For several long minutes Jane Porter and William Cecil Clayton stood silently looking at the dead body of the beast whose prey they had so narrowly escaped becoming.
The girl was the first to speak again after her outbreak of impulsive avowal.
“Who could it have been?” she whispered.
“God knows!” was the man’s only reply.
“If it is a friend, why does he not show himself?” continued Jane. “Wouldn’t it be well to call out to him, and at least thank him?”
Mechanically Clayton did her bidding, but there was no response.
Jane Porter shuddered. “The mysterious jungle,” she murmured. “The terrible jungle. It renders even the manifestations of friendship terrifying.”
“We had best return to the shelter,” said Clayton. “You will be at least a little safer there. I am no protection whatever,” he added bitterly.
“Do not say that, William,” she hastened to urge, acutely sorry for the wound her words had caused. “You have done the best you could. You have been noble, and self-sacrificing, and brave. It is no fault of yours that you are not a superman. There is only one other man I have ever known who could have done more than you. My words were ill chosen in the excitement of the reaction—I did not wish to wound you. All that I wish is that we may both understand once and for all that I can never marry you—that such a marriage would be wicked.”
“I think I understand,” he replied. “Let us not speak of it again—at least until we are back in civilization.”