And when he had piled, on the river-steps, the dry wood for their signal fire, a new difficulty rose.

One of the wounded converts was up, and hobbling with a stick; but the other would never be ferried down any stream known to man.

He lay dying, and the padre could not leave him.
All the others waited, ready and anxious; but no one grumbled because death, never punctual, now kept them waiting.

The flutter of birds, among the orange trees, gradually ceased; the sun came slanting over the eastern wall; the gray floor of the compound turned white and blurred through the dancing heat.

A torrid westerly breeze came fitfully, rose, died away, rose again, and made Captain Kneebone curse.
"A fair wind lost," he muttered.