“I thought I saw a man,” he answered, surprised. “But I wasn’t myself; I don’t know.” She put her hand on his shoulder, and to his amaze he felt it tremble. “So did I!” she whispered, lower still. “Get up. I’ll help you. I’ll take you with me. But,” suspiciously, “you mean what you say? Mr. Egerton didn’t send you?” “No one sent me.” He forgot she was a girl, and spoke with rough truth as to a man. “God knows you haven’t much choice when you’re washed overboard. I didn’t mean to come. Why should I lie about it?” “Most people,” she said composedly, “lie. But”--she stopped, listened--“come, come away!” she cried. “I’m afraid here.” “You can’t be afraid of much,” he answered, full of wonder. “I saw you playing with jaguar cubs just now, unless I dreamed it.” The girl laughed. That rough denial of Egerton had somehow made her trust the man. “Those were my cats. I’m not afraid of animals. I hate people, though, except Andria.” “By George!” thought Heriot, “I’d rather face ten men than one jaguar. Who is the girl? And who’s Andria? I knew one Andria, but----” He smiled at the idea; it could not be she! “You don’t know anything about animals.” She had read his face with a queer anger. Turning from him, she began to croon, very low, and at a call a yellow, white, black-spotted kitten came out of the bushes. But it only rubbed against her skirt and bounded away. Beryl Corselas grew pale. “Come,” she said, and took his hand. “Can you walk?” “Yes.” He got on his feet and gritted his teeth with the pain in his ankle. “Is it far?” “Yes; I don’t know,” she said absently, staring round her. Who was calling the cats that they would not stay with her? What horrible face had she seen for one instant through the bushes? “Don’t let go my hand!” she said suddenly, childishly; and Heriot, for all his pain, saw that this girl who played with jaguars was frightened. But as he went with her up what was surely a path, though not worn by shod feet, the feeling that it was all a dream came over him again. If it had not been for the pain in his foot he might have been Adam walking with Eve in Eden for the loneliness and the beauty of the place. The wet scrub was a mass of flowers, gorgeous butterflies swam through thickets of white and rose heaths, strange blossoms flaunted in his face. And never in all his days had he seen a beauty so strange as that of the girl who led him by the hand. Yet for all its unlined youth the face was pathetic, tragic; the dull rose lips were lips that had tasted grief. “What do you mean by saying you’re afraid of people?” he said, the pain in his ankle making him talk, for fear he should groan. “Animals are simple; I understand them,” she returned, without slackening her pace. “People all have an animal in them. I see it in their faces, but an animal turned bad. Mother Felicitas was a white wolf.” “You are not afraid of me?” He was afraid himself of her answer.