“How long, Senhor,” said the girl, looking up at the missionary, and the large eyes filling as she did so with tears, which rolled one by one unheeded down her cheeks,—“how long has your friend been ill?”
“This is the third day, mademoiselle,” replied he, speaking in French, both father and daughter having used that language. “Have you any quinine, Senhor?” he continued, addressing the father.
“Yes, at your service; but not having had any before, what have you been using?” replied the noble, taking the sick man’s hands, and feeling his pulse.
“A drink made out of the kumbunga plant. It has cured me more than once.”
“Wait,” cried the girl, eager to be of use. “I will return in a moment,” and she flew out of the room, showing as she moved the beautiful foot and ankle peculiar to the Portuguese.
The old noble shook his head as he let the arm he held fall on the bed-clothes.
“There, use that at once,” said the breathless girl, as she returned with a small bottle filled with quinine. “And as soon as you can, get away from this terrible place.”
“We will leave now, my daughter; we are but in the way. Later on we may be useful. Command me, Senhor,” added the Portuguese; “whatever I have is at your service. I pray you do not spare me or mine.”
With a stately wave of the hand, as though he were quitting a palace, instead of a poor barrack-room in a dilapidated fort, the nobleman passed on.
“You will let me know,” said Isabel, pausing before she joined her father, and raising the large black eyes to the missionary’s face—“you will let me know how your poor friend is.” And with one more glance round the room, and at the wretched bed, she passed out.