“Let us get back,” cried the doctor, seizing his gun; and the tiger with the beautiful skin, which he had meant to have for a specimen, was forgotten.
“No, no,” said the man, “you must stay in the jungle. The tigers are better than Hamet.”
“Can you walk?” said the doctor, quietly.
The man got up for answer.
“Can you find your way back?” said the doctor.
“Yes,” said the other, with a scornful look. “I could find the way with my eyes blinded.”
“Then start at once. Here, take some more of this.”
He gave the injured man another draught from his flask, for the poor fellow seemed terribly faint.
The few drops of brandy gave him new life, and he displayed it by throwing himself on his knees before Doctor Bolter, and clasping one of his legs with his uninjured arm.
“Don’t go back, master,” he cried piteously. “You have been so good to me that I could not bear to see you krissed. Stay away, and I will keep you safely. My life is yours, for you saved it; and I am your slave.”