"Great heaven! what is the matter, Aaron?" gasped his friend.

"I'm done for," was the feeble reply; "never mind me:
look--out--for--for--good-bye!"

Struck almost dumb by an awful fear, Fred forgot the natives for the
time and stooped over his friend. It was as he suspected; the poor
fellow had been struck full in the back by one of the poisoned
javelins. The exclamation which he uttered at the moment of receiving
the wound was that which puzzled Ashman. The sailor had withdrawn the
weapon, and the wound bled but little. The young man, however,
identified it on the instant.

"Aaron, rouse up!" he called, shaking his shoulder; "fight off your
drowsiness!"

He suddenly ceased, for at that moment, he realized that his companion
was dead. Thus fearfully did the virus do its work.

Before Ashman, could do more than rally from his shock, a muttered
exclamation at his elbow announced that the savages had located him.

"Curse you!" he exclaimed, whipping out his revolver and letting fly in
the dark at the point where he knew several of his foes were standing,
waiting for a chance to hurl their missiles at him.

A screech announced that the bullet had found its mark, and he followed
it with a couple more shots, which inflicted wounds, even if they
caused no mortal ones.