“What a good shot, Major!” exclaimed Noreen, who had been quite excited.

“It was an easy one, for this rifle’s extremely accurate and the range was very short.  I fired at the head, for if I had hit the body with such a big bullet there wouldn’t have been much dinner left for us.  Now I think that we shall have to halt for a little time.  I know that you must be eager to get back home and relieve your brother’s anxiety.  But Badshah has been going for many hours on end and has not delayed to graze on the way, so it would be wise to give him a rest and a feed.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the girl.  “He thoroughly deserves it.”

She was not unwilling that the time spent in Dermot’s company should be prolonged.  It was a sweet and wonderful experience to be thus alone with him in the enchanted jungle.  She had forgotten her fears; and the remembrance of her recent unpleasant adventure vanished in her present happiness.  For she was subtly conscious of a new tenderness in his manner towards her.

The elephant sank down, and Dermot dismounted and lifted the girl off carefully.  Noreen felt herself blushing as he held her in his arms, and she was thankful that he did not look at her, but when he had put her down, busied himself in taking off Badshah’s pad and laying it on the ground.  Unstrapping his blankets he spread one and rolled the other up as a pillow.

“Now please lie down on this, Miss Daleham,” he said.  “A rest will do you good, too.  I am going to turn cook and show you how we fare in the jungle.”

The girl took off her hat and was only too glad to stretch herself on the pad, which made a comfortable couch, for the emotions of the day had worn her out.  She watched Dermot as he moved about absorbed in his task.  From one pocket of the pad he took out a shallow aluminium dish and a small, round, convex iron plate.  From another he drew a linen bag and a tin canister.

“You said that you would like tea, Miss Daleham,” he remarked.  “Well, you shall have some presently.”

“Yes; but how can you make it?” she asked.  “There’s no water in the jungle.”

“Plenty of it.”

“Are we near a stream, then?”

“No; the water is all round us, waiting for me to draw it off.”

The girl looked about her.

“What do you mean?  I don’t see any.  Where is the water?”

“Hanging from the trees,” he replied, laughing.  “I’ll admit you into one of the secrets of the jungle.  But first I want a fire.”

He gathered dried grass and sticks, cleared a space of earth and built three fires, two on the ground with a large lump of hard clay on either side of each, the third in a hole that he scraped out.

“To be consistent I ought to produce fire by rubbing two pieces of dried wood together, as they do in books of adventure,” he said, turning to the interested girl.  “It can be done.  I have seen natives do it; but it is a lengthy process and I prefer a match.”