dst of the choking smoke, contentment even
would seem an utter impossibility. That there should exist such an
emotion as joyfulness among them is a fact which greatly astonishes Ned
Gancy and young Chester. Yet there can be no doubt that they are
contented for the time, and even happy, if that word can ever be truly
applied to creatures in a savage condition like theirs; and their loud
merriment is, perhaps, a proof of Nature's universal beneficence, that
will not permit the life of these lowest and, apparently, most wretched
of human beings to be all misery! Far more miserable than they, that
night--or, at least, far more burdened with the _sense_ of misery--are
those whom fate has cast into the power of these savage creatures, and
who are obliged to listen to their howlings and hyena like laughter.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

FUEGIAN FOOD-PROVIDING.

To the castaways every hour of that night is one of fear and agonising
suspense. Not so much from apprehension of immediate as of future
danger. With the occupants of the wigwam in such good humour, it is not
likely that they can be contemplating an attack at present. But when
those who are absent return--what then? This is the fear now uppermost
in the minds of Captain Gancy's little party.

Nor does morning do aught to dispel their anxiety; on the contrary, it
is intensified by the behaviour of the savages, who are again in a sour
temper after their night's carouse. For, having eaten up all their
gatherings of yesterday, they are again hungry. Young and old, there
are nearly a hundred of them, all ravenous gluttons, to say nothing of
the swarm of curs requiring to be fed.

By earliest daylight they come crowding around the camp, as though they
expected to find something eatable there. Disappointed in their hope,
they grin and chatter, showing their teeth like the dogs. More
especially are their menaces directed toward "the doctor;" and the poor
fellow is frightened to a death-like pallor, notwithstanding his sable
skin. He takes refuge within the tent--still a sacred precinct--and
does not dare to venture out again. To propitiate them, presents are
made--the last things that can well be parted with. To Annaqua is given
a pipe, with some tobacco, while the most importunate, and seemingly
most important, of the women have each a trifle bestowed on them.

The gifts restore their good humour, or at least make them contented for
the time; and, having obtained