"Chum," said Hilton, in a low whisper, and his voice sounded very strange in the gathering darkness, "I beg your pardon for what I said. I was bitter and angry." "All right, old fellow. It's all gone." "Then listen. Can we get away to-night?" "No. Why?" "I feel as if I couldn't stop here after what you said. I tell you I hate Helen Perowne now devoutly, but I'd go through fire and water to save her from that black scoundrel. Why did you think such a thing?" "I don't know; it came into my head. It appeared possible. We were spirited off, and it seemed so easy for Murad to carry her off in the same way. I suppose what the Princess said set me thinking." "If she is in his power," began Hilton--"Oh, it is not possible! She led him on so, too. That foolish love of admiration!" "That's the right term, Bertie. She never cared for you any more than she did for me." "No," said Hilton, bitterly, "I believe you are right; but I was such a vain, conceited idiot, I thought myself far above you all. Chumbley, do you believe what you said?" Chumbley looked across the little space between them towards his friend; but it was quite dark now, and the voices seemed to come out of a black void. "No, old fellow, no," he replied. "It was a passing fancy. Good-night." "Good-night." Then there was silence in the room, though neither of the men slept; Hilton lying in a state of feverish excitement, and Chumbley thinking over his words. "What made me say that, I wonder?" he muttered. "Suppose it should be true, and that all this while the ruffian has been playing dark. By Jove! it is very likely; much more likely than for a couple of fellows to be carried off. Poor girl! No, it is impossible. I will not believe it. Let's think of something else. Now then, how are we to get away from here?" "Sleep, Chumbley?" said Hilton. "If I answer and say _no_" thought Chumbley, "he will lie talking for hours. I'll hold my tongue." "Fast asleep," muttered Hilton to himself; "that fellow has no more soul than an ox," and turning his head on the cushion that formed his pillow, he lay there in the feverish hot night, thinking of Helen Perowne, while the distant roar of some prowling tiger kept reaching his ear; and it was not until the thought of Grey Stuart's soft eyes, looking truthfully at his, came like something soft and gentle to cool his heated imagination, that he finally dropped asleep, forgetting his troubles for the time. VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER TWO. A SEARCH FOR GOLD. If anyone else on the station had even talked of making an expedition up the river beneath the beams of that ardent sun Dr Bolter would have exclaimed: "Ah, of course. Here am I, toiling from morn to night with hand and brain, to keep you people in decent health, and yet you propose such a piece of insanity as that! Why, sir, you must be mad!"