“I was not wounded, my captain,” he replied. “Then what is the matter with you? Are you sad because of the deaths of your comrades?” “It is not that,” he replied; “there are plenty more where they came from. It is because of my own death that I am sad.” “But you are not dead!” “I shall be soon,” he averred. “What makes you think so?” I demanded. “When I return to the ship, they will kill me for what I did last night. If I do not return, I shall be killed here. No one could live alone for long in such a country as this.” “If you serve me well and obey me, you will not be killed if we succeed in the reaching the _Sofal_ again,” I assured him. At that he brightened perceptibly. “I shall serve you well and obey you, my captain,” he promised, and presently he was smiling and singing again as though he had not a single care in the world and there was no such thing as death. On several occasions, when I had glanced back at my companions, I had discovered Duare’s eyes upon me, and in each instance she had turned them away quickly, as though I had surprised and embarrassed her in some questionable act. I had spoken to her only when necessary, for I had determined to atone for my previous conduct by maintaining a purely official attitude toward her that would reassure her and give her no cause for apprehension as to my intentions. This was a difficult rôle for me to play while I yearned to take her into my arms and tell her again of the great love that was consuming me; but I had succeeded so far in controlling myself and saw no reason to believe that I should not be able to continue to do so, at least as long as Duare continued to give me no encouragement. The very idea that she might give me encouragement caused me to smile in spite of myself. Presently, much to my surprise, she said, “You are very quiet. What is the matter?” It was the first time that Duare had ever opened a conversation with me or given me any reason to believe that I existed for her as a personality; I might have been a clod of earth or a piece of furniture, for all the interest she had seemed to take in me since those two occasions upon which I had surprised her as she watched me from the concealing foliage of her garden. “There is nothing the matter with me,” I assured her. “I am only concerned with your welfare and the necessity for getting you back to the _Sofal_ as quickly as possible.” “You do not talk any more,” she complained. “Formerly, when I saw you, you used to talk a great deal.” “Probably altogether too much,” I admitted, “but you see, now I am trying not to annoy you.”