ehow made me feel a kind of sympathy for the savage who lay
there far more badly wounded than I, while the carpenter and my uncle,
with Pete's help, built up a kind of semi-circular hedge as a defence
around us.

"We can't begin our retreat with you in that condition, Nat," my uncle
said, "and I don't like to be driven away by a little party of ruffians
like these."

"I could walk," I said.

"I know that," he replied curtly; "walk yourself into a state, of fever,
and make your wound go bad. Look at that fellow; Nature teaches him
what to do--lie still--curl up like an animal, till his injury heals.
What are you thinking about?"

"That poor fellow's wound."

"Poor fellow! Possibly the savage who sent that arrow through your
shoulder. You're a rum fellow, Nat."

"Well, you were just as sympathetic, uncle," I said. "See how you
dressed his wound, just as if he were a friend."

"No, I did not, Nat," he said, smiling. "I dressed him just as a
surgeon should a wounded patient. By the way, he did not seem to bear
any malice."

"Perhaps he will, uncle, when he knows I shot him."

"Don't tell him, then. We'll all share the blame."

"So you mean to stop here, then?" I said.

"Yes, certainly, for the present. Why, if we were to begin to pack up,
I daresay the next thing we should see would be a flock of quetzals
flying about."

"But suppose a whole tribe of Indians attack us?"

"Not likely, Nat. These people are few and greatly scattered; but if we
are attacked we shall have to give the poor wretches a scaring with a
few charges of shot--I mean distant charges, scattered, not fired at
close quarters like yours."

The day passed slowly by, with my three companions working away to
strengthen our little camp, and the wounded Indian sleeping. I, too,
dropped off for an hour during the great heat of the late afternoon, and
awoke feeling feverish and strange. But Pete was set to bathe my
forehead with water, and the rapid evaporation made my head
comparatively cool and pleasant, so much so that my uncle smiled.

"You're going on all right, Nat," he said, "and the wound will soon grow
easier."

The sun had passed over to the west, and was behind the cliff, leaving
us well in shelter; the sound of the rushing water below sounded cool
and pleasant, and I was lying back watching the wounded Indian--Carib,
my uncle called him--when all at once there came a low howl from the
thicket on the other side of the r