Another night passed away. At times my sufferings were so
intense that cries of agony involuntarily escaped my lips; then I
became calmer, and sank into a kind of lethargy. When I awoke, I
was surprised to find my; companions still alive.
The one of our party who seems to bear his privations the best is
Hobart the steward, a man with whom hitherto I have had very
little to do. He is small, with a fawning expression remarkable
for its indecision, and has a smile which is incessantly playing
round his lips; he goes about with his eyes half-closed, as
though he wished to conceal his thoughts, and there is something
altogether false and hypocritical about his whole demeanour. I
cannot say that he bears his privations without a murmur, for he
sighs and moans incessantly; but, with it all, I cannot but think
that there is a want of genuineness in his manner, and that the
privation has not really told upon him as much as it has upon the
rest of us. I have my suspicions about the man, and intend to
watch him carefully. To-day, the 6th, M. Letourneur drew me
aside to the stern of the raft, saying that he had a secret to
communicate, but that he wished neither to be seen nor heard
speaking to me. I withdrew with him to the larboard corner of
the raft; and, as it was growing dusk, nobody observed what we
were doing.
"Mr. Kazallon," M. Letourneur began in a low voice, "Andre is
dying of hunger: he is growing weaker and weaker, and oh! I
cannot, will not see him die!"
He spoke passionately, almost fiercely, and I fully understood
his feelings.
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