Acting on this practical suggestion, they led the stranger to the fire. The shikari meanwhile remained fixedly on guard, his eyes never quitting the jungle, his ears alert for further sounds.
"A blanket, Hamid!" Forrester shouted.
The man brought a blanket from the tent, and in this they rolled the stranger, setting him as close to the fire as they dared. Mackenzie unscrewed a brandy flask, and poured a little of the liquor between his lips. He gasped and lay quite still, his eyes staring without seeing. Every now and then his body twitched convulsively.
"The fever, sahib," said Hamid.
"A bad attack, too," said Forrester. "Quick! A rubber sheet, a pillow, and my bottle of quinine."
In a few minutes the stranger had been dosed with quinine and made comfortable. As yet he was unable to talk. Enveloped in the blanket, only his face was now visible--the face of a man about thirty-five, refined of feature, with thick brown beard and moustache, matted with damp and dirt. The sun-tanned cheeks were sunken, the eyes within their hollow sockets blazed with the fire of fever. They watched him anxiously, their concern for his pitiable condition mingled with curiosity. How came this man to be wandering alone and unarmed in the jungle?
"Poor body!" muttered Mackenzie. "Did you notice his hands?"
"They shook like a leaf," replied Jackson.
"Ay, but the blood!"
"Was there blood on them?"