“Can you tell me your name, my boy?” was the next question; but still there was no reply.
“Perhaps he is a foreigner,” thought Dr. Lighton. “His eyes are dark enough;” and, summoning up first French and then Italian, he tried if he could make himself understood.
The child’s dark eyes had never left his face for an instant. Their glance was curiously intent, expressive of some feeling that it was impossible to define, full of a wistful perplexity that was akin to pain, which filled the young doctor with a sort of compassion he did not altogether understand.
Quite suddenly the child’s lips unclosed, and he said, very distinctly and softly,—
“I understood you before, thank you; but I can speak French too. Is this France?”
“No, we are in England, my little man. You are in your own country, and we will soon find your friends for you. What is your name?”
A look of distress and perplexity clouded the child’s face.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“Don’t know!” repeated Dr. Lighton, kindly. “Well, it will soon come back to you.”
There was a long silence in the little room. David almost held his breath, for fear he should disturb the current of the little prince’s thoughts. His mother shook her head sympathetically and murmured, “Poor lamb, poor lamb!” whilst the doctor’s eyes were fixed with keen professional scrutiny upon the child’s face.