The bright beam of the flash-lamp in his face roused Allan to a consciousness that he was bruised and suffering, and that his left arm ached with dull insistence. Dazed, he brought it up and saw his sleeve of dull brown stuff was dripping red.
Beside him, in the trampled grass, he vaguely made out a hairy bulk, motionless and huge. Bremilu was kneeling beside his master, with words of cheer.
“It is dead, O Kromno! The man-beast is dead! My stone ax broke its skull. See, now it lies here harmless!”
The currents of thought began to flow once more. Allan struggled up, unmindful of his wounds.
“Beatrice! Where is the girl?” he gasped.
As though by way of answer, the tall growths swayed and crackled, and through them a dim figure loomed--a man with something in his arms.
“Zangamon!” panted Allan, springing toward him. “Have you got her? The girl--is she alive?”
“She lives, master!” replied a voice. “But as yet she remains without knowledge of aught.”
“Wounded? Is she wounded?”
Already he had reached Zangamon, and, injured though he was, had taken the beloved form in his arms.