Then he recalled his prudence. Such a thing was impossible. The
whole band of warriors would be upon him in an instant. The best
thing that he could do was to shut out the sight of so much
luxury in which he could not share, and he crept away among the
bushes wondering what he could do to drive away those terrible
pains. His vigorous system was crying louder than ever for the
food that would sustain it. His eyes were burning a little too
brightly, and his face was touched with fever.

Henry stopped once to catch a last glimpse of the fires and the
feasting Indians under the bark shelters. He saw a warrior raise
a bone, grasping it in both hands, and bite deep into the tender
flesh that clothed it. The sight inflamed him into an anger
almost uncontrollable. He clenched his fist and shook it at the
warrior, who little suspected the proximity of a hatred so
intense. Then he bent his head down and rushed away among the
wet bushes which in rebuke at his lack of caution raked him
across the face.

Henry walked despondently back toward the islet in the swamp.
The aspect of air and sky had not changed. The heavens still
dripped icy water, and there was no ray of cheerfulness anywhere.
The game remained well hidden.

It was a long journey back, and as he felt that he was growing
weak he made no haste. He came to dense clumps of bushes, and
plowing his way through them, he saw a dark opening under some
trees thrown down by an old hurricane. Having some vague idea
that it might be the lair of a wild animal, he thrust the muzzle
of his rifle into the darkness. It touched a soft substance.