The “lady of the Commandant” was in a strange plight. The cavern was lofty, but narrow. In shape it was three-cornered, having two sides open to the wind. The ingenuity of Rufus Dawes had closed these sides with wicker-work and clay, and a sort of door of interlaced brushwood hung at one of them. Frere pushed open this door and entered. The poor woman was lying on a bed of rushes strewn over young brushwood, and was moaning feebly. From the first she had felt the privation to which she was subjected most keenly, and the mental anxiety from which she suffered increased her physical debility. The exhaustion and lassitude to which she had partially succumbed soon after Dawes's arrival, had now completely overcome her, and she was unable to rise.
“Cheer up, ma'am,” said Maurice, with an assumption of heartiness. “It will be all right in a day or two.”
“Is it you? I sent for Mr. Dawes.”
“He is away just now. I am making a boat. Did not Sylvia tell you?”
“She told me that he was making one.”
“Well, I—that is, we—are making it. He will be back again tonight. Can I do anything for you?”
“No, thank you. I only wanted to know how he was getting on. I must go soon—if I am to go. Thank you, Mr. Frere. I am much obliged to you. This is a—he-e—dreadful place to have visitors, isn't it?”
“Never mind,” said Frere, again, “you will be back in Hobart Town in a few days now. We are sure to get picked up by a ship. But you must cheer up. Have some tea or something.”
“No, thank you—I don't feel well enough to eat. I am tired.”
Sylvia began to cry.