Still adhering to his policy of combatting the first enervating attacks of thirst, the sailor sanctioned the consumption of the remaining water.  As a last desperate expedient, to be resorted to only in case of sheer necessity, he uncorked a bottle of champagne and filled the tin cup.  The sparkling wine, with its volume of creamy foam, looked so tempting that Iris would then and there have risked its potency were she not promptly withheld.

Jenks explained to her that when the wine became quite flat and insipid they might use it to moisten their parched lips.  Even so, in their present super-heated state, the liquor was unquestionably dangerous, but he hoped it would not harm them if taken in minute quantities.

Accustomed now to implicitly accept his advice, she fought and steadily conquered the craving within her.  Oddly enough, the “thawing” of their scorched bodies beneath the tarpaulin brought a certain degree of relief.  They were supremely uncomfortable, but that was as naught compared with the relaxation from the torments previously borne.

For a long time—­the best part of an hour, perhaps—­they remained silent.

The sailor was reviewing the pros and cons of their precarious condition.  It would, of course, be a matter of supreme importance were the Indian to be faithful to his promise.  Here the prospect was decidedly hopeful.  The man was an old sowar, and the ex-officer of native cavalry knew how enduring was the attachment of this poor convict to home and military service.  Probably at that moment the Mahommedan was praying to the Prophet and his two nephews to aid him in rescuing the sahib and the woman whom the sahib held so dear, for the all-wise and all-powerful Sirkar is very merciful to offending natives who thus condone their former crimes.

But, howsoever willing he might be, what could one man do among so many?  The Dyaks were hostile to him in race and creed, and assuredly infuriated against the foreign devil who had killed or wounded, in round numbers, one-fifth of their total force.  Very likely, the hapless Mussulman would lose his life that night in attempting to bring water to the foot of the rock.

Well, he, Jenks, might have something to say in that regard.  By midnight the moon would illumine nearly the whole of Prospect Park.  If the Mahommedan were slain in front of the cavern his soul would travel to the next world attended by a Nizam’s cohort of slaughtered slaves.

Even if the man succeeded in eluding the vigilance of his present associates, where was the water to come from?  There was none on the island save that in the well.  In all likelihood the Dyaks had a store in the remaining sampans, but the native ally of the beleaguered pair would have a task of exceeding difficulty in obtaining one of the jars or skins containing it.

Again, granting all things went well that night, what would be the final outcome of the struggle?  How long could Iris withstand the exposure, the strain, the heart-breaking misery of the rock?  The future was blurred, crowded with ugly and affrighting fiends passing in fantastic array before his vision, and mouthing dumb threats of madness and death.