“I have heard of poisoned arrows. Terrible, are they not? And the poison is still in those you have?” “It is the deadliest poison on earth; and its effect remains even in the ashes of the iron-weed which forms the barb of the arrow. The slightest scratch with the point of the weapon is fatal.” Clare listened breathlessly. It was in a low voice that she asked: “How many of these arrows had you when you contrived to escape?” “I had sixteen,” he replied. “I can account satisfactorily for the ten that are not forthcoming. I got to be a fairly good hand with the bow and arrows before I had been in captivity for more than a year. I saw that my only chance of successfully escaping lay in my acquiring a thorough knowledge of the native weapons. I made a collection of arrows which I secreted at intervals, but when I thought my chance had arrived. I only recovered the sixteen I have told you about. I saved my life ten times with arrows and nine times with my knife.” “That will be your book,” said Clare; “how you used those ten arrows will be your book. It must be called 'The Arrows and the Knife.'” “That title is certainly better than 'Homeless in Hades,' although I admit that I was homeless and that the country was the worst Hades that could be imagined.” “But you will write the book--oh, you must promise us to write the book. If we get him to promise we shall be all right, Agnes; he is not the sort of man who would ever break his promise!” “Oh, no, no; a promise with him would ever be held sacred,” said Agnes. “Promise--promise,” cried Clare, going in front of him with clasped hands, in the prettiest possible attitude of humorous imploration. “A book of travel would be of no value without illustrations--so much I clearly perceive,” said he. “I wonder if you can draw.' “Oh yes; I can draw in a sort of way,” she replied. “I did nothing else but draw for some years.” “That is a solution of the problem,” he said, putting out his hand to her. “I will write the book if you do the drawings for it.” She shrank back for a moment and her face became rosy. “Oh, I don't think that I could draw well enough to illustrate your book,” she cried. “Ah, have you seen the illustrations to any book of travel recently published?” he asked. “No, I thought you had not or you wouldn't say that your capacity fell short of so humble a standard as is required for such a purpose. My dear Clare, cannot you see that the plan which I have suggested is the only one possible for such a work as mine? I must have an artist beside me who will be able to draw everything from my instructions. Nothing must be left to the imagination. An error in any point of detail would make the illustration worthless. Ah, now you see it is not on me but on you that the production of the great work depends, and yet you hold back. It is now my turn for bullying you as you bullied me. It rests with you to say whether the book will appear or not.”