“What do you mean?” asked Frank hoarsely, while his hand tightened in a convulsive grasp on Laura’s fingers.
“I mean that your eyesight will be restored. I saw a similar recovery on the Barracouta, and I remember the surgeon’s joy when he saw the water run from the powder-burnt eyes of the patient.”
“I cannot see yet,” muttered Hume, as he raised his fingers to the bandage.
“Nay, man, wait a little longer; you are in the hands of the old woman, and must trust the cure to her. But, believe me, Frank, you will see the sight on your rifle when the Zulus come again.”
“And the sunlight and the trees,” he whispered.
“Which,” Laura said, “would you like to see first?”
“Well,” he said, “I would like very much to see my feet, for they appear now not to belong to me, and then one look round the horizon. But the idea frightens me,” and he leant against the wall again with folded arms, while Webster paced to and fro, and Laura stood looking at the quiet figure and the three natives, dimly outlined on the floor.
Suddenly the shafts of sunlight that streamed through the lower cracks were cut off, and the black line of shadow crept steadily up the wall, until the narrow cell was faintly illumined by one broad stream only, and this they watched slowly fade away, leaving them in impenetrable gloom.
“It is very still,” muttered Hume.
“Yes,” said Webster; “it is oppressive. I suppose the night is upon us, but the light has been turned off as though it had been under command. We must not stay here; it would be folly—madness.”