“Yes, yes, I can go on now,” said the young man calmly. “Don’t think any more about what I said.”
“No, no, of course not, Frank, my lad,” said the doctor; “but pray speak out. Landon and I are suffering pain.”
“Of course, and I’ve travelled night and day as I told you, so as to bring you the news myself. This German gentleman has been a prisoner ever since Khartoum was taken by the Mahdi, and only managed to get out of the place in disguise six months ago.”
“Yes, yes,” said the doctor excitedly, and the professor took up a carafe and made it rattle against a glass as he hurriedly poured out some water and drank it with avidity.
“He knew poor old Hal well by sight, and spoke to him twice, and heard who he was. He was alive, and seemed to be well the last time this gentleman saw him; but he was a miserable slave in irons without the slightest prospect of getting away.”
“Hah!” exclaimed the doctor, dropping into a chair and beginning to wipe his forehead.
“Oh!” groaned the professor, sinking back in his chair, but only to become excited directly after, as he turned upon the bearer of the news.
“But he’s alive, Frank, boy! he’s alive!” he cried, in a peculiarly altered voice.
“Yes, thank Heaven!” said Frank Frere softly; “he is alive.”
No one spoke for a few moments. Then the professor began again excitedly—