"Pollard's down with this fever," was the announcement which Percival made to Brian a few days later.

"Badly?"

"A smart touch. And Jackson doesn't mend as he ought to do. I can't understand why either of them should have it at all. The island may be barren, but it ought to be healthy."

"I wish I could do anything beside lying here like a log."

"Well, you can't," said Percival, by no means unkindly. "I never heard that it was any good to stand on a broken leg. I'll manage."

Such interchange of semi-confidential sentences was now rare between them. Percival was, for the most part, very silent when circumstances threw him into personal contact with Brian; and there was something repellant about this silence—something which prevented Brian from trying to break it. Brian was feeling bitterly that he had done Percival some wrong: he knew that he might justly be blamed for returning to Scotland after his supposed death. He need not have practised any deception at all, but, having practised it, he ought to have maintained it. He had no right to let the estates pass to Elizabeth unless he meant her to keep them. Such, he imagined, might well be Percival's attitude of mind towards him.

And then there was the question of his love for Elizabeth, of which both Elizabeth herself and Dino Vasari had made Heron aware. But in this there was nothing to be ashamed of. When he fell in love with Elizabeth, he thought her comparatively poor and friendless, and he did not know of her engagement to Percival. He never whispered to himself that he had won her heart: that fact, which Elizabeth fancied that she had made shamefully manifest, had not been grasped by Brian's consciousness at all. He would have thought himself a coxcomb to imagine that she cared for him more than as a friend. If he had ever dreamt of such a thing, he assured himself that he had made a foolish mistake.

He thought that he understood what Percival wanted to say to him. Of course, since Dino had disclosed the truth, Elizabeth Murray desired to give up the property, and her lover had volunteered to come in search of the missing man. It was a generous act, and one that Brian thoroughly admired: it was worthy, he thought, of Elizabeth's lover. For he knew that he had always been especially obnoxious to Percival Heron in his capacity as tutor; and now, if he were to assume the character of a claimant to Elizabeth's estates, he would certainly not find the road to Percival's liking. For his own part, Brian respected and liked Percival Heron much more than he had found it possible to do during those flying visits to Italy, when he had systematically made himself disagreeable to the unknown Mr. Stretton. He admired the way in which Percival assumed the leadership of the party, and bore the burden of all their difficulties on his own broad shoulders: he admired his cheerfulness and untiring energy. He was sure that if Heron could succeed in carrying him off to England, and forcing him to make Elizabeth a poor woman instead of a rich one, he would be only too pleased to do so. But this was a thing which Brian did not mean to allow.

Jackson's illness was a protracted one, and left him in a weak state, from which he had not recovered when Pollard died. Then the boy Barry fell ill—out of sheer fright, Percival declared; but his attack was a very slight one, prolonged from want of energy rather than real indisposition. Heron was the only nurse, for Fenwick's strength had to be utilised in procuring food for the party; and, as he was often up all night and busy all day long, it was no surprise to Brian when at last he staggered, rather than walked into the hut, and threw himself down on the ground, declaring himself so tired that he could not keep awake. And he had scarcely said the words when slumber overpowered him.

Brian, who was beginning to move about a very little, crawled to the door and managed to attract Fenwick's attention. The man—a rough, black-bearded sailor—came up to him with a less surly look than usual.

"How's Barry?" said Brian.

"Better. He's all right. They've both got round the corner now, though I think the master thought yesterday that Barry would follow Pollard. It was faint-heartedness as killed Pollard, and it's faint-heartedness that'll kill Barry, if he don't look out."

"See here," said Brian, indicating the sleeper with his finger. "You don't think Mr. Heron has got the fever, do you?"

Fenwick took a step forward and looked stolidly at Percival's face, which was very pale.

"Not he. Dead-beat, sir; that's all. He's done his work like a man, and earned a sleep. He'll be right when he wakes."

Armed with this assurance, Brian resumed his occupation of weaving cocoa-nut fibre; but he grew uneasy, when, at the end of a couple of hours, Percival's face began to flush and his limbs to toss restlessly upon the ground. He muttered incoherent words from time to time, and at last awoke and asked for water. Brian's walking was a matter of difficulty; he took some minutes in crossing the room to bring a cocoa-nut, which had been made into a cup, to Percival's side; and by the time he had done it, Heron was wide awake.

"What on earth are you doing, bringing me water in this way? You ought to be lying down, and I ought to go to Barry. If I were not so sleepy!"

"Go to sleep," said Brian. "Barry's all right. I asked Fenwick just now."

"I suppose I've gone and caught it," said Percival, in a decidedly annoyed tone of voice. "A nice state of things if I were to be laid up! I won't be laid up either. It's to a great extent a matter of will; look at Barry—and Pollard." His voice sank a little at the latter name.

"You're only tired: you will be all right presently."

"You don't think I'm going to have the fever, then?"

"No," said Brian, wondering a little at his anxiety.

There was a long pause: then Heron spoke again.

"Luttrell." It was the first time that he had addressed Brian by his name. "If I have the fever and go off my head as the others have all done, will you remember—it's just a fancy of mine—that I—I don't exactly want you to hear what I say! Leave me in this hut, or move me into the other one, will you?"

"I'll do as you wish," said Brian, seriously, "but I needn't tell you that I should attach no importance to what you said. And I should be pleased to do anything that I was able to do for you, if you were ill."

"Well," said Percival, "I may not be ill after all. But I thought I would mention it. And, Luttrell, supposing I were to follow Pollard's example—"

"What is the good of talking in that way when you are not even ill?"

"Never mind that. If you get off this island and I don't, I want you to promise me to go and see Elizabeth." Then, as Brian hesitated, "You must go. You must see her and talk to her; do you hear? Good Heavens! How can you hesitate? Do you mean to let her think for ever that I have betrayed her trust?"

Decidedly the fever was already working in his veins. The flushed face, the unnaturally brilliant eyes, the excitement of his manner, all testified to its presence. Brian felt compelled to answer quietly,

"I promise."

"All right," said Percival, lying down again and closing his eyes. "And now you can tell Fenwick that he's got another patient. It's the fever; I know the signs."

And he was right. But the fever took a different course with him from that which it had taken with the others: he was never delirious at all, but lay in a death-like stupor from which it seemed that he might not awake. Once—some days after the beginning of his illness—he came to himself for a few minutes with unexpected suddenness. It was midnight, and there was no light in the hut beyond that which came from the brilliant radiance of the moon as it shone in at the open door. Percival opened his eyes and made a sound, to which Brian answered immediately by giving him something to drink.

"You've broken your promise," said Percival, in a whisper, keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously on Brian's face.

"No. You have never been delirious, so I never needed to leave you."

"A quibble," murmured Heron, with the faintest possible smile. "However—I'm not sorry to have you here. You'll stay now, even if I talk nonsense?"

"Of course I will." Brian was glad of the request.

In another moment the patient had relapsed into insensibility; but, curiously enough, after this, conversation, Percival's mind began to wander, and he "talked nonsense" as persistently as the others had done. Brian could not see why he had at first told him to keep away. He was quite prepared for some revelation of strong feeling against himself, but none ever came. Elizabeth's name occurred very frequently; but for the most, part, it was connected with reminiscences of the past of which Brian knew nothing. Early meetings, walks about London, boy and girl quarrels were talked of, but about recent events he was silent.

Brian wondered whether he himself and Fenwick would also succumb to the malarious influences of the place; but these two escaped. Fenwick was never ill; and Brian grew stronger every day. When Percival opened his eyes once more upon him, after three weeks of illness, he said, abruptly:—

"Ah, if you had looked like that when you came on board the Arizona, I should never have been deceived."

Brian smiled, and made no answer. Percival watched him hobbling about the room for some minutes, and then said:—

"How long have we been on the island?"

"Forty-seven days."

"And not a sail in sight the whole time?"

"Two, but they did not come near enough to see our signals—or passed them by."

"My God!" said Percival, faintly. "Will it never end?" And then he turned away his face.

After a little silence he asked, uneasily:—

"Did I say much when I was ill?"

"Nothing of any consequence."

"But about you," said Percival, turning his hollow eyes on Brian with painful earnestness, "did I talk about you? Did I say——"

"You never mentioned my name so far as I know. So make your mind easy on that score. Now, don't talk any more: you are not fit for it. You must eat, and drink, and sleep, so as to be ready when that dilatory ship comes to take us off."

Percival did his duty in these respects. He was a more docile patient than Brian had expected to find him. But he did not seem to recover his buoyant spirits with his strength. He had long fits of melancholy brooding, in which the habitual line between his brows became more marked than ever. But it was not until two or three weeks more of their strangely monotonous existence had passed by, that Brian Luttrell got any clue to the kind of burden that was weighing upon Heron's mind.

The day had been fiercely hot, but the night was cool, and Brian had half-closed the door through which the sea-breeze was blowing, and the light of the stars shone down. He and Percival continued to share this hut (the other being tenanted by the three seamen), and Brian was sitting on the ground, stirring up a compound of cocoa-nut milk, eggs and brandy, with which he meant to provide Percival for supper. Percival lay, as usual, on his couch, watching his movements by the starlight. When the draught had been swallowed, Heron said:—

"Don't go to sleep yet. I wish you would sit down here. I want to say something."

Brian complied, and Percival went on in his usual abrupt fashion.

"You know I rather thought I should not get better."

"I know."

"It might have been more convenient if I had not. Did you never feel so?"

"No, never."

"If I had been buried on the Rocas Reef," said Percival, with biting emphasis, "you would have kept your promise, gone back to England, and—married Elizabeth."

"I never considered that possibility," answered Brian, with perfect quietness and some coldness.

"Then you're a better fellow than I am. Look here," said Percival, with vehemence, "in your place I could not have nursed a man through an illness as you have done. The temptation would have been too strong: I should have killed him."

"I am sure you would have done nothing of the kind, Heron. You are incapable of treachery."

"You won't say so when you know all that I am going to tell you. Prepare your mind for deeds of villainy," said Percival, rallying his forces and trying to laugh; "for I am going to shock your virtuous ear. It's been on my mind ever since I was taken ill; and I was so afraid that I should let it out when I was light-headed, that, as you know, I asked you not to stay with me."

"Don't tell me now: I'll take it on trust. Any time will do," said Brian, shrinking a little from the allusion to his own story that he knew would follow.

"No time like the present," responded Heron, obstinately. "I've been a pig-headed brute; that's the chief thing. Now, don't interrupt, Luttrell. Miss Murray, you know, was engaged to me when you first saw her."

"Yes, but I didn't know it!" said Brian, with vehemence almost equal to Percival's own.

"Of course you didn't. I understand all that. It was the most natural thing in the world for you to admire her."

"Admire her!" repeated Brian, in an enigmatic tone.

"Let the word stand for something stronger if you don't like it. Perhaps you do not know that your friend, Dino Vasari, the man who claimed to be Brian Luttrell, betrayed your secrets to me. It was he who told me your name, and your love for Miss Murray. She had mentioned that to me, too; or rather I made her tell me."

"Dino confessed that he had been to you," said Brian, who was sitting with his hand arched over his eyes. "He had some wild idea of making a sort of compromise about the property, to which I was to be a party."

"Did he tell you the terms of the compromise?"

"No."

"Then I won't—just now. I'll tell you what I did, Luttrell, and you may call me a cad for it, if you like: I refused to do anything towards bringing about this compromise, and, although I knew when you were to sail, I did not try to detain you! You should have heard the blowing-up I had afterwards from old Colquhoun for not dropping a word to him!"

"I am very glad you did not. He could not have hindered me."

"Yes, he could. Or I could. Some of us would have hindered you, you may depend on it. And, if I had said that word, don't you see, you would never have set foot in the Falcon nor I in the Arizona, and we should both have been safe at home, instead of disporting ourselves, like Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday, on a desert island."

"It's too late to think of that now," said Brian, rather sadly.

"Too late! that's the worst of it. You've the right to reproach me. Of course, I know I was to blame."

"No, I don't see that. I don't reproach you in the least. You knew so little, that it must have seemed unnecessary to make a fuss about what you had heard."

"I heard quite enough," said Percival, with a short laugh. "I knew what I ought to do—and I didn't do it. That's the long and the short of it. If I had spoken, you would not be here. That makes the sting of it to me now."

"Don't think of that. I don't mind. You made up for all by coming after me."

"I think," said Percival, emphatically, "that if a word could have killed you when I first knew who you were, you wouldn't have had much chance of life, Luttrell. I was worse than that afterwards. If ever I had the temptation to take a man's life——"

"Keep all that to yourself," said Brian, in a quick, resolute tone. "There is no use in telling it to me. You conquered the temptation, if there was one; that I know; and if there was anything else, forget it, as I shall forget what you have told me. I have something to ask your pardon for, besides."

Percival's chest heaved; the emotion of the moment found vent in one audible sob. He stretched out his hand, which Brian clasped in silence. For a few minutes neither of them spoke.

"It was chiefly to prove to myself that I was not such a black sheep as some persons declared me to be, that I made up my mind to follow you and bring you back," said Percival, with his old liveliness of tone. "You see I had been more selfish than anybody knew. Shall I tell you how?"

"If you like."

"You say you don't know what Dino Vasari suggested. That subtle young man made a very bold proposition. He said he would give up his claim to the property if I would relinquish my claim to Miss Murray's hand. The property and the hand thus set at liberty were both to be bestowed upon you, Mr. Brian Luttrell. Dino Vasari was then to retire to his monastery, and I to mine—that is, to my bachelor's diggings and my club—after annihilating time and space 'to make two lovers happy.'"

"Don't jest on that subject," said Brian in a low, pained tone. "What a wild idea! Poor Dino!"

"Poor me, I think, since I was to be in every sense the loser. I am sorry to say I didn't treat your friend with civility, Luttrell. After your departure, however, he went himself to Netherglen, and there, it seems, he put the finishing stroke to any claim that he might have on the property." And then Percival proceeded to relate, as far as he knew it, the story of Dino's visit to Mrs. Luttrell, its effect on Mrs. Luttrell's health, and the urgent necessity that there was for Brian to return and arrange matters with Elizabeth. Brian tried to evade the last point, but Percival insisted on it so strongly that he was obliged to give him a decisive answer.

"No," he said, at last. "I'm sorry to make it seem as if your voyage had been in vain; but, if we ever get off the Rocas Reef, I shall go on to the Brazils. There is not the least reason for me to go home. I could not possibly touch a penny of the Luttrells' money after what has happened. Miss Murray must keep it."

"But, you see, there will be legal forms to go through, even if she does keep it, for which your presence will be required."

"You don't mean that, Heron; you know I can do all that in writing."

"You won't get Miss Murray to touch a farthing of it either."

"You must persuade her," said Brian, calmly. "I think you will understand my feeling, when I say that I would rather she had it—she and you—than anybody in the world."

"You must come back. I promised to bring you back," returned Percival, with some agitation of manner. "I said that I would not go back without you."

"I will write to Mr. Colquhoun and explain."

"Confound it! What Colquhoun thinks does not signify. It is Elizabeth whom I promised."

"Well," said Brian slowly, and with some difficulty, "I think I can explain it to her, too, if you will let me write to her."

Percival suppressed a groan.

"Why should I go back?" asked Luttrell. "I see no reason."

"And I wish you did not drive me to tell you the reason," said Percival, in crabbed, reluctant tones. "But it must come, sooner or later. If you won't go for any other reason, will you go when I tell you that Elizabeth Murray cares for you as she never cared for me, and never will care for any other man in the world? That was why I came to fetch you back; and, if you don't find it a reason for going back and marrying her, why—you deserve to stop on the Rocas Reef for the remainder of your natural life!"