My captors—three great lusty sailors—hurried me downhill, and presently they came to the cultivated plots above the town, and across these they went at a run, avoiding parties of coolies hurrying up the hill and armed with strange, old-fashioned weapons. I saw that they were making for a small, white-painted bungalow under some trees, and presently they reached it and flung me down in an out-house among a lot of firewood and coal, tied my legs together and slammed the door, bolted it from the outside, and left me in darkness. How long I remained there I do not know, but now I felt a stabbing pain in my chest whenever I tried to wriggle into a less painful position, and another in my leg close to where I had been wounded before. I began to wonder what they were going to do with me, and whether I should be tortured—for we had all dreaded falling alive into their hands—but I don’t think that I really cared what happened. The door flew open, two of the sailors came in, caught me up, and carried me out across a garden and through a verandah with long cane chairs under it. Here a native servant led them inside the bungalow, a bamboo curtain was pushed aside, and they sat me down on a mat on the floor. Lying on a little trestle-bed in one corner was a man groaning in his sleep. The native servant bent over the bed, touched him on the shoulder, and he woke with a start and raised his head. It was Hopkins, his eyes glittering strangely, and his face all drawn with pain. "Thank God! you are safe, Glover," he cried, and made them unfasten my legs and arms. When I was free once more he ordered the men out of the room, but they refused to go, talking excitedly. "Guess they want their re-ward," he drawled, and asked me to open a heavy cash-box at his side. He fumbled at his neck and found the key. "Tally up a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of bills," he asked me, "and sling them at those scoundrels." It was a funny thing for me to be counting out the sum to be paid for my own capture and handing it over to those brutes, but I did it automatically. I really did not feel, or hear, or see anything quite as if I were awake; and when I read over what I have written, it seems so jerky and disconnected, that I have often tried to make it read more smoothly, but then I don’t think it would give you quite the impression it still gives me. Incidents just seemed to happen; they did not seem to have any connection, but went on, one after another, till I woke up standing over Hopkins’s cash-box and paying those ugly brutes. I ought to have hated and loathed Hopkins, but somehow or other I didn’t—none of us did, I fancy—and remembering, as if it were in a dream I had just wakened from, the gallant way he had led that charge, I felt awfully sorry for him, and forgot that, but for him and his partners, Captain Hunter would not be lying dead on that hill above me, nor many others—how many, I dare not think.