He held my hand still, and let the other glide on my arm, shaking his head the while.
“This will not do,” he continued. “You always were slight and boyish, but the strength has gone from your arm, and your cheeks are all sunken and white.”
“Yes, I am very weak,” I said faintly, and with a bitter feeling of misery at my helplessness.
“Of course. Such wounds as yours would have killed many strong men. It was a terribly keen cut. The wonder is that it did not take off your arm. As it is, you nearly bled to death.”
“Don’t talk about it,” I said, with a slight shudder; “it is healing now, and after lying so long thinking, I want to forget my wounds.”
“Of course. Let us talk about something else. Tell me,” he said gently, “do your servants attend you well?”
“Yes; they do everything I could wish for.”
“Is there anything you want? I have been a long time without coming.”
“Yes,” I said; but hesitated to make the request that rose to my lips, and deferred it for the moment; “where have you been?”
His eyes brightened, and he gave me a curious look. Then, gravely—