ty that hurt.

"Is he--?" Carlin began.

The priest who had brought them answered, though there had been no
words:

"No, the king yet lives."

Under the shadow of the overleaning rock, stretched on fresh wet
leaves, the monkey king was lying. His eyes were bright, but the haze
of fever was over them; thin grey lips parted and parched; a strained
look about the mouth. He breathed in quick, panting breaths--too far
gone to be afraid, as Carlin leaned over; but there was a forward
movement in the over-hanging branches, a swift breathless shifting of
the monkeys.

She opened the little basket. Skag watched her face as she first laid
her hand on the monkey's head. He saw the thrill of horror and
understood it well, for this was alien flesh her hand touched--not like
the flesh of horse or dog or cow which is all animal. She struggled
with a second revulsion, but put it away. She found the wound in the
shoulder and asked for hot water, which a priest quickly prepared and
brought in an earthen jar. She bathed the wound, and put some liquid
on his dry lips. The tree man was too full of alien suffering to be
cognisant, as yet; but the great test was now, when under her hands
appeared a little instrument of jointed steel. . . . She was talking
to him softly as to a sick child. He drew a quick breath--his eyes
wide as a low cry came from him, and the whole forest seemed to quiver
with a suffocating interest, monkeys ever pressing nearer. Skag saw
one little brown hand stretch (twisting as if to bury its thumb) and
lay hold of Carlin's dress. . . . Then he sighed, like a whip of air
when a spring is released and Skag saw the bullet in the instrument.

It was held before him. She dropped it into Skag's hand thinking it
was the priest's. . . . Then she dressed the wound, giving medicine
and nourishment until the tree king slept.

The afternoon was spent.

CHAPTER V

_The Monkey Glen (Continued)_

In the lull Carlin appeared to have no thought of going back to Hurda.
The younger priest made her comfortable with dry leaves. Skag brought
a log for her to lean against. For the first time she appeared to
notice that he was not one of the priests of Hanuman. . . . She did
not speak. Dusk was falling. At intervals she would look into his
face. The priests brought fruit and chapattis. Delicate sounds of a
wide stillness began to steal through the shadows. Creatures of the
forest crept out from their l