When Sir Harold’s feet struck the earth he had not correctly estimated the speed at which the train was traveling, and was thrown violently down.
His head struck a large stone, and he lay, dazed and unconscious.
CHAPTER VIII.
“THE PAST IS ALL A BLANK.”
It was four weeks before Sir Harold opened his eyes to the beauty of the summer world.
There was not much wrong with him bodily, but mentally he was a wreck. His memory had been completely destroyed.
He gazed wonderingly at his surroundings, and inhaled the odor of a hundred flowers that ornamented the table in the humble little room he occupied.
Near to a latticed window sat an old man reading, and Sir Harold watched him curiously. He never remembered to have seen him before.
John Hamilton glanced anxiously at his guest.
“Do you recognize me yet, Sir Harold?”