“I do not know who I am,” replied Bulan. “I had always thought that I was only Number Thirteen, until Sing just spoke. Now I have a faint recollection of drifting for days upon the sea in an open boat—beyond that all is blank. I shall not force my attentions upon Virginia until I can prove my identity, and that my past is one which I can lay before her without shame—until then I shall not see her.” “You shall do nothing of the kind,” cried the girl. “You love me, and I you. My father intended to force me to marry you while he still thought that you were a soulless thing. Now that it is quite apparent that you are a human being, and a gentleman, he hesitates, but I do not. As I have told you before, it makes no difference to me what you are. You have told me that you love me. You have demonstrated a love that is high, and noble, and self-sacrificing. More than that no girl needs to know. I am satisfied to be the wife of Bulan—if Bulan is satisfied to have the daughter of the man who has so cruelly wronged him.” An arm went around the girl’s shoulders and drew her close to the man she had glorified with her loyalty and her love. The other hand was stretched out toward Professor Maxon. “Professor,” said Bulan, “in the face of what Sing has told us, in the face of a disinterested comparison between myself and the miserable creatures of your experiments, is it not folly to suppose that I am one of them? Some day I shall recall my past, until that time shall prove my worthiness I shall not ask for Virginia’s hand, and in this decision she must concur, for the truth might reveal some insurmountable obstacle to our marriage. In the meantime let us be friends, professor, for we are both actuated by the same desire—the welfare and happiness of your daughter.” The old man stepped forward and took Bulan’s hand. The expression of doubt and worry had left his face. “I cannot believe,” he said, “that you are other than a gentleman, and if, in my desire to protect Virginia, I have said aught to wound you I ask your forgiveness.” Bulan responded only with a tighter pressure of the hand. “And now,” said the professor, “let us return to the long-house. I wish to have a few words in private with you, von Horn,” and he turned to face his assistant, but the man had disappeared. “Where is Doctor von Horn?” exclaimed the scientist, addressing Sing. “Hornee, him vamoose long time ’go,” replied the Chinaman. “He hear all he likee.” Slowly the little party wound along the jungle trail, and in less than a mile, to Virginia’s infinite surprise, came out upon the river and the long-house that she and Bulan had searched for in vain. “And to think,” she cried, “that all these awful days we have been almost within sound of your voices. What strange freak of fate sent you to us today?”