One evening Dr. Wright came into the saloon or mess-place.
He was looking sad.
“Has a change come?” said the captain.
“I fear so,” said Wright.
“Then we need not ask what it is?”
“No; I fear my patient is sinking, although, mind you, even yet there is hope.”
It was one of those still nights which we find in these far Southern climes, when the stars shine clear and bright above, and are reflected from the dark, smooth sea, when, in the middle watch, hardly a sound is to be heard except the gentle lapping of the water around the stern, a sound that often resembles the talking of people in low, subdued monotones, only that and the solemn far-off boom of the waves breaking drowsily on the rugged rocks and shore.
Wright had given Ingomar his last instructions, and left him sitting quietly by the cotside, Arnold’s favourite Eskimo dog near his feet, for the faithful beast could seldom be prevailed upon to leave the cabin or even to touch a morsel of food.
Presently, and most unexpectedly, the patient breathed a sigh, and opened his eyes. Ingomar was standing over him in a moment with his finger on his pulse.
That pulse was flickering and uncertain, but it seemed stronger; but well did Hans know that these signs might be but the forerunner of death and darkness.