Herbert’s life hung on a thread, and this thread might break at any moment.  The next day, the 12th of November, the hopes of Harding and his companions slightly revived.  Herbert had come out of his long stupor.  He opened his eyes, he recognized Cyrus Harding, the reporter, and Pencroft.  He uttered two or three words.  He did not know what had happened.  They told him, and Spilett begged him to remain perfectly still, telling him that his life was not in danger, and that his wounds would heal in a few days.  However, Herbert scarcely suffered at all, and the cold water with which they were constantly bathed, prevented any inflammation of the wounds.  The suppuration was established in a regular way, the fever did not increase, and it might now be hoped that this terrible wound would not involve any catastrophe.  Pencroft felt the swelling of his heart gradually subside.  He was like a sister of mercy. like a mother by the bed of her child.

Herbert dozed again, but his sleep appeared more natural.

“Tell me again that you hope, Mr. Spilett,” said Pencroft.  “Tell me again that you will save Herbert!”

“Yes, we will save him!” replied the reporter.  “The wound is serious, and, perhaps, even the ball has traversed the lungs, but the perforation of this organ is not fatal.”

“God bless you!” answered Pencroft.

As may be believed, during the four-and-twenty hours they had been in the corral, the colonists had no other thought than that of nursing Herbert.  They did not think either of the danger which threatened them should the convicts return, or of the precautions to be taken for the future.

But on this day, while Pencroft watched by the sick-bed, Cyrus Harding and the reporter consulted as to what it would be best to do.

First of all they examined the corral.  There was not a trace of Ayrton.  Had the unhappy man been dragged away by his former accomplices?  Had he resisted, and been overcome in the struggle?  This last supposition was only too probable.  Gideon Spilett, at the moment he scaled the palisade, had clearly seen some one of the convicts running along the southern spur of Mount Franklin, towards whom Top had sprung.  It was one of those whose object had been so completely defeated by the rocks at the mouth of the Mercy.  Besides, the one killed by Harding, and whose body was found outside the enclosure, of course belonged to Bob Harvey’s crew.

As to the corral, it had not suffered any damage.  The gates were closed, and the animals had not been able to disperse in the forest.  Nor could they see traces of any struggle, any devastation, either in the hut, or in the palisade.  The ammunition only, with which Ayrton had been supplied, had disappeared with him.

“The unhappy man has been surprised,” said Harding, “and as he was a man to defend himself, he must have been overpowered.”

“Yes, that is to be feared!” said the reporter.  “Then, doubtless, the convicts installed themselves in the corral where they found plenty of everything, and only fled when they saw us coming.  It is very evident, too, that at this moment Ayrton, whether living or dead, is not here!”