Chapter Sixteen.
The next morning.
“Yes! Hallo! What is it?”
Denis started up upon his left elbow, gazing in a confused way at a glistening oaken door.
He was in a well-furnished room with tall narrow window through which the sun shone brightly, lighting up the furniture, and streaming across the bed in which he lay; but for some moments it did not light up his intellect, which was still oppressed with the impressions of a confused dream, half real, half imaginary, of chasing horses, being ridden down, fighting for life, and then galloping on and on all through the night, while as he stared at the door he was conscious of a heavy, dull, aching pain extending from his right hand right up his shoulder, and giving him sharp twinges every time he breathed.
“Some one called,” he thought to himself, and as the idea passed through his brain a pleasant-sounding voice said in English:
“Breakfast directly. May I come in?” Then the door was thrown open, and a handsome, frank-looking English youth of about his own age came quickly forward into the sunshine, to stand gazing at the guest from the foot of the bed.
“I hope you slept well?” he said eagerly.