“A glass of water,” said Steve.
“Well, you can get a dish here, and there is a spring outside,” with an air of great relief.
“Is this the man?” Steve asked of Marmaduke.
Marmaduke sadly shook his head.
“I am very low with the small-pox,” said the unknown, “and those of you who have not had it, nor have not been exposed to it, had better hurry out into the open air.”
This was said quietly—apparently sincerely.
The hunters were struck with horror. It seemed as though a chain of misfortunes, that would eventually lead them to destruction, was slowly closing around them. Small-pox! Exposed to that loathsome disease! They grew sick with fear!
“Was it for this we went hunting?” Charles groaned.
For a few moments the hunters lost all presence of mind; they neglected to rush out of doors; they forgot that the sick man seemed wrapped in suspicion; they forgot that they had gained admittance by stratagem; Steve forgot that he was playing the hero.
A cry of horror from Jim roused them from their torpor.