Words would fail me to describe the terror of the two poor little children:  a cry of appeal to the pedlar to stay beside them, not to leave them to the dreadful creatures he spoke of, rose to their lips, but stopped there.  For were they not almost as terrified of him as of the snakes?  Pamela forgot all about her wounded foot, though it was growing stiff with pain, and the blood, which Duke’s unskilful binding had not succeeded in checking, was still flowing in a way that would have alarmed more experienced eyes.  It was cold too—­and terror made them colder—­for the evening was drawing on, and it was only April.  Yet they dared not move—­Pamela indeed could not have stood up—­and so there they stayed, Duke crouched beside his sister, who lay almost at full length on the short tufty grass, among the roots and stumps, for just here a good deal of wood had been cut down.  There was no fear of their moving—­the shivers and sobs that they could not control added to their fears—­they would have left off breathing even, if they could have managed it, rather than risk betraying their presence to the snakes!

But after some minutes—­not more than five probably, though it seemed more like five hours—­had passed the silence and strain grew unbearable to Duke.  He peeped at Pamela; her eyes were closed, she looked so dreadfully white!—­his heart gave such a thump that he looked round for a moment in terror, it seemed to him such a loud noise,—­what could make her look so?  Could the fear and the pain have killed her?

“Pamela,” he whispered, in what he meant to be a very low whisper indeed; “Oh, sister, are you dead?”

Her eyelids fluttered a little, and she half opened them.

“No, bruvver; at least I don’t fink so,” she said, and her whisper was very faint without her trying to make it so, for she was really quite exhausted.  “I wasn’t sure a minute ago, but I fink now I’m only dying.  But don’t speak, for the snakes might hear.”

“They’re asleep, he said,” returned Duke, with a sob of anguish at Pamela’s words.

“But some might be awake.  If it wasn’t for that, oh, bruvver, you might run away, and perhaps you’d get safe home.  Couldn’t you try, bruvver?” and Pamela half raised herself on her arm.

“And leave you, sister!” cried Duke indignantly, forgetting to whisper; “how could you think I’d ever do such a thing?  If I could carry you—­oh what a pity it is I’m not much bigger than you!” “You couldn’t carry me,” said Pamela feebly, and her head sank back again; “and the snakes would hear us and catch us.  But oh, bruvver, I’m afraid I’ll be quite dead before the man comes back again, and yet I don’t want him to come.”

Almost in despair Duke sat up and looked round for any possibility of help.  It was nearer than he thought; and yet when a voice, apparently a very little way off, called out, as if in answer to his unspoken appeal—­