The wild-man—or madman, whichever he was, and both titles well suited him—uttered another hoarse, inarticulate cry, and, with lightning-like quickness, fitted an arrow to the string. Jack sprung to his feet, but was too late to avoid the shaft.
It struck him fairly, pinioning his right arm to his side, the flinty head plunging deep into the muscles of his side and back. Stung with pain, and scarcely realizing the extent of his injuries, Jack drew a revolver with his left hand, and fired twice, in succession, at the same time uttering a half-unconscious cry for help.
Then the madman was upon him. With a giant's strength he dashed the young man backward to the ground, and wresting the pistol from his grasp, he dealt Tyrrel a stunning blow upon the head with its brass-bound butt.
With a low moan, Jack lost all consciousness. The events of the next few hours were a blank to him.
Probably urged on by some strange whim, the madman flung the senseless body across his shoulder and then darted back to the cave entrance, through which he plunged. As though gifted with cat-like eyes, he ran swiftly on through the winding passages, never once seemingly at fault, the only trace left being the drops of blood that fell from Tyrrel's wounds.
When, at length, Tyrrel regained his senses, he first became conscious of a gentle hand softly bathing his feverish and painfully throbbing temples. With an effort he opened his eyes and gazed wildly around him, bewildered, confused.
But then, as a pale, sweet face bent over him, anxiety written in every feature, a wondering sigh broke from his lips. He recognized that face—it had more than once come up before him since that first night passed in the mountains after the desertion.
The same glance recalled the place he was in; the hole in the wall where he had first looked upon the face of the madman. But how came he here? Could it be that the madman had relented, bringing him here to be nursed back to life and health by his own daughter?
These thoughts racked his mind, and must have left their imprint upon his face, for the woman—or girl, rather, for she was not more, in years, at least—gently pressed back his head, uttering in a low, soft voice:
"You must not trouble your brain now, sir. All will be explained in good time. Until then, rest easy. You are safe here, while I am near."