“He is with us. He has been sadly hurt. If any one can do him good, I am sure you can, sir,” I said.
“Oh, take me to him—show me where he is!” exclaimed Mr Mallet, in an anxious tone. “Hand me out that box there! It contains the few medicines I possess—it may be of use.”
“Is it Arthur Mallet he is speaking of?” asked Houlston, following with the chest. “What is the matter with him?”
I told him briefly what had occurred. There were several other persons in the canoe, but I was too much interested in my friends to observe them. We hurried back to the hut where Arthur was lying. The recluse had hastened on before us, and was now kneeling by the side of his young son. He was perfectly calm, but I saw how much he felt, by the expression of his anxious countenance. Arthur opened his eyes and recognised his father.
“This is what I was praying for,” he whispered. “I have been very ill, and was afraid of leaving the world without once again seeing you. I am so thankful. If it is God’s will, I am now ready to die.”
“Oh, but I pray it may not be his will, my boy,” said Mr Mallet. “You must live for my sake, to be a comfort and support to me.”
“You will not go back, then, and live in the woods by yourself, my dear father?” said Arthur.
“No; I hope to live wherever you do, my boy,” he answered.
Arthur’s pale countenance brightened, and he pressed his father’s hand.
“You must not talk, however, Arthur,” said Mr Mallet. “You require rest, and I may find some remedies which may benefit you.”