“Oh, quite well, thank you. But I want to know why I am here—in your cabin.”
“Oh, you will know soon enough. Don’t worry about it now till you get strong again.”
“Till I get strong again? There, now you are beginning to puzzle me once more. I am strong enough now, and—No, I am not,” added the lad, rather pitifully, as he raised one hand and let it fall back. “That arm feels half numbed as if it had been hurt, and,” he added, rather excitedly, “you asked me how I was. Have I been ill?”
“Yes, very,” was the reply. “But don’t fret about it. You are coming all right again fast.”
Fitz lay back with his brow wrinkled up, gazing at his companion and trying to think hard; but all in vain, and with a weary gesticulation—
“I can’t understand,” he said. “I try to think, but my head seems to go rolling round again, and I can only remember that mill.”
“Then take my advice about it. Don’t try to think at all.”
“But I must think; I want to know.”
“Oh, you’ll know soon enough. You can’t think, because you are very weak now. I was just the same when I had the fever at Vera Cruz—felt as if my head wouldn’t go; but it got better every day, and that’s how yours will be.”
“Did I catch a fever, then?” said Fitz eagerly.