“I—I must have been ill. So weak, too! Where am I? The forest—everywhere! What can it all mean? There was a—a thought—what could it—Ah! Betty—dear girl—that was it. But what of her? Danger—yes—in danger. Ha! now I have it!”
There came a slight flush on his pale cheeks, and, struggling again with his weakness, he succeeded in getting on his feet, but staggered and fell with a crash that rendered him insensible for a time.
On recovering, his mind was clearer and more capable of continuous thought; but this power only served to show him that he was lost, and that, even if he had known his way to Bevan’s Gully, his strength was utterly gone, so that he could not render aid to the friends who stood in need of it so sorely.
In the midst of these depressing thoughts an intense desire for food took possession of him, and he gazed around with a sort of wolfish glare, but there was no food within his reach—not even a wild berry.
“I believe that I am dying,” he said at last, with deep solemnity. “God forgive me! Twice bought! Fred said that Jesus had bought my soul before the miners bought my life.”
For some time he lay motionless; then, rousing himself, again began to speak in low, disjointed sentences, among which were words of prayer.
“It is terrible to die here—alone!” he murmured, recovering from one of his silent fits. “Oh that mother were here now! dear, dishonoured, but still beloved mother! Would that I had a pen to scratch a few words before—stay, I have a pencil.”
He searched his pockets and found the desired implement, but he could not find paper. The lining of his cap occurred to him; it was soft and unfit for his purpose. Looking sadly round, he observed that the tree against which he leaned was a silver-stemmed birch, the inner bark of which, he knew, would serve his purpose. With great difficulty he tore off a small sheet of it and began to write, while a little smile of contentment played on his lips.
From time to time weakness compelled him to pause, and more than once he fell asleep in the midst of his labour. Heavy labour it was, too, for the nerveless hands almost refused to form the irregular scrawl. Still he persevered—till evening. Then a burning thirst assailed him, and he looked eagerly round for water, but there was none in view. His eyes lighted up, however, as he listened, for the soft tinkling of a tiny rill filled his ear.
With a desperate effort he got upon his hands and knees, and crept in the direction whence the sound came. He found the rill in a few moments, and, falling on his breast, drank with feelings of intense gratitude in his heart. When satisfied he rose to his knees again and tried to return to his tree, but even while making the effort he sank slowly on his breast, pillowed his head on the wet green moss, and fell into a profound slumber.