“I tell you I heerd a gun,” cried the coxswain.
“Ay, in your head, mate. I’ve been hearing the skipper giving it to Mr Russell here for keeping the cutter out all night, but it don’t mean nothing, only sort o’ dreams. How could the Naughtylass sail to us without a breath o’ wind?”
Dance stared at him wildly, and his face grew convulsed with anger, but the next moment he let his head drop down upon his hands with a groan.
Night seemed as if it would never come to bring a relief from that burning sun, which affected man after man with this curious delirium, the last touched being Mr Russell, who suddenly started up in the boat just about the hottest part of the afternoon; and, his mind still impressed by the coxswain’s words, he exclaimed in a peculiarly angry voice, as he stared straight before him—“I refuse to take the blame, Captain Maitland. I did my duty by you and toward the brave, patient fellows under my charge. If there is any one to blame it is yourself for leaving us behind. Quite right, Vandean. Now, my lad, for a good drink. The water’s deliciously cool and sweet, and what a beautiful river. Ahoy! What ship’s that?”
He lurched forward as he suddenly ceased speaking, uttered a low groan, and but for Tom Fillot’s strong arm he would have gone overboard.
The sailor lowered him down into the bottom of the boat, where he lay back, and Mark took his kerchief from his neck, soaked it in the sea-water, wrung it out, and then laid it over the poor fellow’s brow, ending by gazing inquiringly in the oarsman’s face, as if asking for help.
“That’s all you can do, sir,” said the man, sadly.
“Touch o’ sunstroke, and he’s got it worse than the rest on us.”
“Shall I bathe his face with the water, Tom?”
“No, sir, I don’t know as I would. It might make him thirstier and worse. Better wait for sundown. When the cool time comes he may work round.”