He tried very hard not to wake. Waking invariably meant anguish. He longed unspeakably for Death, but Death was denied him. And when someone came and stooped over him and took his nerveless hand, he whispered with closed eyes an earnest request not to be called back.
"It's such—a ghastly business—" he muttered piteously—"this waking."
"Won't you speak to a friend, Piers?" a voice said.
He opened his eyes then. He had not heard his own name for months. He looked up into eyes that gleamed hawk-like through glasses, and a throb of recognition went through his heart.
"You!" he whispered, striving desperately to master the sickening pain that that throb had started.
"All right. Don't speak for a bit!" said Tudor quietly. "I think I can help you."
He did help, working over him steadily, with the utmost gentleness, till the worst of the paroxysm was past.
Piers was pathetically grateful. His high spirit had sunk very low in those days. No one that he could remember had ever done anything to ease his pain before.
"It's been—so infernal," he whispered presently. "You know—I was shot—through the heart."
Tudor's face was very grave. "Yes, you're pretty bad," he said. "But you've pulled through so far. It's in your favour, that. And look here, you must lie flat on your back always. Do you understand? It's about your only chance."