“I have the captain’s consent,” said Humphrey.
“Sure, and ye’re not deludhering a boy, are ye, sor?” said Dinny.
“No, no, my man, it is right. Help me; I did not know I was so weak.”
“An’ is it wake?” said Dinny, drawing the prisoner’s arm well through his own. “Sure, and didn’t I see gallons o’ blood run out of ye? Faix, and there was quarts and quarts of it; and I belave ye’d have died if I hadn’t nursed ye so tenderly as I did.”
“My good fellow, you’ve been like a good angel to me,” said Humphrey, feebly. “Hah! how glorious!” he sighed, closing his eyes as they stepped out of the long corridor into the opening cut through the forest, and then between the two piles of ruins into the glorious tropic sunshine.
“Will it be too warrum?” said Dinny.
“Warm! No, man, my heart has been chilled with lying there in the darkness. Take me farther out into the bright light.”
“Sure, and it’s the sun bating ye down ye’ll be havin’,” said Dinny. “Look at that, now!”
Dinny was gazing back at the pile of ancient buildings, and caught sight of a face in the shadow.
“Yes, I am trying to look,” said Humphrey, with a sigh; “but my eyes are not used to the light.”