Ugh!"
She shuddered.
"But you both escaped?" she said.
There was a moment's silence. The shade of the cedar-tree was deep
and cool, but it brought little relief to Trent. The perspiration
stood out on his forehead in great beads, he breathed for a moment
in little gasps as though stifled.
"No," he answered; "my partner died within a mile or two of the
Coast. He was very ill when we started, and I pretty well had to
carry him the whole of the last day. I did my best for him. I did,
indeed, but it was no good. I had to leave him. There was no use
sacrificing oneself for a dead man."
She inclined her head sympathetically.
"Was he an Englishman?" she asked.
He faced the question just as he had faced death years before
leering at him, a few feet from the muzzle of his revolver.
"He was an Englishman. The only name we had ever heard him called
by was 'Monty.' Some said he was a broken-down gentleman. I
believe he was."
She was unconscious of his passionate, breathless scrutiny,
unconscious utterly of the great wave of relief which swept into
his face as he realised that his words were without any special
meaning to her.
"It was very sad indeed," she said. "If he had lived, he would have
shared with you, I suppose, in the concession?"
Trent nodded.
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