Dyke uttered a cry of horror as he ran to the bedside and sank upon his knees, gazing wildly in his brother’s dark, thin face, with its wild eyes, in which was no sign of recognition, though Emson kept on muttering in a low voice.
“Joe—Joe, old fellow, don’t you know me?” There was no reply, and in his agony of spirit Dyke caught his burning, dry hand, and pressed it.
“Speak to me!” he cried. “How long have you been ill? What is it, Joe? Tell me. What am I to do?”
No answer; but the muttering went on, and Dyke turned to the Kaffir woman. “How long has he been ill?”
“Baas Joe go die,” said the woman, nodding her head.
“No, no; he will be better soon. When was he taken ill?”
“Baas Joe go die,” said the woman with horrible persistence. “No eat—no drink—no sleep. Go die.”
“Go away!” cried Dyke wildly. “You are as bad as one of those horrible birds. Get out!”
The woman smiled, for she did not understand a word. The gesture of pointing to the door was sufficient, and she went out, leaving the brothers alone.
“Joe!” cried Dyke wildly. “Can’t you speak to me, old chap? Can’t you tell me what to do? I want to help you, but I am so stupid and ignorant. What can I do?”