The first tiny, flickering spark of fire had caught the dry wood, and was swiftly bursting into flame.

In another moment this had illumined that stooping figure, and rested in a blaze of light upon the lowered face, bringing out the features as though they were framed against the black wall beyond--a woman's face, the face of Eloise! I gave vent to one startled, inarticulate cry, and she sprang to her feet, the mantling flames girdling her as though she were a statue.
They lit up the white-washed wall, splashed with blood, and gave a glimpse of the wrecked timbers dangling from above.

In that first frightened glance she failed to see me; her whole posture told of fear, of indecision.
"Who was it spoke?
Who called?
Is someone alive here ?" The trembling words sounded strange, unnatural, I could barely whisper, yet I did my best.
"It is Steven, Eloise--come to me." "Steven! Steven Knox--alive! Oh, my God; you have answered my prayer!" She found me, heedless of all the horror in between, as though guided by some instinct, and dropped on her knees beside me.

I felt a tear fall on my cheek, and then the warm, eager pressure of her lips to mine, I could not speak; I could only hold her close with my one hand.
The flames beyond leaped up, widening their gleam of light, revealing more clearly the dear face and the joy with which she gazed down upon me.
"You are suffering," she cried.

"What can I do?
Is it this Indian's body ?" "Yes," I breathed, the effort of speaking an agony.