He would have like to bathe his throat and to quench his feverish thirst, but a mingled hope and despair spurred him and he set off along the narrow path towards where dimly above some trees he could discern in the distance a group of red-roofed buildings. Having proceeded for a considerable distance, he stood still, listening for any sound that might guide him to the search-party—or warn him that he was followed. But he could hear nothing.
Onward he pressed, not daring to think of what the future held for him, not daring to dwell upon the memory, the maddening sweetness, of that parting kiss. His eyes grew misty, he stumbled as he walked, and became oblivious of his surrounding. His awakening was a rude one.
Suddenly a man, concealed behind a bush, sprang out upon him and bore him irresistibly to the ground!
"Not a word!" rapped his assailant, "or I'll knock you out!"
Stuart glared into the red face lowered so threateningly over his own, and:
"Sergeant Sowerby!" he gasped.
The grip upon his shoulders relaxed.
"Damn!" cried Sowerby—"if it isn't Dr. Stuart?"
"What is that!" cried another voice from the shelter of the bush. "Pardieu! say it again! … Dr. Stuart!"
And Gaston Max sprang out!