He put his hand up weakly to his temple.
"It's—it's queer—and—and hurty," he whispered. "Muhammed? He would make it well."
She pulled him to her tenderly.
"Does it hurt badly?" she asked. "Muhammed hasn't come to us—yet."
He looked wonderingly around him.
"The house—opened—and let us right in," he mused. "We came up on the sea—right up—as fast as a train. And Dad? Dad was with us then."
She looked up questioningly at Aylmer. And he had gathered up the dead Carbineer's cloak and was arranging it against the stern. He made a motion towards it.
"Sleep is all the medicine we can give him," he advised. "Let him rest. Meanwhile we must use the light while we have it."
She nodded quickly and laid the child gently down. He smiled at her drowsily again, whispered a half-distinguishable appeal to be told when the Moor "came back," and then nature's healing hand closed over his eyes. He slept—the deep, dead sleep of exhaustion.
Aylmer raised the lamp. Together they paced the length of their prison.