The sweat poured unceasingly from their bodies, and in their nostrils was the heavy smell of rotting vegetation and of black earth that was a-crawl with fecund life.
They turned aside from the run-way at a place indicated by Binu Charley, and, sometimes crawling on hands and knees through the damp black muck, at other times creeping and climbing through the tangled undergrowth a dozen feet from the ground, they came to an immense banyan tree, half an acre in extent, that made in the innermost heart of the jungle a denser jungle of its own.

From out of its black depths came the voice of a man singing in a cracked, eerie voice.
"My word, that big fella marster he no die!" The singing stopped, and the voice, faint and weak, called out a hello.
Joan answered, and then the voice explained.
"I'm not wandering.

I was just singing to keep my spirits up.

Have you got anything to eat ?" A few minutes saw the rescued man lying among blankets, while fires were building, water was being carried, Joan's tent was going up, and Lalaperu was overhauling the packs and opening tins of provisions.

Tudor, having pulled through the fever and started to mend, was still frightfully weak and very much starved.