As the girl finished her story I saw the three dead men standing upon
the opposite bank. For a moment they hesitated, then they plunged into
the river.
I seized the girl by the hand and raised her to her feet. Our only
defense lay in flight. Although I had had to abandon my spear, I had
saved my bow and arrows, the latter being tied securely in my quiver
while the former I had looped across one shoulder before leaving the
tower; but of what use were arrows against dead men?
Casting another glance toward our pursuers I saw them floundering in
the deep water of the channel, and it became immediately evident that
none of them could swim. They were bobbing around helplessly as the
current swept them down stream. Sometimes they floated on their backs,
sometimes on their faces.
"We haven't much to fear from them," I said; "they will all drown."
"They cannot drown," replied the girl with a shudder.
"I hadn't thought of that," I admitted. "But at least there is little
likelihood that they will reach this shore; certainly not before they
have been carried a long distance down stream. We shall have plenty of
time to escape them."
"Then let's be going. I hate this place. I want to get away from it."
"I cannot go away until I have found Duare," I told her. "I must search
for her."
"Yes, that is right; we must try to find her. But where shall we look?"
"She would try to reach the big river and follow it to the sea," I
explained, "and I think that she would reason much as we would, that it
would be safer to follow this stream down to the larger one inasmuch as
then she would have the concealing protection of the forest."
"We shall have to keep careful watch for the dead men," cautioned the
girl. "If they wash ashore on this side we shall be sure to meet them."
"Yes; and I want to make sure where they do come ashore, because I
intend crossing over and hunting for Duare on the other side."
For some time we moved cautiously down stream in silence, both
constantly alert for any sound that might portend danger. My mind was
filled with thoughts of Duare and apprehension for her safety, yet
occasionally it reverted to the girl at my side; and I could not but
recall her courage during our escape and her generous willingness to
delay her own flight that we might search for Duare. It was apparent
that her character formed a trinity of loveliness with her form and her
face. And I did not even know her name!
That fact struck me as being as remarkable as that I had only known her
for an hour. So intimate are the bonds of mutual adversity and danger
that it seemed I had known her always, that that hour was indeed an
eternity.
"Do you realize," I asked, turning toward her, "that neither of us
knows the other's name?" And then I told her mine.
"Carson Napier!" she repeated. "That is a strange name."
"And what is yours?"
"Nalte voo jan kum Baltoo," she replied, which means Nalte, the
daughter of Baltoo. "The people call me Voo Jan, but my friends call me
Nalte."
"And what am I to call you?" I asked.