And he was right. But the fever took a different course with him from that which it had taken with the others: he was never delirious at all, but lay in a death-like stupor from which it seemed that he might not awake. Once--some days after the beginning of his illness--he came to himself for a few minutes with unexpected suddenness. It was midnight, and there was no light in the hut beyond that which came from the brilliant radiance of the moon as it shone in at the open door. Percival opened his eyes and made a sound, to which Brian answered immediately by giving him something to drink. "You've broken your promise," said Percival, in a whisper, keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously on Brian's face. "No. You have never been delirious, so I never needed to leave you." "A quibble," murmured Heron, with the faintest possible smile. "However--I'm not sorry to have you here. You'll stay now, even if I talk nonsense?" "Of course I will." Brian was glad of the request. In another moment the patient had relapsed into insensibility; but, curiously enough, after this, conversation, Percival's mind began to wander, and he "talked nonsense" as persistently as the others had done. Brian could not see why he had at first told him to keep away. He was quite prepared for some revelation of strong feeling against himself, but none ever came. Elizabeth's name occurred very frequently; but for the most, part, it was connected with reminiscences of the past of which Brian knew nothing. Early meetings, walks about London, boy and girl quarrels were talked of, but about recent events he was silent. Brian wondered whether he himself and Fenwick would also succumb to the malarious influences of the place; but these two escaped. Fenwick was never ill; and Brian grew stronger every day. When Percival opened his eyes once more upon him, after three weeks of illness, he said, abruptly:-- "Ah, if you had looked like that when you came on board the _Arizona_, I should never have been deceived." Brian smiled, and made no answer. Percival watched him hobbling about the room for some minutes, and then said:-- "How long have we been on the island?" "Forty-seven days." "And not a sail in sight the whole time?" "Two, but they did not come near enough to see our signals--or passed them by." "My God!" said Percival, faintly. "Will it never end?" And then he turned away his face. After a little silence he asked, uneasily:-- "Did I say much when I was ill?" "Nothing of any consequence." "But about you," said Percival, turning his hollow eyes on Brian with painful earnestness, "did I talk about you? Did I say----" "You never mentioned my name so far as I know. So make your mind easy on that score. Now, don't talk any more: you are not fit for it. You must eat, and drink, and sleep, so as to be ready when that dilatory ship comes to take us off."