Nothing occurred seriously to alarm our two friends through the night. Once or twice Moffat heard the distant bay of the wolf and the piercing scream of the panther, and several times, as he looked up, he could see the fiery eyeballs of some wild beast glaring through the bushes above him. Then apparently after wondering at the meaning of the unusual scene, they withdrew, and their retreating steps could be heard, while the continued footfalls of other beasts were audible until daylight. But the fire was a life-guard. No denizen of the forest dare cross the blazing ring, no matter how slight it was; and when the faint streaks of morning illumined the east, the last hopeful loiterer took his departure and disappeared in the wood.
Kingman slept sweetly and heavily—so heavily, in fact, that it was broad day when he opened his eyes and gazed wondering about him.
“How do you feel, George?” asked Moffat.
“Oh!—is that you, Abe? I didn’t know you.”
“How many more times are you going to ask whether I am what I am? But that ain’t answering my question—how do you feel?”
“Like a new man, as I am,” replied Kingman, springing triumphantly to his feet.
Not a trace of last night’s fever remained. The restless, bloodshot eyes were now calm and sparkling; the red, throbbing face was cool and glowing; and the shivering, exhausted frame was now firm and graceful. Moffat had taken him just at the proper moment, and the fever had been broken and the equilibrium of the system restored.
“Wal, you do feel right, eh? Glad to hear it. Hungry?”
“I’m slightly of that opinion. I feel, just at this moment as though I could eat a Shawnee, tomahawk rifle and all.”