Felix.—"Yes, Mama, I ate it every bit."
Madame sat down in triumph; the young ones made the air sound with their laughter; Jenny looked appealingly to me. Schillie said, "What a nasty boy." I exclaimed in horror and wonder, "Good heavens! suppose it disagrees with him." This frightful notion spread; Jenny took to tears—Madame was quite affected—Schillie recommended an emetic—Hargrave rushed to put it in force—and Felix was overwhelmed with questions as to what he felt; had he a pain?—where was his pain?—did he feel odd?—was he sure he felt nothing?—and it was nearly an hour ere he was suffered to go to bed, with no other remedy than a good fright, and the next day he appeared as pert as ever, recommending those that did not like certain lesson books to eat them up, for, after all, he added, "books are not so nasty to eat as to learn."
CHAPTER XVII.
The time passed, to use Gatty's phrase, "fatally fast," in fact, we heard distant murmurs and fears expressed lest our dear old captain should return too soon. There was something so novel and unrestrained in our present life, and we all seemed to feel we never should again have such an opportunity of imitating the gipsies, and we were so happy and merry, that, excepting Madame, we were none of us willing to be restored too soon to civilized life.
Was our future fate a punishment or not, for thus presuming to decide our own destiny? A fortnight passed. On whose heart fell first the dread thought that something was pending over us, too horrible to be put into words? In the dead of night, I whispered low in Schillie's ear, "Do you think anything can have happened to the ship?" "Nonsense, who but you would think anything so ridiculous. Do you know I think I have discovered what these trees are. I am sure they are a species of Banyan." "Yes," said I absently. "Yes," said she, "yes, did you say? Then why did you not tell me before. I have never been able to sleep a wink when I first came to bed for wondering what they could be. Just like you." So she sulkily went off to sleep.
Another fortnight passed. No word yet was spoken, no voice had even uttered where was the Captain, Smart, La Luna? But the Mother's face was pale. She spent her days on the cliffs, looking out until her eyes ached, and bade the little Mother, who sat so silent and quiet beside her, to look for her through the telescope. And the merry voices were hushed, no laughter was heard, the meals passed in silence, the little ones played at a distance speaking in whispers, on every face you could trace a hidden fear, a secret dread, a mysterious foreboding, but not a word was spoken on the thought of each heart. As evening after evening stole by, the Mothers came down from their watch on the cliff, and though every eye asked, "Have you seen nothing?" yet no tongue had courage to say, "Where was the Captain, Smart, La Luna?"
One day, it was hotter than usual, the sun was going down with a red glare, a low moaning wind came every now and then suddenly through the trees. As Schillie and I came down the cliffs, our knees knocked together with heat and lassitude. We had not spoken for several hours until I had said, "Come, let us go." She mutely assented, and, supporting each other, we wearily and slowly clambered down. Suddenly stopping at a a smooth place on the cliff, on which had been spread by Smart the skin of the Anaconda to dry, and which still remained as he had left it, she said to me, "Which fate do you prefer, June, would you rather now be a corpse within that skin, or yet alive with your present feelings and fears." "O, Schillie, Schillie," I exclaimed, "it is not for myself I fear, but think of all these young ones, can it really be possible or true that we are likely to spend our lives in this place."