By that awful leaping glare Sylvia saw her companion. He was stooping over her. He spoke; but she could not hear a word he uttered.
Then again his arms were about her and he lifted her. She yielded herself to him with the confidence of a child, and he carried her into his home while the glancing lightning showed the way.
The noise within the house was less overwhelming. He put her down on a long chair in almost total darkness, but a few moments later the lightning glimmered again and showed her vividly the room in which she lay. It was a man's room, half-office, half-lounge, extremely bare, and devoid of all ornament with the exception of a few native weapons on the walls.
The kindling of a lamp confirmed this first impression, but the presence of the man himself diverted her attention from her surroundings. He turned from lighting the lamp to survey her. She thought he looked somewhat stern.
"What about this knee of yours?" he said. "Is it badly damaged?"
"Oh, not badly," she answered. "I'm sure not badly. What a lot of trouble I am giving you! I am so sorry."
"You needn't be sorry on that account," he said. "I blame myself alone. Do you mind letting me, see it? I am used to giving first-aid."
"Oh, I don't think that is necessary," said Sylvia. "I—can quite easily doctor myself."
"I thought we were to be comrades," he observed bluntly.
She coloured and faintly laughed, "You can see it if you particularly want to."