Evening was coming on.

Brigand sentinels had been posted at each path by which their haunt
could be approached, and one was perched high above on a flat rock,
which overlooked everything, without having seen himself except by the
very sharpest of eyes.

Hunston, after visiting the outposts and seeing that everything was
safe for the night, climbed up to this spot, and seated himself on a
large stone.

He felt feverish, and at that elevation he might feel something of the
breeze, a thing unknown down below at the bivouac, which was closely
surrounded by thick bushes.

Strange dreads and doubts filled Hunston's mind, dread of the future,
dread of a lingering illness through his arm, which daily grew worse,
dread of death, which he felt convinced must be the end, and doubts
whether eventually his enemy Harkaway would not triumph.

For Hunston's hatred of Harkaway knew no abatement; living or dying,
the same fierce, unquenchable thirst after vengeance would fill his
soul.

But what troubled him most now was his health.

The shoulder to which the mechanical arm was attached was so painful,
it could scarcely bear the pressure of the clothing he wore; the blood
in his veins, after flowing through that part of the system, seemed to