“Buck and Dan!” almost whispered Mark. “I heard them talking, and thought it was a little while ago.”
Strangely wild thoughts were running now through Dean’s brain. His cousin had been so long in that dreadful stupor, insensible even to the touch of those who had dressed his wounds and cooled his burning brain by applications to the spot where a blow from a club had struck him down. Was this the poor fellow’s senses returning for a short time, before—?
“I can’t bear it,” whispered Dean to himself. “Speak to me again just this once, Mark,” he said aloud, “and then I want you to sleep. Both Buck and Dan say that sleep is the best thing for you now. I want you to tell me that you will get better.”
Mark made no answer. He was thinking. It was coming back more and more.
“Oh, I know you are badly hurt,” said Dean, at last. “I know how awful it all is, but Mark—Mark, old chap, don’t—don’t say anything to me; only tell me you are going to be better!”
“I can’t speak. I can’t think. Don’t talk to me. Go away.”
Dean uttered a groan of misery, and rising slowly he left his cousin to begin fighting once more against the confusion that oppressed his brain.
And now as the poor fellow lay seeming to go backward into what was like so much mental darkness, he heard the gruff voices of the two men talking, and then his cousin’s words sounding as if in appeal, while soon after Mark opened his eyes to find that somebody was leaning over him. But the sun had set, and it was growing too dark now for him to make out who it was.
Then he knew.
“Asleep, Mr Mark, sir?”