The utter exhaustion produced by the struggle on the mountain slope and through the forest died away with Jack in the light of the terrible trouble which had come upon him; and as the afternoon wore on he just partook of such food as his father brought to him, for he would not leave the wounded man’s side; and at last sunset came as they lay about a couple of miles out softly rocking upon the calm sea. He had heard how the canoes had been watched till they disappeared below the horizon line, and that all danger from another attack had passed away, but that seemed nothing in the face of this great trouble.
The night was approaching fast, and Jack shuddered at the thought of the darkness, and what it would bring; and once more it seemed impossible that the strong, active fellow who had been his companion that morning should be passing away.
If he could only have done something besides kneel there, keeping the poor fellow’s head cool—something that would have helped him in his terrible fight with death—he would not have suffered so much; but to be so completely impotent seemed more than he could bear.
“You will go to bed early, Jack,” said his father that evening, when the cabin was almost dark from the lamp being turned low.
“No, father; I am going to stop here, please,” he replied.
“I will take your place, my boy. I feel too that we owe a great duty to the faithful fellow who has served us so long. You are tired out.”
“No, father, I don’t feel a bit tired now. Don’t ask me to leave him. It is so hard with no one who knows him here; and I feel as if he will come to his senses some time, and would like to speak to me. I never did anything for him, but he always seemed to like me.”
“Very well, Jack,” said Sir John quietly, “I will not press you to go. But you will take necessary refreshment from time to time?”
“I could not touch anything,” said the boy with a shudder.
“If you do not you will break down.”