“What a coward I am,” he said aloud, “to be damped at such a trouble as this! They will take care that the Malays don’t touch them, and we can get round to them in the morning.”
Some insane idea of getting on board the little vessel that lay in Crater Bay came into his mind for the moment, but with only David Jimpny for helpmate he felt that such an attempt would be useless, and gave it up.
He walked as fast as he could, but the pace was slow, and his feet felt heavy in the deep sand, which was once more growing white, and as he trudged on, wondering how soon he could get back to where his friends were waiting, and whether he would be able to make out the spot in the dark, the thought occurred to him that he would be able to guide his steps easily enough by means of the luminous rim of the sea, and make his presence known by uttering a low call from time to time, when his heart gave a tremendous bound, and he stopped as if petrified.
“Mark! Ahoy!”
There it was again, and turning, trembling in every limb, it was to see Morgan on the top ridge of the black rocks between him and the bay, distinctly seen against the sky-line, while directly after another figure appeared—that of his father.
He took off and waved his cap, for he could not speak, and then, suffocating with emotion, overcome by exhaustion, he reeled and sank half insensible upon the sands, but only to struggle up once more, and try to retrace his steps toward the black rocks.
He was in a kind of dream for the next few minutes—a dream in which sea, rocks, sand, and trees were slowly gliding round him. Then he was aroused by a pair of strong arms catching him by the shoulders, and a familiar voice crying:
“Why, Mark, my lad, what’s all this?”
He could not speak, only stare, and as he looked in the second-mate’s face another voice rang in his ears:
“He is overcome with walking in the heat. Hail the lads, Morgan, and we’ll have him carried to the boat. Why, Mark, my boy, how foolish of you to come—and on such a day! Here, drink.”