“Why, Punch,” he felt that he cried, as the events of the past hours came back with a rush, “I thought I’d lost you. No, I fancied—I— Here, am I going mad?”
He felt that he shouted that question aloud, and then, sending a pang through his strained shoulder, he clapped his hands to his forehead and looked down wildly at the still insensible boy.
“Here, Punch! Punch!” he repeated inaudibly. “Speak—answer! I—oh, how stupid!” he muttered—“I am awake, and it is the roar of that water that seems to sweep away every other sound. Yes, that must be it;” for just then he saw that the goat had raised its head as it gazed across at him, and stretched out its neck.
“Why, it’s bleating,” he said to himself, “and I can’t hear a sound.”
The efforts he had made seemed to enable him to think more clearly, and his next act was to rise to his knees stiffly and painfully, and then begin to work his joints a little before bending over his companion and shrinkingly laying his hand upon his breast.
This had the desired effect—one which sent a strange feeling of relief through the young private’s breast—for the wondering, questioning eyes he now met looked bright and intelligent, making him bend lower till he could speak loudly in the boy’s ear the simple question, “How are you?”
He could hardly hear the words himself, but that they had been heard by him for whom they were intended was evident, for Punch’s lips moved in reply, and the next moment, to Pen’s delight, he raised one hand to his parched lips and made a sign as of drinking.
“Ah, you are better!” cried Pen excitedly, and this time he felt that he almost heard his own words above the deep-toned, musical roar.