been the village street; but
desolation and loneliness hung like a pall above the scene. To Meriem,
however, it presented but a place denuded of large trees which she must
cross quickly to regain the jungle upon the opposite side before
Malbihn should have landed.

The deserted huts were, to her, all the better because they were
deserted--she did not see the keen eyes watching her from a dozen
points, from tumbling doorways, from behind tottering granaries. In
utter unconsciousness of impending danger she started up the village
street because it offered the clearest pathway to the jungle.

A mile away toward the east, fighting his way through the jungle along
the trail taken by Malbihn when he had brought Meriem to his camp, a
man in torn khaki--filthy, haggard, unkempt--came to a sudden stop as
the report of Malbihn's rifle resounded faintly through the tangled
forest. The black man just ahead of him stopped, too.

"We are almost there, Bwana," he said. There was awe and respect in
his tone and manner.

The white man nodded and motioned his ebon guide forward once more. It
was the Hon. Morison Baynes--the fastidious--the exquisite. His face
and hands were scratched and smeared with dried blood from the wounds
he had come by in thorn and thicket. His clothes were tatters. But
through the blood and the dirt and the rags a new Baynes shone forth--a
handsomer Baynes than the dandy and the fop of yore.

In the heart and soul of every son of woman lies the germ of manhood
and honor. Remorse for a scurvy act, and an honorable desire to right
the wrong he had done the woman he now knew he really loved had excited
these germs to rapid growth in Morison Baynes--and the metamorphosis
had taken place.

Onward the two stumbled toward the point from which the single rifle
shot had come. The black was unarmed--Baynes, fearing his loyalty had
not dared trust him even to carry the rifle which the white man would
have been glad to be relieved of many times upon the long march; but
now that they were approaching their goal, and knowing as he did that
hatred of Malbihn burned hot in the black man's brain, Baynes handed
him the rifle, for he guessed that there would be fighting--he intended
that there should, or he had come to avenge. Himself, an excellent
revolver shot, would depend upon the smaller weapon at his side.

As the two forged ahead toward their goal they were startled by a
volley of shots ahead of them. The