He stuffed his treasures into a big haversack, slung two bandoliers round his neck (we had loaded our sporting .303 into clips and packed it into bandoliers), filled my empty thermos from the teapot on the table, got his rifle, and started off, saying as he went: “Get all the loads roped up in case we have to scuttle quick.” I went over to the tent, where I found Forsyth had fixed up the girl in one of our beds, dressed her shoulder, fitted her out with a suit of his silk pyjamas (he is particular about his underclothing), and was rubbing her arms with something or other. She could move her fingers by now, and the swelling had gone down a lot. They were carrying on a conversation, both speaking rather slowly. As I came in, she looked up, and seeing me caught hold of my hand with a torrent of words rather too quick for me to follow exactly with her strange accent, but it was mostly thanking me for getting her away from the gate. Feeling distinctly embarrassed, I murmured something about “nothing to make a fuss over.” “Are you feeling better now?” I asked. “Yes, much better already.” “You’ve got some luck, old man,” said Forsyth, “to get a chance of rescuing a girl like this. Jolly nice-looking and lots of pluck. She must have been through hell, but no whining.” He had a final look at her arms and then pulled the blankets up over them. “What about her shoulder?” I asked. “Oh, only a deep scratch, and there’s nothing else the matter. Her arms will be all right to-morrow. We must get the chain off her leg, though.” I showed him the hacksaw. “Good! Can you tackle that job now while I get some food for her?” “Yes. But I shall want you to hold the ring steady while I saw it. We want something under it, too; a towel will do.” He reached for a towel he had been using, and the girl, who had been listening to us, asked me if he was going to do my face. “Presently,” said I. “But first of all we’re going to get that ring off your leg. Then we’ll give you some food and something warm to drink. After that you must try and tell us what happened to you and where you live. Now keep your leg still. We shan’t hurt.” Forsyth turned back the end of the blanket and wrapped a twisted towel round her ankle, pushing it up under the ring. Then he held the ring steady, and I got to work. The iron was soft, and the hacksaw went through it with no trouble. A bit of a wrench at the cut ends and it pulled open enough to let me slip her ankle--a particularly slim neat one--through it. “Well, now I’ll get her some food. I’ve told Firoz to bring boiling water, and I’ve got a bottle of bovril here. The rest will have to be _chupattis_ and tinned stuff. We’re not exactly equipped for hospital feeding.” Forsyth went out and shouted for Firoz. “You must try and eat, even if you’re not feeling hungry,” said I. “We may have to go a long way to-morrow, I expect.” “Where are you going?” she asked, looking at me anxiously.