I could not see what he did, but listened attentively, not for the sake of hearing his movements, but so as to hear a sigh or moan from that unhappy lad.
“Well?” I said excitedly.
“I can tell you nothing yet,” said Mr Frewen, as I thought, evasively.
“He—he is not dead?” I gasped; and I fell a-trembling with horror at the idea of one whom I had known vigorous and strong so short a time before, lying there at my feet, robbed of the power of making any reparation for the crime he had so weakly committed, and with no chance for repentance.
“I—I say, he is not dead, is he?”
I spoke fiercely, for Mr Frewen had not replied; and now I caught and held on by his hand.
He quite started, and turned upon me.
“I—I beg your pardon, Dale,” he cried. “I was thinking of something else—of those on board that unfortunate ship. It seems so cowardly to leave them to their fate.”
“How could we help it, Mr Frewen? What could we do? But tell me about Walters.”
“Yes,” he said, drawing a long breath, as if he were making an effort to keep his mind fixed upon the present—“yes, I’ll tell you.”