We waited, and the groan was repeated several times. Then we made a short detour and presently came upon the body of a native lying in a patch of tall grass. The fellow had been struck over the head with some blunt instrument. He lay on his face and was evidently unable to help himself.
"Lola!" I ejaculated, as I turned the Kanaka over. My identification was correct, but the native was too far gone to recognize me. The blood flowed from his head in a stream, and it looked as if his hours upon earth were numbered.
"He has suffered an attack," said Oliver, as we propped the fellow up against a tree, bathed his wound and bound it up. "Lola, who hit you?"
For quite a while the native could not speak. But now he recognized us, and his face shone full of pain and despair.
"No kill me! No kill me!" he groaned.
"We won't kill you," returned Oliver kindly. "But tell us who struck you."
"Delverez hit me."
"Did you quarrel?"
"He quarrel—no want to pay me as he promise. He told me to go back—dat he want me no more. I want my pay, and den he hit me and I know nothing more."
"Where is Delverez now?"
