“No, sir. We must give it up, sir, like men; but it do seem hard work. Seen my boy Pan-y-mar?”
“On board, on board,” said Syd quickly.
“What, sir?”
“I did not speak,” cried the boy, shaking his head, and Roylance and the boatswain exchanged glances.
“Yes, yes, I spoke—you spoke,” said Syd, strangely. “I know now, but my brain feels hot and dry, and I can’t breathe. Yes. Pan. He’s with Mr Dallas in the hut.”
The boy sank down on a stone, and placed his elbows upon his knees to make a resting-place for his head.
“Poor lad! Oh, Mr Roylance, sir, I’d give my last drop o’ blood if I could save him.”
Syd started up and then looked round wildly, as he made a desperate effort to ward off the delirium that was attacking him.
“Keep in the shade, my lads,” he said. “Please God we shall get rain to-night, or help will come.”
The men stared at him in stupid silence, all but Rogers, who feebly hacked off a bit of a cake of tobacco, and struggled up to offer it.