Wait,” said Blake. “I’ve got to tell you something.”

He caught her outstretched hands, and pushed them down with gentle force. His face was grave, almost solemn.

“Think you can stand bad news–a shock?”

“I– What is it? You look so strange!”

“It’s about Winthrope,–something very bad–”

She turned, with a gasp, and hid her face in her hands, shuddering with horror and loathing.

“Oh! oh!” she cried, “I know already–I know all!”

“All?” demanded Blake, staring blankly.

“Yes; all! And–and he made me think it was you!” She gasped, and fell silent.

Blake’s face went white. He spoke in a clear, vibrant voice, tense as an overstrained violin string: “I am speaking about Winthrope–understand me?–Winthrope. He has been badly hurt.”“The door swung down and struck him, when he was creeping in.”

“God!” roared Blake. “I picked him up like a sick baby–the beast!–’stead of grinding my heel in his face! God! I’ll–”

“Tom! don’t–don’t even speak it! Tom!”

“God! When a helpless girl–when a –!” He choked, beside himself with rage.

She sprang to him, and caught his sleeve in a convulsive grasp. “Hush, for mercy’s sake! Tom Blake, remember–you’re a man!”

He calmed like a ferocious dog at the voice of its master; but it was several minutes before he could bring himself to obey her insistent urging that he should return to the injured man.

“I’ll go,” he at last growled. “Wouldn’t do it even for you, but he’s good as dead–lucky for him!”

“Dead!”

“Dying. . . . . You stay away.”

He went around the baobab and a few paces along the cleft to the place where a limp form lay huddled on the ledges, out of the mud. Slowly, as though drawn by the fascination of horror, the girl crept after him. When she saw the broken, storm-beaten thing that had been Winthrope, she stopped, and would have turned back. After all, as Blake had said, he was dying–

When she stood at the feet of the writhing figure, and looked down into the battered face, it required all her will-power to keep from fainting. Blake frowned up at her for an instant, but said nothing.

Winthrope was speaking, feebly and brokenly, yet distinctly: “Really, I did not mean any harm–at first–you know. But a man does not always have control–”

“Not a beast like you!” growled Blake.

“Ow! Don’t ’it me! I say now, I’m done for! My legs are cold already–”

“Oh, quick, Mr. Blake! build a fire! It may be, some hot broth–”

“Too late,” muttered Blake. “See here, Winthrope, there’s no use lying about it. You’re going out mighty soon. See if you can’t die like a man.”

“Die! . . . Gawd, but I can’t die–I can’t die–Ow! it burns!”

He flung up a hand, and sought to tear at his wounds.

“Hold hard!” cried Blake, catching the hand in an iron grip.

Something in his touch, or the tone of command, seemed to cower the wretched man into a state of abject submission.“S’elp me, I’ll confess!–I’ll confess all!” he babbled. “The stones are sewed in the stomach pad; I ’ad to take ’em hout of their settings, and melt up the gold.” He paused, and a cunning smile stole over his distorted features. “Ho, wot a bloomin’ lark! Valet plays the gent, an’ they never ’as a hinkling! Mr. Cecil Winthrope, hif you please, an’ a ’int of a title–wot a lark! ’Awkings, me lad, you’re a gay ’oaxer! Wot a lark! wot a lark!”

Again there was a pause. The breath of the wounded man came in labored gasps. There was an ominous rattling in his throat. Yet once again he rallied, and this time his eyes turned to Miss Leslie, bright with an agonized consciousness of her presence and of all his guilt and shame.

His voice shrilled out in quavering appeal: “Don’t–don’t look at me, miss! I tried to make myself a gentleman; God knows I tried! I fought my way up out of the East End–out of that hell–and none ever lifted finger to help me. I educated myself like a scholar–then the stock sharks cheated me of my savings–out of the last penny; and I had to take service. My God! a valet–his Grace’s valet, and I a scholar! Do you wonder the devil got into me? Do you–”Blake’s deep voice, firm but strangely husky, broke in upon and silenced the cry of agony: “There, I guess you’ve said enough.”

“Enough!–and last night–My God! to be such a beast! The devil tempted me–aye, and he’s paid me out in my own coin! I’m done for! God ha’ mercy on me!–God ha’ mercy–”

Again came the gasping rattle; this time there was no rally.

Blake thrust himself between Miss Leslie and the crumpled figure.

“Get back around the tree,” he said harshly.

“What are you going to do?”

“That’s my business,” he replied. He thrust his burning-glass into her hand. “Here; go and build a fire, if you can find any dry stuff.”

“You’re not going to– You’ll bury him!”

“Yes. Whatever he may have been, he’s dead now, poor devil!”

“I can’t go,” she half whispered, “not until–until I’ve learned– Do you–can you tell me just what is paranoia?”

Blake studied a little, and tapped the top of his head.

“Near as I can say, it’s softening of the brain.–up there.”

“Do you think that–” she hesitated–“that he had it?”Again Blake paused to consider.

“Well, I’m no alienist. I thought him a softy from the first. But that was all in line with what he was playing on us–British dude. Fooled me, and I’d been chumming with Jimmy Scarbridge,–and Jimmy was the straight goods, fresh imported–monocle even–when I first ran up against him. No; this–this Hawkins, if that’s his name, had brains all right. Still, he may have been cracked. When folks go dotty, they sometimes get extra ’cute. The best I can think of him is that losing his savings may have made him slip a cog, and then the scare over the way we landed here and his spells of fever probably hurried up the softening.”

“Then you believe his story?”

“Yes, I do. But if you’ll go, please.”

“One thing more–I must know now! Do you remember the day when you set up the signal, and you–you quarrelled with him?”

Blake reddened, and dropped his gaze. “Did he go and tell you that? The sneak!”

“If you please, let us say nothing more about him. But would you care to tell me what you meant–what you said then?”

Blake’s flush deepened; but he raised his head, and faced her squarely as he answered: “No; I’m not going to repeat any dead man’s talk; and as for what I said, this isn’t the time or place to say anything in that line–now that we’re alone. Understand?”

“I’m afraid I do not, Mr. Blake. Please explain.”

“Don’t ask me, Miss Jenny. I can’t tell you now. You’ll have to wait till we get aboard ship. We’ll catch a steamer before long. ’T isn’t every one of them that goes ashore in these blows.”

“Why did you build that door? Did you suspect–” She glanced down at the huddled figure between them.

Blake frowned and hesitated; then burst out almost angrily: “Well, you know now he was a sneak; so it’s not blabbing to tell that much–I knew he was before; and it’s never safe to trust a sneak.”

“Thank you!” she said, and she turned away quickly that she might not again look at the prostrate figure.