Guy whispered Melton's name, but a feeble groan was the only response. He reached out a trembling arm and found that his friend had slipped down from the canoe and was lying prostrate on the rugs. He alone retained consciousness, such as it was.
Bildad was jabbering in delirium, and Guy could catch broken sentences muttered at intervals by Carrington or the Greek.
He felt that his own reason was fast going, and he conceived a sudden horror of dying in darkness.
A torch was lying under his hand and he had matches.
The effort of striking the light was a prodigious one, but at last he succeeded and the torch flared up brightly over the raft and its occupants.
The sudden transition from darkness to light had a startling effect on the very man whom Guy supposed to be past all feeling. Sir Arthur suddenly sat straight up, his white face lit with a ghastly light.
"Ha, ha!" he shouted, waving his shrunken hands. "The light, the light! We are saved! Do you see it, Carrington; do you see it?"
Then the wild gleam faded from his eyes, and in a quavering voice—a mere ghost of his old pompous manner—he exclaimed:
"To the Guards' Club, Waterloo Place! Do it in twenty minutes, driver, and the half sovereign is yours. Go by way of Piccadilly; it's the near cut."
A moment later he added: "I'll be late. What beastly luck!"