Dawson was in a state bordering on collapse, and as he painfully dragged himself along, a few inches at a time, for he could not sit up, he became very faint, but by dint of much patience and a heroic determination not to give way, he managed to pull himself above high-water mark, and, overcome with the exertion of keeping the few inches in advance of the rising water, he now leaned back against the wall with his head on the cool rock, damp with ooze from the sodden herbage above; the touch of the wet and slimy rock, the only cool thing in that fiery atmosphere, acted as an ice-cap and restored him wonderfully, and looking round at his companions he said, brokenly,—“I remember my parents telling me of a Bible story; it was something about one who causes another to offend—I forget how it went, but I think it said it would be better for him if a millstone had been tied round his neck and he had been thrown into the sea first. I think we’ve tied millstones round these folk as well as ourselves! I’ve not seen my Bible since I was grown up, but I’d give a lot to be an innocent boy again,” and he turned his face to the cooling slime. “You can’t have sentiment in business, my boy; life’s too short!” exclaimed Holt, brusquely. “I fear it is, Holt,” came the feeble reply, in jerks. “Life’s very short. Our days are but a shadow—life _is_ short, Holt—I fear it is—” and then, after a pause, just as one of the others was commencing,—“and Tom, dear, will you give your sister this, and say it’s from me——” “What’s the fellow talking about?” asked Holt, roughly. Unheeding, Dawson went on—“and tell her I’m very sorry. I fear I shall not see her again,” another pause—“I had hoped I should meet her in heaven, but I don’t know, now. I have not been good, Tom, but tell her not to fret, I am not worth it! Why have you put out the light, Tom? it is dark, and I——” “What’s the matter?” asked Congreve, trying to crawl nearer. “I believe he’s dying!” exclaimed Hewitt. “Good heavens!” they cried, as all came round, themselves almost too ill to move, and held a volatile restoring tablet under his nostrils; the oxygen which it gave off along with other vapours, though not bringing him round, sent him into a deep sleep, his steady breathing giving promise of recovery. “Thank God!” interjected several, as they placed another pellet beside the face of the sleeping man. “We have need to say that!” observed Siddall, regretfully. “I’d like to have the chance of undoing this business before I die, if that were possible.” “Are you feeling bad, too?” asked Holt, offering him his box of restorative tablets. “Only in mind! that’s bad enough!” replied Siddall, sinking down again. “What’s the cause of this electric storm and this fiery sea, Congreve?” asked Wadsworth, “you should know.”