Trent himself had done his share of the carrying, ever keeping his eyes fixed upon the death-lit face of their burden, every ready to fight off the progress of the fever and ague, as the twitching lips or shivering limbs gave warning of a change.

For fourteen days he had not slept; until they had reached Garba his clothes had never been changed since they had started upon their perilous journey.

As he rode into Attra he reeled a little in his saddle, and he walked into the office of the Agent more like a ghost than a man.
Two men, Cathcart and his assistant, who was only a boy, were lounging in low chairs.

As he entered they looked up, exchanging quick, startled glances.

Then Cathcart gave vent to a little exclamation.
"Great Heavens, Trent, what have you been doing ?" Trent sank into a chair.