All perceived, with the deepest regret, that her hours were numbered.
She had been that day in the thick of more than one deadly conflict.
Hundreds of bullets had passed her, but this one, aimed at another, had only too successfully performed an errand of death.
Terrible indeed was the grief of Jack Harkaway.
"Oh, Thyra," he exclaimed, "my brave, dear girl, he has killed you."
"I know it," she replied, with a mournful resignation, "but thank Heaven you, dear Jack, are saved."
"I have not deserved this devotion from you," said Jack, in broken accents, while the tears fell from his eyes, "but you must not—shall not die thus. Can nothing be done for her?" he asked, looking round at the others.
"I fear not," replied the lieutenant, "but she must at once be taken on board, and placed under the care of the surgeon."
Thyra had been lifted up and her wound staunched with her scarf.
"Here, Harry," said our hero, rousing himself from his grief, "help me to carry her to the boat."