“Good God! Then he and Miss Royston are there after all?”
“Aye; they be.”
“And is he killed?”
“Not he; though were he, he couldn’t make more noise about it.”
Tuke laughed feebly—a little bleat that was music to the other.
“Have I said something foolish? But we read of chance folks whose death makes a noise, your honour.”
“My honour again? But I’ll not gainsay you, darling. My honour and yours. Will you be my wife, Betty? And stay here and rest awhile, sweetheart, and we’ll choose the colour of the wedding-gown.”
CHAPTER XLVIII.
A white bed and sleep; food and drink in judicious allowance; salve for his hands and love for his heart; not least, the conviction that he might rest secure of the right conduct of his little garrison—and the returned sufferer, committing himself to the processes of a radiant constitution, found his trust justified in such a rapid convalescence as he had hardly ventured to expect.
He slept off a dozen hours of the clock like one, and woke when it was nearing noon, already more than half restored to himself.