"Forty-seven days."
"And not a sail in sight the whole time?"
"Two, but they did not come near enough to see our signals—or passed them by."
"My God!" said Percival, faintly. "Will it never end?" And then he turned away his face.
After a little silence he asked, uneasily:—
"Did I say much when I was ill?"
"Nothing of any consequence."
"But about you," said Percival, turning his hollow eyes on Brian with painful earnestness, "did I talk about you? Did I say——"
"You never mentioned my name so far as I know. So make your mind easy on that score. Now, don't talk any more: you are not fit for it. You must eat, and drink, and sleep, so as to be ready when that dilatory ship comes to take us off."
Percival did his duty in these respects. He was a more docile patient than Brian had expected to find him. But he did not seem to recover his buoyant spirits with his strength. He had long fits of melancholy brooding, in which the habitual line between his brows became more marked than ever. But it was not until two or three weeks more of their strangely monotonous existence had passed by, that Brian Luttrell got any clue to the kind of burden that was weighing upon Heron's mind.