stunned,
though not unconscious--Brook took two half-hitches with the halter
round one wrist, passed the line under his neck as he lay, and hauled on
it till the arm came under his side, then hitched the other wrist,
passed the line back, hauled on it, and finally took two turns round the
throat. Clare watched the operation, very pale and breathing hard.

"He's drunk," observed Johnstone. "Otherwise I wouldn't tie him up, you
know. Now, if you move," he said in English to his prisoner, "you'll
strangle yourself."

Thereupon he rose, forced the fellow to roll over, and hitched the fall
of the line round both wrists again, and made it fast, so that the man
lay, with his head drawn back by his own hands, which he could not move
without tightening the rope round his neck.

"He's frightened now," said Brook. "Let's get the poor mule out of
that."

In a few minutes he got the wretched beast free. It was ready enough to
rise as soon as it felt that it could do so, and it struggled to its
feet, badly hurt by the beating and bleeding in many places, but not
seriously injured. The carter watched them as he lay on the road, half
strangled, and cursed them in a choking voice.

"And now, what in the world are we going to do with them?" asked Brook,
rubbing the mule's nose. "It's a pretty bad case," he continued,
thoughtfully. "The mule can't draw the load, the carter can't be allowed
to beat the mule, and we can't afford to let the carter have his head.
What the dickens are we to do?"

He laughed a little. Then he suddenly looked hard at Clare, as though
remembering something.

"It was awfully plucky of you to jump on him in that way," he said.
"Just at the right moment, too, by Jove! That devil would have got at me
if you hadn't stopped him. Awfully plucky, upon my word! And I'm
tremendously obliged, Miss Bowring, indeed I am!"

"It's nothing to be grateful for, it seems to me," Clare answered. "I
suppose there's nothing to be done but to sit down and wait until
somebody comes. It's a lonely road, of course, and we may wait a long
time."

"I say," exclaimed Johnstone, "you've torn your frock rather badly! Look
at it!"

She drew her skirt round with her hand. There were long, clean rents in
the skirt, on her right side.

"It was his knife," she said, thoughtfully surveying the damage. "He
kept trying to get at me with it. I'm sorry, for I haven't another serge
skirt with me."

Then she felt herself blushing, and tur