The hand was withdrawn, and he heard Solomon chuckle.
"'E's come through, miss, but 'e don't know it. 'Ey, you, Mr. 'Ammer! Sit up and take a werry good look at this 'ere devil 'o yours—beggin' your pardon, miss."
The startled American felt himself pulled to a sitting position, and blinked. The flickering light was from a fire, and he seemed to be sitting on a cot in a tent; also, the tent looked oddly like that of Dr. Krausz's.
That was hardly possible, of course, but John Solomon was standing in front of him and smoking his vile black tobacco, while it was indubitably Sara Helmuth at his side.
"Why—why, what's—where—" he stammered confusedly. Then a cry of mortal agony broke from him. "Good God, don't play with me like this!"
He tried to shut out the vision, his hands over his eyes; as he sank back on the cot he felt other hands on his, pulling them away, and something warm and wet splashed on his face.
"Hammer! Don't, please! It's all right, really! Hammer, dear—oh, John, can't you do something?"
"Ay, miss, if you'll stand aside."
Something struck him, and he heard a cry, then came more blows that knocked him back; furious, he struggled up to see the girl forcing the laughing Solomon back.
"Stop that, John! Don't be cruel——"