The first matter to which they devoted themselves, on finding that they had no longer anything to fear from the canoe, was Walford's comfort. The poor fellow made no complaint--indeed he had scarcely opened his mouth to utter a word since the moment when he received his injury,--but it had for the last two days been growing increasingly apparent to George that his unfortunate rival was rapidly sinking into a very critical condition. Under the combined effects of the injury, exposure, and want, he was wasting visibly away; his strength was so completely gone that he was quite unable to move without assistance; and George had once or twice asked himself the question, whether he was justified in involving this poor weak demented creature in the sufferings which there was only too much reason to believe still awaited them. Would it not have been truer kindness, he asked himself, to have left Walford in some sheltered spot where there would be a certainty of his being speedily found and taken care of? But reflection satisfied him that it would not. To have left him in the hands of the Spaniards would have been to leave him in slavery for the remainder of his life; and, judging by himself, Leicester felt that death itself would be preferable to such a fate. Then, again, there was the possibility--a slender one, it is true, but still a possibility--of their speedy rescue; in which case, with the care and nursing which he would be sure to receive, there was no reason why Walford should not recover both his health and his intellect. So, comforting himself with the reflection that he was doing the best he could for the unfortunate man, George arranged a comfortable berth for him in the sternsheets of the boat, and deposited him thereon, still lashed up in his canvas hammock, the grass packing of which formed a comparatively soft and comfortable support to his emaciated frame. CHAPTER NINETEEN. DEATH CLAIMS A VICTIM. The breeze continued fresh until about midnight, after which it lessened a trifle, and came off from the larboard quarter. Daybreak found the boat off the north-eastern extremity of the Isle of Pines, and about five miles distant from that curious chain of islets called by the Spaniards the Islas de Mangles, which curves out like a breakwater across the northern face of the island. Their hunger, which had to some extent been appeased by their last plentiful meal of wild raspberries, and which had been altogether forgotten in the excitement of their subsequent flight now returned to them in full force, and, the breeze failing them, George determined to put the line overboard and try for a few fish.