But long before he descended, Roylance—who had set the sailor free, and was watching in his place by the lieutenant’s side—had communicated with Sydney, and asked him to come and look at his patient.
It was a sad sight. The poor fellow lay motionless and breathing feebly and hurriedly, for there was a suggestion of the fever that was pretty sure to come; and a feeling of helplessness came over Syd as he bent over his patient, and wondered what he could do more to save his life.
After the guns had been dragged up, a portion of the men were at liberty to help in other ways, and a good deal more had been done to the shelter up in the gap.
It was quite time, for with the coming night it was evident there would be a storm. And it became a matter of certainty that if the wind did rise, the rough tent set up with a sail thrown over a spar, for the lieutenant’s use, would be exposed to the higher waves, and must inevitably be saturated by the spray.
It was no use to sigh, the task had at all risks to be done, and the question arose how the wounded man was to be transported to the gap.
“Can’t we do something to keep him here?” suggested Syd; “build a rough wall of rock to shelter him.”
The answer came at once in the shape of a large roller, which seemed to glide in, and after deluging the little pier broke with a heavy, thunderous noise, and sent a tremendous shower of broken water over the canvas of the rough tent, nearly driving it flat, and proving that the position where Mr Dallas lay would not be tenable much longer.
“I think I can manage it, sir,” said the boatswain, touching his hat, “if I may try.”
“What will you do?”
“This here, sir.”