resist the mines and batterings of decay?  It was possible, though not probable.  The infinite continuation of life would not, as poor Vincey said, be so marvellous a thing as the production of life and its temporary endurance.  And if it were true, what then?  The person who found it could no doubt rule the world.  He could accumulate all the wealth in the world, and all the power, and all the wisdom that is power.  He might give a lifetime to the study of each art or science.  Well, if that were so, and this She were practically immortal, which I did not for one moment believe, how was it that, with all these things at her feet, she preferred to remain in a cave amongst a society of cannibals?  This surely settled the question.  The whole story was monstrous, and only worthy of the superstitious days in which it was written.  At any rate I was very sure that I would not attempt to attain unending life.  I had had far too many worries and disappointments and secret bitternesses during my forty odd years of existence to wish that this state of affairs should be continued indefinitely.  And yet I suppose that my life has been, comparatively speaking, a happy one.

And then, reflecting that at the present moment there was far more likelihood of our earthly careers being cut exceedingly short than of their being unduly prolonged, I at last managed to get to sleep, a fact for which anybody who reads this narrative, if anybody ever does, may very probably be thankful.

When I woke again it was just dawning, and the guard and bearers were moving about like ghosts through the dense morning mists, getting ready for our start.  The fire had died quite down, and I rose and stretched myself, shivering in every limb from the damp cold of the dawn.  Then I looked at Leo.  He was sitting up, holding his hands to his head, and I saw that his face was flushed and his eye bright, and yet yellow round the pupil.

“Well, Leo,” I said, “how do you feel?”

“I feel as though I were going to die,” he answered hoarsely.  “My head is splitting, my body is trembling, and I am as sick as a cat.”

I whistled, or if I did not whistle I felt inclined to—­Leo had got a sharp attack of fever.  I went to Job, and asked him for the quinine, of which fortunately we had still a good supply, only to find that Job himself was not much better.  He complained of pains across the back, and dizziness, and was almost incapable of helping himself.  Then I did the only thing it was possible to do under the circumstances—­gave them both about ten grains of quinine, and took a slightly smaller dose myself as a matter of precaution.  After that I found Billali, and explained to him how matters stood, asking at the same time what he thought had best be done.  He came with me, and looked at Leo and Job (whom, by the way, he had named the Pig on account of his fatness, round face, and small eyes).

“Ah,” he said, when we were out of earshot, “the fever!  I thought so.  The Lion has it badly, but he is young, and he may live.  As for the Pig, his attack is not so bad; it is the ‘little fever’ which he has; that always begins with pains across the back, it will spend itself upon his fat.”