A mile away toward the east, fighting his way through the jungle
along the trail taken by Malbihn when he had brought Meriem to
his camp, a man in torn khaki--filthy, haggard, unkempt--came to
a sudden stop as the report of Malbihn's rifle resounded faintly
through the tangled forest. The black man just ahead of him stopped,
too.
"We are almost there, Bwana," he said. There was awe and respect
in his tone and manner.
The white man nodded and motioned his ebon guide forward once more.
It was the Hon. Morison Baynes--the fastidious--the exquisite. His
face and hands were scratched and smeared with dried blood from
the wounds he had come by in thorn and thicket. His clothes were
tatters. But through the blood and the dirt and the rags a new
Baynes shone forth--a handsomer Baynes than the dandy and the fop
of yore.
In the heart and soul of every son of woman lies the germ of manhood
and honor. Remorse for a scurvy act, and an honorable desire to
right the wrong he had done the woman he now knew he really loved
had excited these germs to rapid growth in Morison Baynes--and the
metamorphosis had taken place.
Pages:
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388