“But Drew seems quite insensible, sir.”
“Yes—seems,” said Captain Murray. “There, trust the doctor. I do implicitly. I think he proved his knowledge in the way he saved Baron Steinberg’s life. Good night. You will have to be locked in; but the sentry will have the key, and you can communicate with him as well as ring, so you need not feel lonely. There, once more, good night.”
The captain passed out, and Frank caught sight of a tall sentinel on the landing before the door was closed and locked, the boy standing pale and thoughtful for some moments, listening to the retiring steps of his father’s old friend, before crossing the room, and entering the chamber, which looked dim and solemn by the light of the two candles upon the dressing table. He took up one of these, and went to the bedside, to stand gazing down at Andrew’s drawn face and bandaged arm, his brown hair lying loose upon the pillow, and making his face look the whiter by contrast.
“In much pain, Drew?” he said softly; but there was no reply.
“Can I do anything for you?”
Still no reply, and the impression gathered strength in the boy’s mind that his companion could hear what he said but felt too bitter to reply.
This idea grew so strong, that at last he said gently:
“Don’t be angry with me, Drew. It is very sad and unfortunate, and I want to try and help you bear it patiently. Would you like me to do anything for you? Talk to you—read to you; or would you like me to write to your father, and tell him of what has happened?”
But, say what he would, Andrew Forbes made no sign, and lay perfectly still—so still, that in his anxiety Frank stretched out his hand to touch the boy’s forehead and hands, which were of a pleasant temperature.
“He is too much put out to speak,” thought Frank; “and I don’t wonder. He must feel cruelly disappointed at his failure to escape; but I’m glad he has not got away; for it would have been horrible for him to have gone and joined the poor foolish enthusiasts who have landed in the north.”