"That," thought Carrigan, "would be just like a woman--and
especially a woman with eyes like hers."

This left him but two conclusions to choose from. Either there had
been a mistake, and the woman had shown both horror and desire to
amend when she discovered it, or a too tender-hearted agent of
Black Roger Audemard had waylaid him in the heart of the white
strip of sand.

The sun was another hour lower in the sky when Carrigan assured
himself in a series of cautious experiments that he was not in a
condition to stand upon his feet. In his pack were a number of
things he wanted--his blankets, for instance, a steel mirror, and
the thermometer in his medical kit. He was beginning to feel a bit
anxious about himself. There were sharp pains back of his eyes.
His face was hot, and he was developing an unhealthy appetite for
water. It was fever and he knew what fever meant in this sort of
thing, when one was alone. He had given up hope of the woman's
return. It was not reasonable to expect her to come back after her
furious attempt to kill him. She had bandaged him, bolstered him
up, placed water beside him, and had then left him to work out the
rest of his salvation alone. But why the deuce hadn't she brought
up his pack?

On his hands and knees he began to work himself toward it slowly.
He found that the movement caused him pain, and that with this
pain, if he persisted in movement, there was a synchronous rise of
nausea. The two seemed to work in a sort of unity. But his
medicine case was important now, and his blankets, and his rifle