Cynthia put the cup to the girl's lips. She shook her head and closed her lips tightly together. Then Cynthia drank a little of the water, and again held it toward the girl. This time she drained the water eagerly and to the last drop.
"Some more!" demanded Cynthia, holding out the cup to me. When I had replenished it, Cynthia took her handkerchief from her pocket, dipped it in the water, and bathed the girl's face and hands, whereupon the prisoner drew a long sigh of satisfaction.
"Bring me your knife, Mr. Jones," ordered Cynthia.
"If you free her, she will run away," protested I.
"Bring it at once!" responded Cynthia.
It was with difficulty that I opened the blade with my swollen fingers, but, after slipping the lanyard over my head, I managed to do so. Then I walked with the open knife toward the pair. When the captive saw me coming she began to cry and scream and roll on the ground in an agony of terror.
Bill Tomkins heard the cry, and turned over in his sleep, opened his eyes a crack or so, asked how the weather was, and went off again into a profound slumber. I argued that if he who had drank so little of the rum was thus stupefied, the others would not awake for many hours.
"Lay your knife within reach and go away again, Mr. Jones," said Cynthia.
I obeyed, as I was willing to obey her every word and gesture.
As Cynthia took the knife up from the stone where I had laid it, the girl sobbed and wailed and clutched at the grass.