“Not at present, sir, at all events: tell him that he has fought the duel, and killed his man; he will think that he did it when he was out of his senses, or else that the fever has driven it from his memory.”
“Well, perhaps that will be the best way just now; it will relieve his mind, for with his return to sensibility will also revive his feelings of disgrace and dishonour; and if they are not checked, the fever may come on again.”
The surgeon gave me some breakfast this morning, and then dressed my wounds, which he pronounced were doing quite well; and about twelve o’clock the master came on shore with the first lieutenant. The master came into my room after the first lieutenant went away, who had been told by the surgeon that he could not see Captain Delmar—and he, of course, did not wish to come into contact with me, who he supposed had the yellow fever. In the afternoon Captain Delmar woke up from his stupor—the fever had left him, and he had nothing to combat with but extreme debility. “Where am I?” said he, after a pause; and, recollecting himself, he continued to Cross, who was the only person in the room, and who had received his instructions from the surgeon, “How long have I lain here?”
“Ever since the duel, sir.”
“The duel—how do you mean?”
“I mean ever since your honour fought the duel, and killed the soldger officer.”
“Killed—duel—I can’t recollect having fought the duel.”
“Dare say not, your honour,” replied Bob; “you were in a roaring fever at the time; but you would not stay in bed, all the surgeon could do—go you would; but when you had fought, we were obliged to carry you back again.”
“And so I really have fought—I have not the least recollection—I must have been in a high fever indeed. Where’s the surgeon?”
“He’s in the verandah below, sir, speaking to some soldger officers who have come to inquire after your health. Here he comes.”