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sailor had at first lighted a fire in the hut, which was not wanting in things necessary for life. Maple sugar, medicinal plants, the same which the lad had gathered on the banks of Lake Grant, enabled them to make some refreshing drinks, which they gave him without his taking any notice of it. His fever was extremely high, and all that day and night passed without his becoming conscious.

      Herbert’s life hung on a thread, and this thread might break at any moment. The next day, the 12th of November, the hopes of Harding and his companions slightly revived. Herbert had come out of his long stupor. He opened his eyes, he recognised Cyrus Harding, the reporter, and Pencroft. He uttered two or three words. He did not know what had happened. They told him, and Spilett begged him to remain perfectly still, telling him that his life was not in danger, and that his wounds would heal in a few days. However, Herbert scarcely suffered at all, and the cold water with which they were constantly bathed, prevented any inflammation of the wounds. The suppuration was established in a regular way, the fever did not increase, and it might now be hoped that this terrible wound would not involve any catastrophe. Pencroft felt the swelling of his heart gradually subside. He was like a sister of mercy, like a mother by the bed of her child.

      Herbert dozed again, but his sleep appeared more natural.

      “Tell me again that you hope, Mr Spilett,” said Pencroft. “Tell me again that you will save Herbert!”

      “Yes, we will save him!” replied the reporter. “The wound is serious, and, perhaps, even the ball has traversed the lungs, but the perforation of this organ is not fatal.”

      “God bless you!” answered Pencroft.

      As may be believed, during the four-and-twenty hours they had been in the corral, the colonists had no other thought than that of nursing Herbert. They did not think either of the danger which threatened them should the convicts return, or of the precautions to be taken for the future.

      But on this day, whilst Pencroft watched by the sick-bed, Cyrus Harding and the reporter consulted as to what it would be best to do.

      First of all they examined the corral. There was not a trace of Ayrton. Had the unhappy man been dragged away by his former accomplices? Had he resisted, and been overcome in the struggle? This last supposition was only too probable. Gideon Spilett, at the moment he scaled the palisade, had clearly seen some one of the convicts running along the southern spur of Mount Franklin, towards whom Top had sprung. It was one of those whose object had been so completely defeated by the rocks at the mouth of the Mercy. Besides, the one killed by Harding, and whose body was found outside the enclosure, of course belonged to Bob Harvey’s crew.

      As to the corral, it had not suffered any damage. The gates were closed, and the animals had not been able to disperse in the forest. Nor could they see traces of any struggle, any devastation, either in the hut, or in the palisade. The ammunition only, with which Ayrton had been supplied, had disappeared with him.

      “The unhappy man has been surprised,” said Harding, “and as he was a man to defend himself, he must have been overpowered.”

      “Yes, that is to be feared!” said the reporter. “Then, doubtless, the convicts installed themselves in the corral where they found plenty of everything, and only fled when they saw us coming. It is very evident, too, that at this moment Ayrton, whether living or dead, is not here!”

      “We shall have to beat the forest,” said the engineer, “and rid the island of these wretches. Pencroft’s presentiments were not mistaken, when he wished to hunt them as wild beasts. That would have spared us all these misfortunes!”

      “Yes,” answered the reporter, “but now we have the right to be merciless!”

      “At any rate,” said the engineer, “we are obliged to wait some time, and to remain at the corral until we can carry Herbert without danger to Granite House.”

      “But Neb?” asked the reporter.

      “Neb is in safety.”

      “But if, uneasy at our absence, he would venture to come?”

      “He must not come!” returned Cyrus Harding quickly. “He would be murdered on the road!”

      “It is very probable, however, that he will attempt to rejoin us!”

      “Ah, if the telegraph still acted, he might be warned! But that is impossible now! As to leaving Pencroft and Herbert here alone, we could not do it! Well, I will go alone to Granite House.”

      “No, no! Cyrus,” answered the reporter, “you must not expose yourself! Your courage would be of no avail. The villains are evidently watching the corral, they are hidden in the thick woods which surround it, and if you go we shall soon have to regret two misfortunes instead of one!”

      “But Neb?” repeated the engineer. “It is now four-and-twenty hours since he has had any news of us! He will be sure to come!”

      “And as he will be less on his guard than we should be ourselves,” added Spilett, “he will be killed!”

      “Is there really no way of warning him?”

      Whilst the engineer thought, his eyes fell on Top, who, going backwards and forwards, seemed to say—

      “Am not I here?”

      “Top!” exclaimed Cyrus Harding.

      The animal sprang at his master’s call.

      “Yes, Top will go,” said the reporter, who had understood the engineer. “Top can go where we cannot! He will carry to Granite House the news of the corral, and he will bring back to us that from Granite House!”

      “Quick!” said Harding. “Quick!”

      Spilett rapidly tore a leaf from his notebook, and wrote these words:—

      “Herbert wounded. We are at the corral. Be on your guard. Do not leave Granite House. Have the convicts appeared in the neighbourhood? Reply by Top.”

      This laconic note contained all that Neb ought to know, and at the same time asked all the colonists wished to know. It was folded and fastened to Top’s collar in a conspicuous position.

      “Top, my dog,” said the engineer, caressing the animal, “Neb, Top! Neb! Go, go!”

      Top bounded at these words. He understood, he knew what was expected of him. The road to the corral was familiar to him. In less than an hour he could clear it, and it might be hoped that where neither Cyrus Harding nor the reporter could have ventured without danger, Top, running amongst the grass or in the wood, would pass unperceived.

      The engineer went to the gate of the corral and opened it.

      “Neb, Top! Neb!” repeated the engineer, again pointing in the direction of Granite House.

      Top sprang forwards, and almost immediately disappeared.

      “He will get there!” said the reporter.

      “Yes, and he will come back, the faithful animal!”

      “What o’clock is it?” asked Gideon Spilett.

      “Ten.”

      “In an hour he may be here. We will watch for his return.”

      The gate of the corral was closed. The engineer and the reporter re-entered the house. Herbert was still in a sleep. Pencroft kept the compresser always wet. Spilett, seeing there was nothing he could do at that moment, busied himself in preparing some nourishment, whilst attentively watching that part of the enclosure against the hill, at which an attack might be expected.

      The settlers awaited Top’s return with much anxiety. A little before