“Never mind; tell me: I want to know. What’s the matter—cold?”
“No, I’m warm enough now,” said Perry, “for my clothes have got dry; but it makes me shiver as soon as I think about it, and I feel as if I always shall. It’s a thing I shall dream about of a night, and wake up feeling the water strangling me.”
Cyril looked at him in wonder, and the boy tried to smile, but it was a very pitiful attempt, and he went on hurriedly.
“You know how horrible all that was when I felt sure that my father had gone down somewhere, and something forced me to go and try to find him. And then, as I went on through the mist, I only took three or four steps before my feet gave way, and I was sliding at a terrible rate down, down to where the water was thundering and roaring.”
“Was it very deep?” said Cyril, for his companion paused.
“I don’t know; I seemed to be sliding along very fast, and then I was fighting for breath, and being dashed here and there, and I suppose I was carried along by the water almost as swiftly as I slid down that dreadful slope. Then, after fighting for my breath, all was confusion and darkness, and I can’t remember any more till I found myself lying among some rocks. The water was rushing and foaming over my legs, and every now and then rushing up over my chest, and making me feel so in fear of being drowned that I climbed a little, and then a little more, till I was out of the water, but afraid to move in the darkness in case I should fall in again.”
“Where were you?” said Cyril.
“I didn’t know then, but lay aching with the cold, and listening to the rushing water; while it was so dark, that I felt sure that I must have been washed into some great hole underground, where I should lie till I was dead.”
“We felt all kinds of horrors about you,” said Cyril, “but you seem to have suffered more than we did.”
“I don’t know,” said Perry plaintively. “It was very bad, though, and if I hadn’t fallen at last into a sort of stupor, I’ve thought since that I should have gone mad.”