Barbara found herself in a small clearing, a sloping hollow in the ground, enclosed by a ring of trees and a network of branches. The ground was thickly carpeted with moss, she felt the spring of it beneath her feet; the faint sound of running water announced the near neighbourhood of a spring; far overhead, through the thick interlacing leaves she could see the stars.
"This is our camp," said Captain Protheroe, glancing round with a proprietary air of old acquaintanceship. "'Twill be nigh twenty years since my cousins and I first made it. We were Oxenham's men then, an I remember rightly," he continued with a smile, "fighting against the Spaniards in the Neck of Panama. My father had read us the history, and we built our camp according to the fashion therein described. By the look of it, one would say that none had been here since. The forest stretches far, and 'tis an unfrequented place. 'Twill shelter us well for to-night at least, and then we can lay our plans. And now, madame, you must rest."
He turned to one corner of the clearing, where the moss grew thick and soft, and pulling down some branches, together with long fronds of bracken, he built a rough bower to shelter her from the cool breeze, and give her at least a thought of privacy. Then he spread his cloak upon the ground, and rolled the wide cape over a pile of leaves and grass to form a rough pillow.
He eyed his handiwork with an air of dissatisfaction.
"'Tis a poor place," he muttered; "but I can do no more to-night."
Barbara crossed to his side; she looked up at him with a sudden smile, but her eyes were soft and dark with unshed tears.
"For this, for a thousand kindnesses, Captain Protheroe, I must remain forever in your debt."
She held out her hand; he stooped low before her, and pressed it to his lips.
"Madame, I am amply rewarded."
So he answered her, and had she met the look in his eyes she had known that his words were true.