On the march a separate tent had been provided for the captive, and
at night it was pitched between those of Mohammed Beyd and Werper.
A sentry was posted at the front and another at the back, and with
these precautions it had not been thought necessary to confine
the prisoner to bonds. The evening following her interview with
Mohammed Beyd, Jane Clayton sat for some time at the opening of
her tent watching the rough activities of the camp. She had eaten
the meal that had been brought her by Mohammed Beyd's Negro slave--a
meal of cassava cakes and a nondescript stew in which a new-killed
monkey, a couple of squirrels and the remains of a zebra, slain
the previous day, were impartially and unsavorily combined; but
the one-time Baltimore belle had long since submerged in the stern
battle for existence, an estheticism which formerly revolted at
much slighter provocation.

As the girl's eyes wandered across the trampled jungle clearing,
already squalid from the presence of man, she no longer apprehended
either the nearer objects of the foreground, the uncouth men
laughing or quarreling among themselves, or the jungle beyond, which
circumscribed the extreme range of her material vision. Her gaze
passed through all these, unseeing, to center itself upon a distant
bungalow and scenes of happy security which brought to her eyes
tears of mingled joy and sorrow. She saw a tall, broad-shouldered
man riding in from distant fields; she saw herself waiting to
greet him with an armful of fresh-cut roses from the bushes which
flanked the little rustic gate before her. All this was gone,
vanished into the past, wiped out by the torches and bullets and
hatred of these hideous and degenerate men. With a stifled sob,
and a little shudder, Jane Clayton turned back into her tent and
sought the pile of unclean blankets which were her bed. Throwing