But he was quite still.
“He is dead, he is dead!” I exclaimed, almost with tears in my eyes. “The rain has killed him, and it is all my fault. I was so cruel to forget him.” I continued to call, “Fiam, come back. Forgive me! Fiam!”
It seemed to me as if I had lost a brother of whom I should have been careful and should have protected better. I was overcome with remorse. I thought of all the delightful times we had had together, of his kindness, of his courage, of the work we had shared and of our sincere friendship.
“Fiam, Fiam!” I called, now and again, hoping to hear once more his little affectionate voice.
At last I thought of trying a radical way of reviving him if there were still the tiniest hope.
I took a flask of saki which I had had on the ship and dropped a little on Fiam. Then I put a wad of cotton (which I kept handy in case it was needed for wounds) in the cigarette box; then put my friend on the cotton, as if he were in a beautiful white feather bed, shut the box and put it near the fire, which I lighted as best I could in the midst of my small shelter.
When I again opened the box and looked in, he was lying there immovable, his arms stretched out and his little leg raised up.
“Fiam!” I called.