Harry did so. She tasted a few drops, but could not be prevailed upon to take more.
Turk looked wistfully at the flask, then thrusting it back, muttered:
"No—no! it must all be saved for that poor little girl, God bless her eyes!"
One—two—three days passed. Still adrift on the wilderness of ocean. No sail—no land—no fresh water.
God help the castaways!
Brand was almost mad. His eyes gleamed like a tiger's—he gnashed his teeth!
Harry, too, was scarcely sane! Turk alone remained cool and careful, although his sufferings were terrible.
And Mary?
Alas! poor girl—the flush on her sunken cheek burned deep and red—her eyes were feverish—her panting breath came thick and fast—she was too weak to sit up.
There was no more liquor in Turk's flask. He had given all—every drop to the young girl.