Chapter Thirty One.
Father and Son.
When Cyril opened his eyes and began to look about, his head was aching violently, and a swimming sensation made everything near him look misty and indistinct. But he was conscious that the sun was shining brightly all around, and that he was lying in the shade cast by a tree, whose foliage was so familiar that he closed his eyes again to think and wonder whether he was dreaming.
For that was unmistakably a cinchona tree, one of those he had thought about so much of late.
He opened his eyes again, and looked round to see that there were several mules about grazing on the rich grass, and there was a peculiar odour in the air which he knew to be caused by burning wood.
A low buzz of conversation was going on, too, somewhere close behind him, and he tried to look round, but the movement gave him so much pain that he let his head sink down, uttering a weary sigh, which was evidently heard, for there was a rustling sound behind him, and some one came and bent down and took his hand, at the same time laying another upon his forehead and gazing into his eyes.
For some moments nothing was said; Cyril, with his heart beating heavily, gazing up into the eyes that looked down into his, while he wondered more than ever what it all meant.
“Don’t you know me, my boy?” was said at last, and a half-hysterical cry escaped the lad’s lips as he clung to the hand which grasped his.