Chapter Forty Two.
Without a Doctor.
Fever? Brain heat? The poor fellow turned cold with horror, and hurried back, careless of any impending danger that there might be, into the rough hut within whose shades he could dimly make out the figure of his comrade, who appeared to be sleeping heavily, but not well, for he was muttering.
“I say, Dick,” he whispered, “how’s your wound?”
There was no reply.
“Dick,” he continued, “your wound doesn’t hurt much, does it?”
Still there was no reply, and beginning to realise now that his own brain was clear, and that he really had been fast asleep, wearied-out beyond the power of watching by the previous night’s exertions, he sank down upon one knee to lay his hand upon Roberts’s forehead, when, feeling that it was burning, and that at the slightest touch the poor fellow started with pain, he began to master himself.
“What fancies one does get into one’s head at a time like this! Of course I’ve been asleep, and no wonder. I was done up; but, thank heaven, I’m all right and able to think and act, while poor Dick’s feverish and bad with his wound.”