The period passed as in a long dream, and the thought of rejoining the British column had for a time ceased to animate Punch’s brain.
But youth and a strong constitution rose superior in Pen’s case to all the evils of circumstance and environment, and one afternoon the old clear look came back to his eyes.
“Ah, Punch,” he said, “better?”
“Better?” said the boy. “I—I am well; but you—how are you now?”
“I—have I been ill?”
“Ill!” cried Punch, and he turned and looked at an orderly who was hurrying past. “He asks if he has been ill!—Why, Pen, you have had a fever which has lasted for weeks.”
Pen tried to sit up, and he would have dismally failed in the attempt had not Punch encircled him with his arm.
“Why—why,” he said faintly, “I am as weak as weak!”
“Yes, that you are.”
“But, Punch, what has been happening?”