“Will,” he said, after awhile, “this room is as stifling as it is dark. I feel as if I should be a sound man once more if I could but get one snuff of the sea-breeze.”
The surgeon shook his head at the notion of moving him: but Amyas was peremptory.
“I am captain still, Tom Surgeon, and will sail for the Indies, if I choose. Will Cary, Jack Brimblecombe, will you obey a blind general?”
“What you will in reason,” said they both at once.
“Then lead me out, my masters, and over the down to the south end. To the point at the south end I must go; there is no other place will suit.”
And he rose firmly to his feet, and held out his hands for theirs.
“Let him have his humor,” whispered Cary. “It may be the working off of his madness.”
“This sudden strength is a note of fresh fever, Mr. Lieutenant,” said the surgeon, “and the rules of the art prescribe rather a fresh blood-letting.”
Amyas overheard the last word, and broke out:
“Thou pig-sticking Philistine, wilt thou make sport with blind Samson? Come near me to let blood from my arm, and see if I do not let blood from thy coxcomb. Catch him, Will, and bring him me here!”