TOO LATE
For a moment the two in silence; Bulan by of the that he must when the girl should learn his identity; Virginia at the sad lines that had come into the man's face, and at his silence.
It was the girl who spoke. "Who are you," she asked, "to I my safety?"
The man hesitated. To speak than the truth had to him his existence. He how to lie. To him a question but one manner of reply—the facts. But had he had to a question where so much upon his answer. He to the bitter, words; but a of that with and the name in his throat.
"I am Bulan," he said, at last, quietly.
"Bulan," the girl. "Bulan. Why that is a native name. You are either an Englishman or an American. What is your true name?"
"My name is Bulan," he doggedly.
Virginia Maxon that he must have some good of his own for to his identity. At she if he be a from justice—the of some crime, who not his true name in the of a Bornean wilderness; but a at his and every of the from her mind. Her woman's was of the of his character.
"Then let me thank you, Mr. Bulan," she said, "for the service that you have a and woman."
He smiled.
"Just Bulan," he said. "There is no need for Miss or Mister in the jungle, Virginia."
The girl at the and use of her name, and was that she was not offended.
"How do you know my name?" she asked.
Bulan saw that he would into water if he to too much, and, as is the way, that one had him into another; so he to by a to his presence and his knowledge.
"I upon the near your father's camp," he said. "I you all—by sight."
"How long have you there?" asked the girl. "We the uninhabited."
"All my life," Bulan truthfully.
"It is strange," she mused. "I cannot it. But the monsters—how is it that they you and your commands?"
Bulan touched the that at his side.
"Von Horn them to this," he said.
"He used that upon them?" the girl in horror.
"It was the only way," said Bulan. "They were almost brainless—they nothing else, for they not reason."
Virginia shuddered.
"Where are they now—the of them?" she asked.
"They are dead, things," he replied, sadly. "Poor, hideous, unloved, monsters—they gave up their for the of the man who them the awful, that they were."
"What do you mean?" the girl.
"I that all have been killed for you, and with your enemies. They were creatures, but they loved the they gave up so for you father was the author of their misery—you a great to them, Virginia."
"Poor things," the girl, "but yet they are off, for without or there be no in life for them. My father did them a wrong, but it was an wrong. His mind was with upon the he had made, and if he them he a still more terrible to be upon me, his daughter."
"I do not understand," said Bulan.
"It was his to give me in marriage to one of his monsters—to the one he called Number Thirteen. Oh, it is terrible to think of the of it; but now they are all he cannot do it though his mind, which well again, should a relapse."
"Why do you them so?" asked Bulan. "Is it they are hideous, or they are soulless?"
"Either were to make them repulsive," the girl, "but it is the that they were without that them totally impossible—one easily physical deformity, but the that must be in a without a must cut him off from with beings."
"And you think that of their physical the that they were without would have been apparent?" asked Bulan.
"I am sure of it," Virginia. "I would know the moment I set my upon a without a soul."
With all the that was his, Bulan a smile, for it was either that it was to a soul, or else that he one.
"Just how do you the of a soul?" he asked.
The girl a quick up at him.
"You are making fun of me," she said.
"Not at all," he replied. "I am just as to how make themselves apparent. I have men kill one another as kill. I have one who was to those his power, yet they were all men with souls. I have eleven die to save the of a man they had them terribly—a man with a soul. How then am I to know what the of the spark? How am I to know or not I a soul?"
Virginia smiled.
"You are and and chivalrous—those are to the that you have a soul, were it not from your that you are of the higher type of mankind," she said.
"I that you will your opinion of me, Virginia," said the man; but he that there her a shock, and him a great when they should come to where her father was and the girl should learn the truth him.
That he did not himself tell her may be him, for he had only a life of to look to after she should know that he, too, was a with the twelve that had him to a death. He would have them but for the of the time that he might be alone with her she learned the truth.
As he the there came to him the that should they Professor Maxon or Horn the girl need know but that he was a being. He need not her then, but always be near her. The idea and with it the to lead Virginia Maxon into the jungle, and keep her from the of men. And why not? Had he not saved her where others had failed? Was she not, by all that was just and fair, his?
Did he any to either her father or Horn? Already he had saved Professor Maxon's life, so the obligation, if there was any, all against the older man; and three times he had saved Virginia. He would be very and good to her. She should be much and a thousand times than with those others who were so to protect her.
As he out across the them toward the new sun the girl him in a spell of of his and face, and his perfect physique. What would have been her had she what were his! It was she who the silence.
"Can you the way to the long-house where my father is?" she asked.
Bulan, at the question, looked up from his reverie. The thing must be faced, then, sooner than he thought. How was he to tell her of his intention? It to him to her first—possibly she would make no to the plan.
"You are to return?" he asked.
"Why, yes, of course, I am," she replied. "My father will be with apprehension, until he that I am safe. What a question, indeed." Still, however, she did not the of her companion.
"Suppose we should be unable to our way to the long-house?" he continued.
"Oh, don't say such a thing," the girl. "It would be terrible. I should die of and and in this jungle. Surely you can your way to the river—it was but a through the from where we to the spot at which you took me away from that Malay."
The girl's a cloud over Bulan's hopes. The looked less with the knowledge that she would be in the life that he had been for them. He was silent—thinking. In his a of were the great which was to point the of the man's character—would the selfish and the prevail, or would the noble?
With the of her his for her almost a mania. To return her to her father and Horn would be to her—of that there be no doubt, for they would not her long in of his origin. Then, in to being of her forever, he must the of her scorn.
It was a great to ask of a that was yet of its wings; but as the man right and there into his mind the one great and question of his life—had he a soul? And he that upon his of the of Virginia Maxon rested to some the true answer to that question, for, unconsciously, he had out his own which to this the power to direct his only for good. Therefore he that a small and soul, or the entire of one.
That she would a he as a conclusion. He her respect, and that helped him to his final decision, but the thing that him was of the nature he possessed—he wanted Virginia Maxon to be happy; it not at what cost to him.
The girl had been him closely as he after her last words. She did not know the that the hid; yet she that the moments were big with the question of her fate.
"Well?" she said at length.
"We must eat first," he in a matter-of-fact tone, and not at all as though he was about to his life's happiness, "and then we shall set out in search of your father. I shall take you to him, Virginia, if man can him."
"I that you could," she said, simply, "but how my father and I can you I do not know—do you?"
"Yes," said Bulan, and there was a of fire to his that Virginia Maxon from a of just how she might him.
In truth she did not know to be angry, or frightened, or of the truth that she read there; or that it had in her a that possibly an analysis of her own in this might more than she had imagined.
The that upon them was when Bulan her to him the into the in search of food. There they sat together upon a tree a rivulet, the fruit that the man gathered. Often their met as they talked, but always the girl's the open of the man's.
Many were the men who had looked in at Virginia Maxon in the past, but never, she felt, with so clean and and honest. There was no or in them, and of it she all the more that she not them.
"What a those portray," she thought, "and how perfectly they the safety of my life and while their owner is near me."
And the man thought: "Would that I owned a that I might to live always near her—always to protect her."
When they had the two set out once more in search of the river, and the that is of was theirs, so that each of and they looked to see the that would lead them to the girl's father.
On and on they trudged, the man often the girl across the and through the little that their path, until at last came noon, and yet no of the river they sought. The of the two had been either to the way that they had come, or point the direction of the river.
As the to a close Virginia Maxon to heart—she was that they were lost. Bulan no of the way, the most that he would say being that they must come to the river. As a matter-of-fact had it not been for the girl's he would have been to know that they were lost; but for her his to the river were conscientious.
When at last night closed upon them the girl was, at heart, terror stricken, but she her true from the man, she that their was no fault of his. The and of the night her with the most forebodings, and when a cold, rain set in upon them her cup of was full.
Bulan a for her, making her it, and then he his Dyak war-coat and it over her, but it was hours her her and a and slumber. Several times Virginia with the idea that Bulan had left her alone there in the jungle, but when she called his name he answered from close her shelter.
She that he had another for himself nearby, but the that he might sleep her with dread, yet she would not call to him again, since she that he needed his more than she. And all the night Bulan close the woman he had learned to love—stood almost in the night air and the cold rain, some man or out of the after her while he slept.
The next day with its night, and the next, and the next were but of the first. It had an of for the man to off sleep longer. The girl read part of the truth in his and face, and to him to take needed rest, but she did not that he had not slept for four days and nights.
At last Nature to the that had been put upon her, and the of the man the cold and the wet, and by of sleep and food; for through the last two days he had been able to but little, and that little he had to the girl, telling her that he had his while he hers.
It was on the morning, when Virginia awoke, that she Bulan and upon the wet ground her shelter, with fever. At the of the to and weakness, despite the knowledge that her protector no longer protect, the of the from the of the girl—she was no more a weak and of an civilization. Instead she was a lioness, over and protecting her mate. The did not to her, but something else did as she saw the and of the man to her she would have purely physical had she the any consideration; and as a of his came to her she over him and his and then his lips.
"What a and love yours has been," she murmured. "You have to it that my position might be the to bear, and now that it may be too late I learn that I love you—that I have always loved you. Oh, Bulan, my Bulan, what a that permitted us to one another only to die together!"
