“He is almost unconscious, Manoel,” said Inez.
I read that use of his name to mean much. She had been asking herself the question I had suggested—about the real reason for detaining Miralda—and finding it unanswerable had passed it on to him.
“Mr. Donnington!” he said again angrily.
It was my object to waste time, of course; so I took no notice except to sigh heavily, open my eyes again and close them instantly as if the effort tried my strength.
“You are not so bad as all that,” he said, and shook me again very roughly. When this had no effect, he felt my pulse, and in doing so put a finger under the rope which bound my left hand.
“See how swollen the hands are, Manoel,” said Inez, holding the lamp close to me. “It must be torture.”
But Barosa knew better than to be taken in by my malingering. “He can speak well enough as he is if he pleases. Mr. Donnington, we have come to set you at liberty.”
Then why didn’t he do it, was my natural thought. But I went through another little pantomime. I showed slightly more strength this time, as if invigorated by the news, but sank back again exhausted.
“He is only shamming, curse him,” muttered Barosa.
“These cords are cruelly tight, Manoel. Ease them, and see the effect. I’ll go and fetch some brandy.”