Not knowing how to comfort him, I held my tongue. He continued—
"Somehow I've been an outcast all my life, and I shall certainly die one. After my first slip I was never given a chance, but was badgered from pillar to post, until I was driven out of England, the victim of what we may call uncivilized Christianity. It was rough on me, deuced rough."
After this our conversation dropped off bit by bit, till it ceased altogether. I made him as comfortable as I could, and then sought my own couch on the other side of the fire. Hours passed before sleep came to me, my brain was full of the thoughts his words had conjured up. Strangely enough, it was not of Juanita I had thought within the last few days. She seemed almost to have passed out of my life. It was on another and a purer love I pondered. "Oh, Maud, Maud, my own lost love," I moaned, "if only I could live those fatal days again!" But it was impossible. Like Dryden, I must cry henceforth—
"Not heaven itself upon the past has power;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour."
Next morning I discovered that Veneda had not slept at all. It needed but little medical knowledge to tell that his condition was worse than on the previous night. His face was fast losing even the faint colour it had hitherto possessed. His forehead was covered with a clammy sweat, and at times he moaned softly and wandered in his talk. I was more distressed about him than I can say. But what could I do? To carry him elsewhere in search of help would have been useless, had it even been possible; besides, it would only have hastened his death to have moved him. In addition to this, I found the Malay had taken advantage of the opportunity to clear out, and his boat was already a dim speck upon the horizon. There was nothing for it but to make Veneda as comfortable as I could, and to patiently await the end.
In his moments of consciousness I think he must have been aware that he had not much longer to live; indeed, he hinted as much to me when I asked if I could do anything to relieve his pain. His patience was marvellous. He uttered no sign of complaint, but met his fate with a fortitude that was inexpressibly touching.
Towards the middle of the morning I struggled up the hill to scour the offing for a sail. But no sign of a ship was to be seen, only the blue expanse of water, other islands peeping up to right and left of us, and the dim outline of the Sumatra coast away to the westward. Round my head white sea-gulls wheeled with discordant cries, while from the farther side of the island the boom of surf sounded like mimic thunder. What would I not have given for a sail, or anything that could have brought relief to my dying companion! But it was no use wishing, so as soon as I had satisfied myself that no assistance was forthcoming, I descended to the plateau and anxiously approached Veneda.
I found him in an excited condition, his face flushed and his eyes brighter than when I had left him half an hour before. He was talking in the wildest fashion, and at the same time endeavoring to raise himself from the ground.
Hastening to his side, I tried by every means in my power to soothe him, but it was useless. He imagined himself back in Chili, and for some time his utterances were in the Spanish tongue. For nearly two hours he remained in this state, eventually falling into a heavy sleep which lasted until about three o'clock. When he awoke his delirium had left him, but he was much weaker; his voice, when he tried to speak, was hardly louder than a whisper. I could see that the end was only a matter of a short time now.
"Ramsay," he managed to say, "I know all about it; I'm down and done for. It seems like a joke, old man, but Marcos Veneda's played out."