“Why, of course I know you,” Hugh replied, vexed at the folly of such a question.
Drawing up a stool, Strangwayes sat down beside him, but Hugh hardly noted him for still gazing at that limp arm that did not seem to belong to him. But presently he found that he could move it, if he took his time, so with infinite pains he dragged his hand up to his face, and felt a great welt of plaster upon one cheek. “What’s to do?” he asked faintly.
“A beauty mark you may keep with you,” Strangwayes said, with an effort at his old gay tone, though his eyes were blinking fast.
Hugh rested a time, then, with much patience, lifted his hand to his head, and gave a gasp of consternation as he drew his uncertain fingers across a stiff, prickly surface. “What have you done to me now?” he cried.
“Clipped you close. Do you think a fellow that gets him a fever can be let play Cavalier?”
“You cut my hair?” Hugh repeated. “And it was growing bravely. He’d a had no need to call me Roundhead any more. I would not have used you so.” He slipped his hand down over his eyes, and burst into a pitiful sort of whimpering, he knew not why.
“Be silent now!” Strangwayes cried, with a sharpness that made Hugh quiet with pure amazement that his friend could use such a tone to him. But after that Strangwayes put his pillow into shape, and, covering him up, bade him sleep, with all his old kindness.
After sleeping long and comfortably Hugh awoke to see a candle flickering on the table, and the small window carefully hidden over with a curtain. “Are you here, Dick?” he asked, and Strangwayes, rising from before the fire, came to the side of his pallet. “Awake again, Hugh? Come, don’t you think you could eat a bit?”
"I know not," Hugh spoke with long pauses. “Why, perhaps I am hungry. I thought something was amiss.”
Strangwayes laughed, for no visible reason, and, presently fetching him broth, fed him with slow spoonfuls. The food put enough life into Hugh for him to ask at length, “Where are we?”