“It’s a clear case of starvation,” replied Captain Rudstone. “Poor old chap!”
Just then, roused from his stupor by our voices, or by the warmth of the fire, the stranger opened his eyes and looked about him wildly. He clawed at the air with skinny fingers, and tried to speak. I had a little rum with me, and I poured it between his lips. This brought a tinge of color to his cheeks and a brightness to his glazing eyes, but he was too weak to lift his head.
“Who are you?” he muttered faintly. “Friends? Ay, thank God! White faces once more—after all these months! I heard the shot, and judged that Indians or trappers were near. I called as loudly as I could, but—but —”
“The exertion was too much for you and you fainted,” said I. “But we heard your cries, and found you. How long have you been here?”
“Three days,” he answered—“three days and nights without food. I ate the last bite when I reached this spot, and a fortnight before I had fired my last charge of powder and ball. I was too ill to go further. I built this shelter to die in, and from time to time I crawled out for fuel to keep up the fire. But the end is close now. Don’t leave me—let me die with white faces round me.”
“Cheer up, my friend,” said Captain Rudstone. “You are going to live.”
“We have a deer yonder,” I added. “We will make you a venison broth, and then take you to the fort, where the rest of our party await us.”
But Carteret, who had the keener eye, shook his head gravely.
“It is no use,” he whispered.
The old man heard him.