was very hot before the fire. But it was not a dry, burning heat that
seemed to be in the blood; it was a moist, heavy heat that filled the
pores. He began to feel languid and drowsy, and a singular peace stole
over him. It did not matter to him what happened. He was at rest, and
there was his faithful comrade on guard, the comrade who never failed. The
coals glowed deep red, and the sportive flames danced before him. Happy
visions passed through his brain, and then his eyes closed. The red coals
passed away and the sportive flames ceased to dance. Paul was asleep.

Henry Ware sat in silence on one of the chairs at the corner of the
hearth, and when Paul's breathing became long, deep, and regular, he saw
that he had achieved the happy result. He rose soundlessly, and put his
hand upon Paul's forehead. It came back damp. Paul was in a profuse
perspiration, and his fever was sinking rapidly. Henry knew now that it
was only a matter of time, but he knew equally well that in the
Indian-haunted wilderness time was perhaps the most difficult of all
things to obtain.

No uneasiness showed in his manner. Now the lad, born to be a king of the
wilderness, endowed with all the physical qualities, all the acute senses
of a great, primitive age, was seen at his best. He was of one type and
his comrade of another, but they were knitted together with threads of
steel. It had fallen to his lot to do a duty in which he could excel, and
he would shirk no detail of it.

He brought in fresh wood and piled it on the hearth. At a corner of the
cabin stood an old rain barrel half full of water. He emptied the barrel
and brought it inside. Then, by means of many trips to the little spring
with the iron pot, he filled it with fresh water. All the while he moved
soundlessly, and Paul's deep, peaceful slumber was not disturbed. He took