Piece after piece of fungi Chenobi forced between the unwilling lips, almost ramming it down the scientist’s throat. But, for all his efforts, Mervyn seemed to grow steadily worse, and, as the moments passed, his three comrades—helpless to check the action of the subtle foe working in his veins—watched with dimmed eyes the grey hue of death mounting to his forehead.
His lips grew blue and pinched, his eyelids ceased to twitch, and it appeared to the watchers as though the last spark of life had vanished.
Suddenly Chenobi rose, and at that Wilson cried out, thinking that the king had given up hope. But he was mistaken. Plunging in amid the fungi, Chenobi slashed off the top of a peculiar palm-like growth, and with this he returned to the side of the motionless scientist. First dipping the point of his knife-blade in the juicy sap which oozed from the fungus, he gashed Mervyn’s arm. Thrice he repeated this mysterious operation, then bound a handkerchief tightly over the gashes.
What this strange method of injection might mean the comrades could not tell. Sufficient for them to know that the Ayuti was doing all in his power to give back life to their friend. They felt that this was Chenobi’s last effort. If it failed, Mervyn was lost. With bated breath they watched for some movement from the silent form at their feet. Even the great hounds seemed to be aware of the nearness of death, for they lay quiet, only occasionally giving voice to a low whine.
Each of the three comrades passed through a lifetime of suspense during the few moments that Mervyn’s fate trembled in the balance. The engineer, dismounting from Muswani, had drawn close in, and now stood beside Seymour. Slowly the minutes dragged by, until, of a sudden, a cry came from Chenobi.
“He lives!” Rapidly the baronet interpreted the joyful news to his friends, and a thankful prayer went up from each man’s heart as they saw that the words were true.
All too slowly for them the life came back into Mervyn’s enfeebled frame, and it was not until two hours had passed that he was anything like himself again. Even then he was very shaky, and Wilson insisted on him riding behind Chenobi when he felt well enough to proceed.
Nothing the scientist remembered of his experience. He knew naught of what had taken place since the king had lowered him to the ground. The action of the venom had been painless, and, but for Chenobi’s prompt surgery, Mervyn would have drifted away over the Borderland into the Great Silence.
His hand trembled as he gripped that of his saviour, and murmured a few stammering words of thanks, to which Chenobi replied with a quaint Ayuti proverb, whereat the others, when Seymour had translated, laughed uproariously.
The inevitable reaction after the suspense had set in, and each man felt ready to sing for joy that their beloved chief had been restored to them.