The tramp back seemed harder than the advance; but they persevered, and at last, soaked with perspiration and utterly wearied out, they came in sight of the lagoon head, where Chumbley uttered a sigh of satisfaction.
“I wonder what’s for dinner,” he said. “Eh?”
He turned sharply, for Yusuf uttered an ejaculation, and stood pointing to where, seated in an opening and leaning against a tree, was the figure of a man, ragged, unshorn, and looking the picture of misery.
“Hurrah?” shouted Chumbley, dashing forward, the doctor panting after him; but the figure did not move, seeming to be asleep with its head drooped forward upon its breast.
“Rosebury!” cried Chumbley—“Rosebury!” but there was no reply.
“Arthur!” cried the doctor, sinking on one knee beside the haggard, hollow-cheeked figure, and changing the position so that its head rested upon his arm.
“Dead?” whispered Chumbley, in awe-stricken tones.
“He would have been in an hour!” cried the doctor. “Quick! your flask. There, that will do—a few drops with water. That’s right. Now soak a biscuit well. Crumble it up, man—quick, in the cup.”
A few drops at a time were poured between the parched lips, and as Arthur Rosebury showed signs of revival, a little of the soaked biscuit was administered; while Yusuf and Ismael rapidly cut down grass and contrived a rough bed, upon which the suffering man was laid.
“Is it fever?” said Chumbley, gazing down at the hollow cheeks and wild, staring eyes that had not a spark of recognition therein.