“So I am, sir,” whimpered the man. “Look at me.”
He did look one after a fashion as he stood there, Malay spear in hand, his only garment being a pair of canvas trousers whose legs had been torn-off half-way above his knees. For he was torn and bleeding from the effects of thorns, his skin was deeply sunburned, and a fillet tied about his head, stained red with blood, kept back his tangled hair, while his eyes had a wild and scared look.
“Well, it was excusable to think you one,” said the major.
“But how came you here?” cried Mark excitedly.
“I don’t know, sir,” whined the man, piteously. “I’ve been mad, I think. I believe I’m mad now; and I was just telling myself that it was another of the dreams I had while I was so bad from this chop on the head; and that I had only fancied I saw you two shooting, when old Bruff barked and came out.”
“You’ve been wounded then?”
“Yes, sir, badly, and off my chump.”
“But how?”
“One of those Malay chaps gave me a chop on the head with his sword, sir; and I fell down on the deck and crawled right forward down by the bowsprit and lay between some ropes and under an old sail, and then I got mixed.”
“Mixed?” said the major.