The day had been fiercely hot, but the night was cool, and Brian had half-closed the door through which the sea-breeze was blowing, and the light of the stars shone down. He and Percival continued to share this hut (the other being tenanted by the three seamen), and Brian was sitting on the ground, stirring up a compound of cocoa-nut milk, eggs and brandy, with which he meant to provide Percival for supper. Percival lay, as usual, on his couch, watching his movements by the starlight. When the draught had been swallowed, Heron said:—
"Don't go to sleep yet. I wish you would sit down here. I want to say something."
Brian complied, and Percival went on in his usual abrupt fashion.
"You know I rather thought I should not get better."
"I know."
"It might have been more convenient if I had not. Did you never feel so?"
"No, never."
"If I had been buried on the Rocas Reef," said Percival, with biting emphasis, "you would have kept your promise, gone back to England, and—married Elizabeth."
"I never considered that possibility," answered Brian, with perfect quietness and some coldness.
"Then you're a better fellow than I am. Look here," said Percival, with vehemence, "in your place I could not have nursed a man through an illness as you have done. The temptation would have been too strong: I should have killed him."