CHAPTER VIII.
In the throes of fever--A ghastly discovery--Pitiful relics--A critical moment--Yamba in danger--A blood bath--A luxury indeed--Signs of civilisation--The great storm--Drifting, drifting--Yamba's mysterious glee--A dreadful shock--"Welcome home!"-- My official protectors--Myself as a cannibal war chief--Preparations for battle--A weird apparition--Generosity to the vanquished--The old desire.
I had not been established in this camp many days, however, before I was struck down, for the first time, with a terrible attack of malarial fever, probably produced by the many hours I had spent wading in the swamps at Port Essington.

There were the usual symptoms--quick flushings and fever heats, followed by violent fits of shivering, which no amount of natural warmth could mitigate.

My faithful Yamba was terribly distressed at my condition, and waited upon me with most tender devotion; but in spite of all that could be done for me, I grew gradually weaker, until in the course of a few days I became wildly delirious.

The blacks, too, were very good to me, and doctored me, in their quaint native way, with certain leaves and powders.

All to no purpose, however; and for several days I was even unable to recognise my Yamba.