“We are not surprised to see that a sponge is vegetable in fibre with animal life,” replied Regan. “Roy, this is yellow gold; see here!”
Regan shook some cooled drops of the liquid of the volcano into my hand.
“Leave it on the ashes. Gold or dross it is all the same here. Let us cast ourselves down into this pit and end it all!” said I.
I could die well enough if Regan would die too!
Our blankets had fallen with us. Regan spread one above the flame. The hot air began to fill it. There was a hope. At once we were more cheerful. We broidered the ends of the blankets together, tied them into a balloon shape, expanding the mouths with our broken staves, leaving loops for our hands.
We held the bag inverted above the crater. It slowly inflated. It began to pull.
“That weak thing to swing above that lava! Never!” I exclaimed, and thoughtlessly, tortured by the heat, I let go the staves.
In a second’s time Regan was swung into the air; the smoke hid him; he did not return.
Then I gave way to my bitter despair and wept as I cast myself on the stones. Forever he was gone! I was alone—entombed by the rage of an island, deserted by the hate of a man!
How long it was I do not know. Day whitened the crater smoke. I heard a voice call: “Roy! Roy!” It sounded in the rocks at my side: “Roy! Roy!”