The outlook was now very dreary indeed.
To make matters worse, the hopelessness of his situation brought a prostration of mind and body, and the hardships and privations he had undergone in his wanderings began to tell upon Harry.
Besides, there was the dread marsh miasma to be breathed day after day, while the very appearance and dejectedness of the people he found himself among was not calculated to mend matters. He found himself growing ill, he struggled against it with all the force of his mind. But alas! a struggle of this kind is like that of floundering in a miry bog—the more you struggle the deeper you sink.
One morning, after a restless night of pained and dreamful slumber, Harry found himself unable to rise from his couch of grass under the flower-clad, creeper-hung baobab tree.
He was sick at heart, racked with pain in every limb, and oh, so cold.
The cold was worse to bear than anything, yet his pulse was bounding along, his skin was hot, and his brow was burning.
Before night he was delirious—dreaming of home, raving in his waking moments about his father, his mother, about Andrew, and Eily, the forest of Balbuie, and the far-off Highland hills.
No nurse could have been kinder to Harry than Somali Jack, no one more attentive than he and Raggy.
Even in this strange swamp-island Jack managed to find herbs, and exercised all his native skill to bring his patient round.
But nights went by, and days that were like nights to Harry, and he grew worse and worse.