“Bring brandy--sherbet--anything!” gasped the major, pointing at his guest. “He’s fainting, Karrah--” Sir Harold lifted his weary head and gazed upon the Hindoo. The sight seemed to endue him with new life. He leaped to his feet, and his blue eyes blazed with an awful lightning, as he pointed one long and bony finger at the native, and cried: “Traitor! Viper! Arrest him, Major. I accuse him--” The Hindoo stood for a second appalled, but as the last words struck his hearing he flung at the baronet a glance of deadly hatred, and then turned in silence and fled from the bungalow, making toward the jungle. Something of the truth flashed upon the major’s mind. He routed up his household in a moment, and dispatched them in pursuit of the fugitive. Aroused by the tumult, Mrs. Archer came forth from her chamber. She was a portly woman, and was dressed in a light print, and wore a cap. Her husband met her in the hall and told her what had occurred. Restraining her curiosity, she hastened to prepare food and drink for the returned baronet. Meanwhile Sir Harold had sank down again upon the couch. The major approached him, and said: “You look worn out, Sir Harold. Let me show you to a room, where I will attend upon you. My men will capture that scoundrel--never fear. Come with me.” The baronet arose and took the major’s arm and was led into the central hall of the house, and into one of the four rooms the house contained. It was the room in which his son had died. The windows were closely shuttered, but admitted the air at the top. The floor was of wood and bare. A bedstead, couch, and chairs of bamboo comprised the furniture. At one side of the room were two spacious closets. One of these contained a portable bath-tub, a rack of fresh white towels, and plenty of water. The other contained clothes depending from hooks. “You’ll find your own suit of clothes there, Sir Harold,” said the major. “I intended to send them to England, but I am as fond of procrastination as ever. It’s just as well though, now. You can take them home yourself.” Sir Harold sat down in the nearest chair. “Home!” he whispered. “How are they--Octavia? Neva?” “All well--or they were when I heard last.” “Tell me what you know of them?” And Sir Harold’s great hungry eyes searched the major’s face. “They believe me dead?” “Certainly, Sir Harold. Everybody believes you dead. And I am dying to know how it is that you are alive. Where have you been these fifteen months? How did you escape the tiger?” The desired explanation was delayed by the appearance at the door of Mrs. Archer, who brought a jug of warm spiced drink and a plate of food. The major took the tray, and shut his wife out, returning to his guest. Sir Harold was nearly famished, and ate and drank like one starving. When his hunger was appeased, and a faint color began to dawn in his face, he pushed the tray from him, and spoke in a firmer voice than he had before employed.