There was not a hush now in the tent. Fred kept his friend's thin hand in his, his eyes on his face.
Fred was praying; and praying perhaps with greater earnestness than ever he had prayed before. Oh, if his heavenly Father, who had saved them from so many a danger, that loving tender Father, who heareth in secret, and to whom all the ends of the earth are well known, would but deign to hear him now, and spare his friend even at the eleventh hour!
How quietly Frank was breathing! How very still he lay! Could he be—dead?
Fred put his ear down to listen. Yes, he could hear his gentle breathing. This was not death, it was sleep—gentle sleep.
Never once did Fred move from his position all that livelong night; and when the sun rose and cast the shadows of the mountains across the placid bay, the lad was still at his post.
At length Frank opened his eyes, and seeing Fred, gently pressed his hand and smiled.
The sleep had done its kindest work.
Just a little cocoanut water, so cool and refreshing, then, like a baby, Frank dropped off again; and Fred went right away into the bush all by himself, and kneeling down beside a pandanus tree, returned thanks to Him who had heard his prayer.
* * * * * *
Slow indeed, but steadfast, was Frank's recovery now from his terrible illness. For weeks he scarce could walk; but now in the matter of cookery Quambo quite excelled even himself. With the aid of herbs he concocted the most delicious cavy stews; he wrapped flying fish in fragrant leaves, and did them over a clear fire, and he even concocted strengthening broths, from birds they shot in the woods.