Ever wonder what happened after Marguerite found Roxton lying half submerged in the rising water where the evil Inspector Anderson had left him?  Here's a nice little piece by Cap that tells what might have been...

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"...she lifted Lord John Roxton's head onto her lap and breathed life back into his body..."

Her legs from the kneeling position were at first cramped, then painful and now numb.  She, Marguerite Krux, could not move before the shallow waters receded.  It seemed, the slow diminishing of the inland tide, took forever.  The moment she lifted Lord John Roxton's head onto her lap and breathed life back into his body her focus was centered on saving this human being.  This man whose heart was hers for the asking, if only she dare.
The sun, hot and blazing, made it's decent into the afternoon sky.  The trees, surrounding the eroded earth near the river were twisted, bare and dead from too many river floods.  The lifeless grey-brown branches gave little shade and comfort to the man and woman, surviving underneath.  Insects recently hatched in the pockets of stagnant water lay like a haze over the low lying riverbanks and its living human contents.
Marguerite Krux leaned over John to protect his exposed eyes and face from the heat and glare of the sun.  When she moved forward she could feel insects crawling down the back of her neck into her sweat soaked blouse.

"Marguerite, are you alright?"

She used her left arm and hand to keep the pervasive insects from feasting on the soft tissue of his unprotected eyes, inner nose and mouth cavity.  Her right hand was pillowed under John's head to keep him further elevated from the water.  Would this afternoon ever end, she thought.  The heat, the pain, the flies, and the near death of someone so intertwined in her life brought quick moisture to her eyes and a low sob to her throat.  The head beneath her hand stirred slightly.  "Marguerite, are you alright?" said a voice still raspy from the drub.  "Yes, John, I'm fine," she whispered.  The fear of staying in this savage landscape threatened again to overwhelm her previous courage.  Then she looked down on a face, gentle and still strong, his eyes resting on her face with calm assuredness and all fear and uncertainty vanished and was replaced by firmness, unswayable and unshakable.  He depended on her to make sure they get back to the treehouse alive.  No time to dwell on things that can't be helped.
The lengthening shadows of the dead tree branches reached across the sandy soil.  the glint of sun shining off John's signet ring brought her out of her brief reverie.  she realized that the waters had receded slightly and a cooling breeze had sprung up, signifying the onset of dusk.  John's eyes were closed, a moment of panic assailed her, until she realized the rasping, shallow breaths of the past hours had finally stopped and been replaced with rhythmic normal breathing.  She removed her hand from under his head, flexing near numbed fingers.  "John," she quietly whispered.  Then she felt the jerk of movement on her lap and realized he had turned his head.  "John," she spoke louder.  His eyes instantly snapped open and aware.  "Marguerite, danger?" he voiced.  "John, can you move your arms, legs, try?"  The hunter focused his energy and strength into following her instructions.

"...he was able to sit up, then stand and finally make a few small steps..."

Moments, sceonds, minutes creeped by as Lord John Roxton tested his jungle hardened muscles, slowly at first then with more resolve.  And as the sun dropped behind a small range of hills, he was able to sit up, then stand and finally make a few small steps.  Marguerite watched his struggle for supremacy over his own unwilling body.  Winning and losing in alternating patterns.  A look or a smale in her direction followed his triumphs.  His failure, by downcast eyes and a slow, low curse.  Strength expended momentarily, he sat beside her.  "Marguerite, I..." his eyes met hers in understanding.  "Marguerite, I..." his large hand cupped her chin and brought her face closer.  Marguerite shifted away and voiced, "John, I'm a mess...look at me.  I'm streaked with dirt, caked with sweat and I'm not quite sure what species of vermin now find their hom in my hair, and..."
"Marguerite, you never looked more me," and again his large hand cupped her chin and pulled her closer.  His hand went from her chin to her jawline and then to the small vulnerable patch of skin at the nape of her neck.  Breathing between the two quickened with the first light tentative kiss.  The taste of salt from sweat mingled with slow, held, deppening responses...

"Marguerite, Roxton...shouted the voice of Ned Malone...Thank goodness I found you..."

"Marguerite, Roxton..." shouted the voice of Ned Malone, journalists, author, fellow explorer and friend.  Marguerite and John broke apart...but John's look at Marguerite never wavered, nor his amile, but you could hear the damn in his voice as he yelled, "Over here, Malone."
"Thank goodness I found you...What happened?"  Marguerite looked at the young journalist and said "You will never believe this story!"  And Malone, with laughing blue eyes said "I think I can!"

"Malone, I don't think John can make to back to the treehouse tonight."  "Marguerite, I brought some blankets, light provisions and weapons.  That should get us through the night," said Malone.  "There's a dry spot further away from the river."
As Malone pulled together a fire with dry twigs, Marguerite began spreading out the blankets.  She noticed two curious very wet lumps of material sitting beside the makeshift fire.  "Malone, thanks for the blankets and the pemmican, but what the devil are those things?"  "Oh, these...I found them on the trail, farther back."  Malone stooped and picked up the two indescribable pieces of material and presented them to Marguerite and Roxton.  "Marguerite, I believe this is yours, and Roxton, this is yours." 
Both Roxton and Marguerite held the wet material in their hands and together laughed.
It was their hats.

"Malone stooped and picked up the two indescribable pieces of was their hats..."