“Tell me yourself, Hal,” whispered a voice at the back of his head. “Some time, but not now. I am the Hakim’s assistant; there, I may grip your hand, dear old lad. Anyone might see me do that.”
He reached over to seize the prisoner’s left hand, for the right was in the doctor’s, when in spite of a brave effort there was a violent start, the right hand contracted spasmodically upon the doctor’s, but the left lay inert, while they saw the great drops of agony gathering upon the thin, sunburnt face.
“Hal!” cried the doctor, dropping his practised calm. “Great heavens! you are not really hurt?”
“I could not help wincing,” was the faltering reply. “Not hurt? How was I to have been brought here without?”
“We expected some pretence.”
“Pretence!” said Harry Frere bitterly. “You do not know the Baggaras. They are keenness itself. It is real enough, but I am well paid for the pain.”
“But your hurt?” said the doctor eagerly.
“My left arm.”
“What, kicked?”
“No,” said the sufferer, perfectly calm now. “I broke it myself.”