“This is Sergeant Brainard.”
Brainard immediately drew himself up to the position of the soldier, and was about to salute when Colwell took his hand.
At this moment there was a confused murmur within the tent, and a voice said,—
“Who’s there?”
Norman answered, “It’s Norman,—Norman who was in the ‘Proteus.’”
This was followed by cries of “Oh, it’s Norman!” and a sound like a feeble cheer.
Meanwhile, one of the relief party, who in his agitation and excitement was crying like a child, was down on his hands and knees trying to roll away the stones that held down the flapping tent cloth. The tent was a “tepik,” or wigwam tent, with a fly attached. The fly, with its posts and ridge-pole, had been wrecked by the gale which had been blowing for thirty-six hours, and the pole of the tepik was toppling over, and only kept in place by the guy-ropes. There was no entrance except under the flap opening, which was held down by stones. Colwell called for a knife, cut a slit in the tent-cover, and looked in.
It was a sight of horror. On one side, close to the opening, with his head towards the outside, lay what was apparently a dead man. His jaw had dropped, his eyes were open, but fixed and glassy, his limbs were motionless. On the opposite was a poor fellow, alive to be sure, but without hands or feet, and with a spoon tied to the stump of his right arm. Two others seated on the ground, in the middle, had just got down a rubber bottle that hung on the tent-pole, and were pouring from it into a tin can. Directly opposite, on his hands and knees, was a dark man with a long matted beard, in a dirty and tattered dressing-gown, with a little red skull-cap on his head, and brilliant staring eyes. As Colwell appeared, he raised himself a little, and put on a pair of eye-glasses.
“Who are you?” asked Colwell.
The man made no answer, staring at him vacantly.