Before the man had time to reply his quick ear caught the sound of a faint call from the jungle on the other side of the nullah.  Without doubt it was the English word help, and, whoever the man might be who called, it was plain that he was in sore straits.

“What the deuce does it mean?” said Grantham, half to himself and half to the man beside him.  “Some poor devil got lost in the jungle, I suppose?  I’ll go and have a look.”

Having climbed the bank of the nullah, he was about to proceed in the direction whence the cry had come, when he became aware of the most extraordinary figure he had ever seen in his life approaching him.  The appearance Hayle had presented when he had turned up at the Ford two months before was nothing compared with that of this individual.  He was a small man, not more than five feet in height.  His clothes were in rags, a grizzly beard grew in patches upon his cheeks and chin, while his hair reached nearly to his shoulders.  His face was pinched until it looked more like that of a skeleton than a man.  Grantham stood and stared at him, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

“Good Heavens,” he said to himself, “what a figure!  I wonder where the beggar hails from?” Then addressing the man, he continued, “Are you an Englishman, or what are you?”

The man before him, however, did not reply.  He placed his finger on his lips, and turning, pointed in the direction he had come.

“Either he doesn’t understand, or he’s dumb,” said Grantham.  “But it’s quite certain that he wants me to follow him somewhere.”

Turning to the man again, he signed to him to proceed, whereupon the little fellow hobbled painfully away from the nullah in the direction whence he had appeared.  On and on he went until he at length came to a standstill at the foot of a hill, where a little stream came splashing down in a miniature cascade from the rocks above.  Then Grantham realized the meaning of the little man’s action.  Stretched out beside a rock was the tall figure of a man.  Like his companion, he presented a miserable appearance.  His clothes, if clothes they could be called, were in rags, his hair was long and snowy white, matching his beard, which descended to within a few inches of his waist.  His eyes were closed, and for a moment Grantham thought he was dead.  This was not the case, however, for upon his companion approaching him he held out his hand and inquired whether he had discovered the man who had fired the shot?

To Grantham’s surprise the other made no reply in words, but, taking his friend’s hand he made some mysterious movements upon it with his fingers, whereupon the latter raised himself to a sitting position.

“My friend tells me that you are an Englishman,” he said in a voice that shook with emotion.  “I’m glad we have found you.  I heard your rifle shot and hailed you.  We are in sore distress, and have been through such adventures and such misery as no man would believe.  I have poisoned my foot, and am unable to walk any further.  As you can see for yourself I am blind, while my companion is dumb.”