reeling, with a hoarse scream which Jacqueline would never forget. She galloped to him and swung to the ground.
"It's me—Jack. D'you hear?"
He would not lower those arms, and his eyes stared wildly at her. On his forehead the blood had caked over a cut; his shirt was torn to rags, and the hair matted wildly over his eyes. She caught his hands and pulled them down.
"It's not McGurk! Don't you hear me? It's Jack!"
He reached out, like a blind man who has to see by the sense of touch, and stroked her face.
"Jack!" he whispered at last. "Thank God!"
"What's happened?"
"McGurk—"
A violent palsy shook him, and he could not go on.
"I know—I understand. He took your guns and left you to wander in this hell! Damn him! I wish—"
She stopped.
"How long since you've eaten?"
"Years!"
"We'll eat McGurk's food!"
But she had to assist him up the slope to the trees, and there she left him propped against a trunk, his arms fallen weakly at his sides, while she built the fire and cooked the food. Afterward she could hardly eat, watching him devour what she placed before him; and it thrilled all the woman in her to a strange warmth to take care of the long-
