Mr. Bruce was a great advocate of ice in cases of fever and he had at once ordered a liberal use of this. Fortunately Mrs. Graham and Nellie were with Enola, for they had both had experience as nurses and knew just what to do, and then their love for her would insure her the very best of treatment.
The day rolled by and Enola had not yet come out of the long sleep into which the morphine had thrown her. Harry had strolled up and down before the door of the sick chamber, stopping occasionally to listen, hoping to hear signs of returning consciousness from within. But all had remained quiet and Harry had kept up the vigil from without. He had suffered fearfully in those few short hours since Enola, snatched by the storm, had been carried away, giving her up only after it had destroyed the greatest gift of God—reason. It seemed an age to him, these few short hours and the suffering had grown more intense as the day advanced, and the possibilities of returning life and reason grew less. Harry was not one to say much or to carry his heart on his sleeve, but his love for Enola was deep and sincere, and his suffering now fearful as a consequence. He had seen Enola’s growing friendliness or infatuation for the King and this had wounded him terribly. Still he had so much faith in her that he could not doubt but that she would be perfectly true to herself in the matter, and if, in the meantime she should learn to love Onrai, she would tell him candidly.
But the thought was torturing, the very possibility of his losing her after these long years. The barbarous grandeur, so it might be called, of the King and his people, was enough to turn the head of any woman or man, for that matter, and he could not blame Enola if she should turn from him to the King. Yet there was something about these people which could not be understood, a certain mystery unsolved and unsolving; they had now been among them several weeks, and had been let into all their mode of life, their customs, habits, and nothing, seemingly, had been kept from them; but there had been mentioned a certain day, the Day of Resis, over which there hung a cloud. This had only been mentioned unguardedly, and there seemed to be a secret connected with it, which was not to be divulged to the vulgar ears of the strangers. Harry had hopes that the uncertainty of this mystery would guard Enola from allowing herself to form an alliance with the King, an alliance which might make life a hell ever afterwards.
Harry was not superstitious, but there was a certain dread of the future with these people; a sort of premonition of coming evil; that before long this pleasant life would end, and a something would occur which would make the party forever regret the day they entered this strange country. These thoughts might have been occasioned by the fear that Enola was being infatuated by the subtle influence of the King; an influence, which he, Harry, thought lay in the mystery overhanging the entire race. But when Enola would once come to believe as he did, that there was a future life with these people, which was the very reverse to the one they were now enjoying, she would at once turn a deaf ear to the love-making of Onrai. But had he made love to her? Harry could not make himself believe that Enola would allow this from one whom she had known but such a short while; and then Onrai, when Harry came to think of him, was such a great, powerful man, so straightforward and free from all deceit, so brave and strong; he looked a lover, and yet he did not know. One thing Harry was assured of: Onrai did not make love to Enola with those simple nothings which make up the wooings of modern lovers in civilized countries. And it might be the total absence of these idiotic expressions which won her friendship and esteem, and finally, love. It might be the grand physique and strength of the man which attracted her. But at any rate, Harry would not relinquish all hope of yet winning Enola, and when he thought of that mysterious something which threw a sort of shroud over the future of these people, he felt almost confident that Enola would not allow herself to become entirely infatuated, or, as it has been said, allianced with this King.
But now this slender hope had been shattered. Enola lay at death’s door physically and mentally, with but slight hopes of regaining bodily health, and less of her ever regaining her reason. For the first time Harry regretted their ever having started on this hazardous journey, but when he thought of the determination of Enola, and realized that she would have come at any rate whether he had or not, he felt glad at least that he was now here to help her. He must be resigned and await the future. But this was easier said than done, especially when the one great loved one was lying at death’s door. Again he stopped and listened, and hearing no sound, walked to the entrance, and looking out saw Onrai dash madly up on his winded charger and dismount. Onrai almost stumbled over Harry as he hurried through the entrance. Looking up almost angrily, he was about to make some passionate remark, when, seeing that it was Harry, he grasped him by the shoulders, and said, hoarsely:
“Tell me quickly, how is she?”
“The same,” answered Harry. “Still mad, and no hope.”
“It is fearful!” cried Onrai, as he dropped his hands from Harry’s shoulders and commenced pacing the floor.
Harry watched the suffering of this strong man, and for a time, almost gloated over the thought of this rival’s agony. But why should he feel this way? Had not Onrai been open and above board with him, and did he, Onrai, ever suspect that he had a rival in himself? So if they were to be rivals, let it be an open and square fight, and not for a moment harbor such miserable jealous thoughts. Going up to Onrai, he said:
“Tell me, King, why do you take such an interest in us—in Enola? We are your guests, certainly, but your interest in us is even greater than we might expect from you, our host.”