He pressed back the tangled hair from her forehead as he might soothe a
child.

"Try to lie still for a very few minutes," he said.

"You have not long to suffer. I will return immediately."

His own throat and palate were on fire owing to the brine, but he first
hurried back to the edge of the lagoon. There were fourteen bodies in
all, three women and eleven men, four of the latter being Lascars. The
women were saloon passengers whom he did not know. One of the men was
the surgeon, another the first officer, a third Sir John Tozer. The
rest were passengers and members of the crew. They were all dead; some
had been peacefully drowned, others were fearfully mangled by the
rocks. Two of the Lascars, bearing signs of dreadful injuries, were
lying on a cluster of low rocks overhanging the water. The remainder
rested on the sand.

The sailor exhibited no visible emotion whilst he conducted his sad
scrutiny. When he was assured that this silent company was beyond
mortal help he at once strode away towards the nearest belt of trees.
He could not tell how long the search for water might be protracted,
and there was pressing need for it.

When he reached the first clump of brushwood he uttered a delighted
exclamation. There, growing in prodigal luxuriance, was the beneficent
pitcher-plant, whose large curled-up leaf, shaped like a teacup, not
only holds a lasting quantity of rain-water, but mixes therewith its
own palatable and natural juices.