Help! help!" But her cries were unheeded. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. Without a word, the general reached out and took them, but his glance searched the girl’s face. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. "Release him first—and I will disclose it!" cried Lady Trafford; "on my soul, I will!" "Speak then!" returned Rowland.
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