This time, on opening his eyes, he perceived that the glade was filled with soft blue light; and the quivering fronds of the cabbage-palm—just visible from where he lay—had caught the first trembling rays of the sun.
Only there, and among the summit-branches of the ceiba, far overtopping the spray of the surrounding forest, was the sun yet visible. Everything else was tinted with the blue grey of the morning twilight.
He could sleep no longer; and rose from his forest lair, intending to make an immediate departure from the spot.
He had no toilet to trouble him—nothing to do, further than brush off the silken floss of the tree-cotton, shoulder his gun, and go.
He felt hunger, even more than on the preceding night; and, although the raw mountain-cabbage offered no very tempting déjeuner, he determined before starting, to make another meal upon it—remembering, and very wisely acting upon, the adage of “a bird in the hand.”
There was plenty left from the supper to serve him for breakfast; and, once more making a vigorous onslaught on the chou de palmiste, he succeeded in appeasing his hunger.
But another appetite, far more unpleasant to bear, now assailed him. In truth, it had assailed him long before, but had been gradually growing stronger; until it was now almost unendurable.
It was the kindred appetite, thirst; which the cabbage-palm, instead of relieving, had, from a certain acridity in its juice, only sharpened—till the pain amounted almost to torture.
The sufferer would have struck off into the woods in search of water. He had seen none in his wanderings; still he had hopes of being able to find the river. He would have started at once, but for an idea he had conceived that there was water near the spot where he had slept.
Where? He had observed neither stream nor spring, pond nor river; and yet he fancied he had seen water—in fact, he felt sure of it!