“Water?” she whispered. “Are we saved?”
“It is raining,” he explained. “We may at least drink. Already it has revived us both.”
“Monsieur Thuran?” she asked. “He did not kill you. Is he dead?”
“I do not know,” replied Clayton. “If he lives and this rain revives him—” But he stopped there, remembering too late that he must not add further to the horrors which the girl already had endured.
But she guessed what he would have said.
“Where is he?” she asked.
Clayton nodded his head toward the prostrate form of the Russian. For a time neither spoke.
“I will see if I can revive him,” said Clayton at length.
“No,” she whispered, extending a detaining hand toward him. “Do not do that—he will kill you when the water has given him strength. If he is dying, let him die. Do not leave me alone in this boat with that beast.”
Clayton hesitated. His honor demanded that he attempt to revive Thuran, and there was the possibility, too, that the Russian was beyond human aid. It was not dishonorable to hope so. As he sat fighting out his battle he presently raised his eyes from the body of the man, and as they passed above the gunwale of the boat he staggered weakly to his feet with a little cry of joy.