“Stupor!” said Cyril, smiling. “You mean you went to sleep.”
Perry looked at him so reproachfully that Cyril felt the blood flush into his cheeks, and the colour deepened as his companion said: “How could a fellow go to sleep when he believes his father has been killed, and he has himself just escaped from a horrible death?”
“Don’t take any notice of what I said,” cried Cyril hurriedly; “I did not mean it.”
“I know you did not. I suppose it was from being so exhausted. I felt as if I had been stunned, and could neither think nor stir, and then this curious feeling came over me, and everything passed away. It was not sleep.”
“No, no; don’t say that again,” cried Cyril apologetically. “How long were you like that?”
“I don’t know, only that it was still dark when I came to, and sat wondering where I was, and whether I should ever see the light again, so miserable and desolate you cannot think.”
“Yes, I can,” said Cyril warmly; “I felt bad, too, when I thought you were drowned, and went down to try to find you.”
“What!” cried Perry excitedly. “You went down to try to find me?”
“Oh yes,” said Cyril coolly. “Didn’t you know? They put a rope round me and let me down.”
“Cil!”