“Yes, father,” I said, unwillingly; “but don’t you think you can cure him like you did me when I was so ill?”
“I would to heaven I could, boy!” he said, so earnestly that I was startled, and the more so that at the same moment the man slowly opened his eyes, and stared at us vacantly.
“It is a hopeful sign,” said my father, and he took the baler, poured out all but a few drops of water, added some spirit, and placed it to the man’s lips, with the result that he managed to drink a little, and then lay perfectly still, gazing at my father with a strange look which I know now was one full of vindictive hate, for the poor wretch must have read all this attention to mean an attempt to keep him alive for more ill-treatment, or until he was sold.
“Take a little more,” said my father, offering the vessel again, and the man drank and once more lay still, glaring at us all in turn.
“Why, you’ll save him after all, sir,” said Morgan, eagerly. “Hurrah!”
But no one paid heed to his remark, for at that moment there was a sort of bound, and we saw that the boy had contrived to force himself so near that he could lay his hand on the man’s cheek, uttering as he did so a few words incomprehensible to us, but their effect on the man was magical: his features softened, and two great tears stole slowly from his eyes as we watched the pair, the boy glaring at us defiantly, as if to protect his companion, and I heard my father say softly—
“Thank God!”