Jervis threw the bridle over his arm, lit a match, and, shading it with his hand, saw, huddled up, what appeared to be an old native woman. She explained to him, between groans and gasps, that she had twisted her ankle over a root on the path, and could not move.
“Are you far from home?” he inquired.
“Three miles.”
“In which direction?”
“The hill above the old cantonment.”
“I know. If you think you can sit on my pony, I will lead him and take you home safely.”
“Oh, I am such a coward,” she cried. “Is the pony gentle?”
“Yes, he is all right; I will answer for the pony.”
“I—and I cannot bear pain. Oh—oh! but I must”—vainly struggling to rise, and sinking down again.
She proved a light weight, as Jervis raised her bodily in his arms, and placed her in the saddle. Fortunately the pony, who bore the suggestive name of “Shaitan,” was too much sobered by a long journey to offer any active opposition to carrying a lady. The homeward progress proved exceedingly tedious; the road was bad and nearly pitch dark. The native woman, who appeared to know every yard of the way, directed her companion by a path almost swallowed up in jungle, to a hill behind the old mess-house. Up and up they climbed, till they came to a tiny stone bungalow, with a light in the window. The door was thrown open by another native woman and an old man, whose shrill voluble lamentations were almost deafening.