A minute later he was flying down the path, with his dressing-gown blowing in the breeze. There came a farewell toot on the siren of the Petrel, and soon she was disappearing, away to the south, leaving only a long black trail of smoke behind.
But Keith's rally had only been temporary. Within a few hours his temperature was soaring. Death was knocking at his very door. Joan fought for his life as well as she could, but under such primitive conditions there was not much that she could do.
"Chester, have you—have you ever seen a man die of malaria?" she asked her brother tremulously, when Keith was worse than ever.
"Why, no—that is I've never seen a man die of fever," he replied, "though they do die sometimes, you know."
"I wish I had seen it," the girl declared. "Then I might know how much chance there is for—him."
Joan's delicate skin was ashen, and in her eyes there was a light which neither Chester nor any man had seen before. Chester stared at her, only half understanding. Something that he had never dreamed, never suspected, was beginning to dawn upon him.
Keith was lying still, moaning occasionally. His great frame seemed to have shrunk. His drawn face was a travesty of what it had been.
