And at his throat long fingers clutched. A fetid, stinking breath gushed hot upon his face. He heard the raving chatter of ivories, snapping to rend him. Up sprang another shadow. High it swung a weapon. The blow thudded hollow, smashing, annihilating. Hot liquid gushed over Allan's hand as he sought to beat the monster back. Then, fair upon him, fell a crushing weight. Swooning, he knew no more. CHAPTER XVI A RESPITE FROM TOIL The bright beam of the flash-lamp in his face roused Allan to a consciousness that he was bruised and suffering, and that his left arm ached with dull insistence. Dazed, he brought it up and saw his sleeve of dull brown stuff was dripping red. Beside him, in the trampled grass, he vaguely made out a hairy bulk, motionless and huge. Bremilu was kneeling beside his master, with words of cheer. "It is dead, O Kromno! The man-beast is dead! My stone ax broke its skull. See, now it lies here harmless!" The currents of thought began to flow once more. Allan struggled up, unmindful of his wounds. "Beatrice! _Where is the girl?_" he gasped. As though by way of answer, the tall growths swayed and crackled, and through them a dim figure loomed--a man with something in his arms. "Zangamon!" panted Allan, springing toward him. "Have you got her? The girl--is she alive?" "She lives, master!" replied a voice. "But as yet she remains without knowledge of aught." "Wounded? Is she wounded?" Already he had reached Zangamon, and, injured though he was, had taken the beloved form in his arms. "Beatrice! Beatrice!" he called, pressing kisses to her brow, her eyes, her mouth--still warm, thank God! He sank down among the underbrush and gathered her to his breast, cradling her, cherishing her to him as though to bring back life and consciousness. To her heart he laid his ear. It beat! She breathed! "The light, here! Quick!" By its clear ray he saw her hair disheveled; her coarse mantle of brown stuff ripped and torn, and on her throat long scratches. Bruises showed on her hands and arms, as from a terrible fight she had put up against the monster. And his heart bled; and to his lips rose execrations, mingled with the tenderest words of pity and love. "We must get her back to the cave at once!" he exclaimed. "Quick! Break branches. Make a litter--a bed--to carry her on! Everything depends on getting her to shelter now!" But the two Merucaans did not understand. All this was beyond their knowledge. Ignoring his hurts, Allan laid the girl down very gently, and with them set to work, directing the making of the litter. They obeyed eagerly. In a few minutes the litter was ready-made of fern-tree branches thickly covered with leaves and odorous grasses. On this he placed the girl. "You, Zangamon, take these boughs here. Bremilu, those others. Now I will hold the light. Back to the cave, now--quick!"