Tom was indeed pale, for the sudden excitement, in his exhausted condition had been too much for him; yet there did seem a peculiar expression about the corners of his mouth that might have been the remains of a laugh.
“Ned,” he said, faintly, “the—the decoction’s all gone.” Ned sprang up and ran to the fire, where, sure enough, he found the pan, over which he had bent so long with necromantic gaze, upset, and most of the precious liquid gone.
“Ha!” he cried, catching up the pot, “not all gone, lad, so your rejoicing was premature. There’s quite enough left yet to physic you well; and it’s in fit state to be taken, so open your mouth at once, and be a good boy.”
A little of the medicine, mixed in water, was administered, and Tom, making a wry face, fell back on his couch with a sigh. Immediately after he was seized with, perhaps, the severest shaking fit he had yet experienced, so that Ned could not help recalling the well-known caution, so frequently met with on medicine vials, “When taken, to be well shaken,” despite the anxiety he felt for his friend. But soon after, the trembling fit passed away, and Tom sank into a quiet slumber,—the first real rest he had enjoyed for several days.
Ned felt his pulse and his brow, looked long and earnestly into his face, nodded approvingly once or twice, and, having tucked the blankets gently in round the sick man, he proceeded to prepare supper. He removed just enough of the deer’s skin to permit of a choice morsel being cut out; this he put into the pot, and made thereof a rich and savoury soup, which he tasted; and, if smacking one’s lips and tasting it again twice, indicated anything, the soup was good. But Ned Sinton did not eat it. That was Tom’s supper, and was put just near enough the fire to keep it warm.
This being done, Ned cut out another choice morsel of deer’s-meat, which he roasted and ate, as only those can eat who are well, and young, and robust, and in the heart of the wilderness. Then he filled his pipe, sat down close to Tom’s couch, placed his back against a tree, crossed his arms on his breast, and smoked and watched the whole night long.
He rose gently several times during the night, however, partly for the purpose of battling off his tendency to sleep, and partly for the purpose of replenishing the fire and keeping the soup warm.
But Tom Collins took no supper that night. Ned longed very much to see him awake, but he didn’t. Towards morning, Ned managed for some time to fight against sleep, by entering into a close and philosophical speculation as to what was the precise hour at which that pot of soup could not properly be called supper, but would merge into breakfast. This question still remained unsettled in his mind when grey dawn lit up the peaks of the eastern hills, and he was still debating it, and nodding like a Chinese mandarin, and staring at intervals like a confused owl, when the sun shot over the tree-tops, and, alighting softly on the sleeper’s face, aroused him.
Tom awoke refreshed, ate his breakfast with relish, took his medicine without grumbling, smiled on his comrade, and squeezed his hand as he went to sleep again with a heavy sigh of comfort. From that hour he mended rapidly, and in a week after he was well enough to resume his journey.