“Dear me!” said Lechworthy. “I’ve slept a long time, I think. How is he?”
“I thought he would have fainted again when we were dressing the wounds. But afterwards he seemed more comfortable, and now he’s fallen asleep. He made me promise to go and rest as soon as he was asleep—one of the boys is waiting in the room with him, to fetch me if I’m wanted. He’s—he’s so sensible, you know. He tells us exactly what to do, just as if it was some other case he was attending. And he will thank for everything—I wish he wouldn’t. Only, he used to be so active—so quick, and now he can’t move much.” There came a catch in Hilda’s voice. “And he doesn’t seem to know, not in the least, that’s he’s done anything much for us, or even to think about it. He’s—”
She dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands. For a few moments she could not speak for sobbing. Lechworthy stood over her, trying to soothe her.
“Don’t you know?” she wailed. “Don’t you know?”
“Yes, dear,” said Lechworthy, “I know. And—that’ll be all right. With God’s help, we’ll pull him through, for he’s too good to lose, and—and that’ll be all right, dear. You’ve been doing too much, and you mustn’t break down now. Come and get some rest. You promised him, you know.”
Hilda went to her room.
Some days later the King and Lechworthy stood on the lawn of the Exiles’ Club. Much money and much trouble had been expended to make that lawn. And now it was scorched with fire and soaked with blood, spoiled and trampled. A few oranges on a tree that had stood nearest to the fire were withered and discoloured amid brown shrivelled leaves. A long line of natives, laden with flat baskets, passed and repassed, carrying the debris of the burned house down to the shore. It was forced labour, the punishment given them by the King, and six men of the patrol, armed with rifles, watched them at their work. Other gangs had been sent out to work at road-making. They hated the work, but they did it submissively, lest worse should befall them. There was not a corner of the island now in which Hilda or Pryce, or Lechworthy might not have walked with perfect security, unarmed, by day or night. But Hilda would not let Pryce do much walking yet—from his room to the verandah, perhaps, but that was all.
The King pointed to a safe, looking incongruously official among charred timbers, with sunlight streaming on it and birds singing around it.