“And there ain’t no dry wood, sir.”
The last of the ice in my blood broke and ran melting before him. I was very tired, and found myself shifting on my feet like a drunken man. Tongues of flame began to slip through the hut and dart hither and thither with curious dips and turns. Some of them were purple, but the most were crimson. A luminous vapor crept in. The boom of a waterfall rumbled; and then came a crashing subterranean detonation. Christopher was a gigantic ape floundering in a drowning sea of steam.
“Christopher!” I cried, trying to catch the wall as it swung past.
A firm, gentle arm went round me—an arm of a strength so great that my most desperate struggles could not break its hold, yet I was a very strong man. Slowly I was borne down on my pallet, and a thin, soothing voice came with a hand that tenderly closed my eyes and held the lids down. My breathing came easier.
It was daylight, and Christopher was standing in the open door, looking out. The rain had ceased, but the morning brightness was smothered under the overhead lowering. The pleasant odor of coffee perfumed the hut. Without appearing to notice my waking, Christopher served my breakfast, but said nothing. A dull lassitude made the straw bed more inviting than my feet.
Beela’s cheery good-morning an hour later was checked in alarm when she entered and found me prone; but her electric vitality palpitated through me and brought me smiling to a sitting posture. Her inquiring look at Christopher read nothing in the bland face. A shadow of uneasiness drifted through her eyes, but she drove it away.
“Good!” she said. “I’m glad you are resting. Lie down again.” She dropped to a seat beside me on the straw, and pushed my head down.
“That’s better,—Choseph.” Her hand was on my forehead.
“Joseph,” I insisted.