Nebdidnotmove.Pencroftonlyutteredoneword.

           "Living?"hecried.

           Nebdidnotreply.Spilettandthesailorturnedpale.Herbertclaspedhishands,andremainedmotionless.ThepoorNegro,absorbedinhisgrief,evidentlyhadneitherseenhiscompanionsnorheardthesailorspeak.

           Thereporterkneltdownbesidethemotionlessbody,andplacedhiseartotheengineer’schest,havingfirsttornopenhisclothes.

           Aminute—anage!—passed,duringwhichheendeavoredtocatchthefaintestthroboftheheart.

           Nebhadraisedhimselfalittleandgazedwithoutseeing.Despairhadcompletelychangedhiscountenance.Hecouldscarcelyberecognized,exhaustedwithfatigue,brokenwithgrief.Hebelievedhismasterwasdead.

           GideonSpilettatlastrose,afteralongandattentiveexamination.

           "Helives!"saidhe.

           Pencroftkneltinhisturnbesidetheengineer,healsoheardathrobbing,andevenfeltaslightbreathonhischeek.

           Herbertatawordfromthereporterranouttolookforwater.Hefound,ahundredfeetoff,alimpidstream,whichseemedtohavebeengreatlyincreasedbytherains,andwhichfilteredthroughthesand;butnothinginwhichtoputthewater,notevenashellamongthedowns.Theladwasobligedtocontenthimselfwithdippinghishandkerchiefinthestream,andwithithastenedbacktothegrotto.