He cast a look of admiration on her, which she avoided, and very soon his ax was heard ringing in the wood hard by. Then came a loud crash. Then another. Hazel came running with the cabbage and a cocoa-pod. "There," said he, "and there are a hundred more about. While you cook that for Welch I will store them." Accordingly he returned to the wood with his net, and soon came back with five pods in it, each as big as a large pumpkin. He chucked these one at a time across the river, and then went for more. It took him all the afternoon to get all the pods across the river. He was obliged to sit down and rest. But a suggestion of Helen's soon set him to work again. "You were kind enough to say you would store these for me. Could you not store them so as to wall out those terrible beasts with them?" "What terrible beasts?" "That roar so all night, and don't eat us, only because they have not found out we are here yet. But they will." "I deny their existence," said Hazel. "But I'll wall them out all the same," said he. "Pray do," said Helen. "Wall them out first, and disprove them afterward; I shall be better able to believe they don't exist when they are well walled out--much." Hazel went to work, and with her assistance laid cocoa-pods two wide and three deep, outside the northern and western sides of her leafy bower, and he promised to complete the walls by the same means in two days more. They all then supped together, and, to oblige him, she ate a little of the terrapin, and, when they parted for the night, she thanked him, and said, with a deep blush, "You have been a good friend to me--of late." He colored high, and his eyes sparkled with delight; and she noticed, and almost wished she had kept her gratitude to herself. That night, what with her bell-rope and her little bit of a wall, she was somewhat less timorous, and went to sleep early. But even in sleep she was watchful, and she was awakened by a slight sound in the neighborhood of the boat. She lay watching, but did not stir. Presently she heard a footstep. With a stifled cry she bounded up, and her first impulse was to rush out of the tent. But she conquered this, and, gliding to the south side of her bower, she peered through the palm-leaves, and the first thing she saw was the figure of a man standing between her and the boat. She drew her breath hard. The outline of the man was somewhat indistinct. But it was not a savage. The man was clothed; and his stature betrayed him. He stood still for some time. "He is listening to see if I am awake," said Helen to herself. The figure moved toward her bower. Then all in a moment she became another woman. She did not rely on her bell-rope; she felt it was fast to nothing that could help her. She looked round for no weapon; she trusted to herself. She drew herself hastily up, and folded her arms; her bosom panted, but her cheek never paled. Her modesty was alarmed; her blood was up, and life or death were nothing to her.