At last.
Ned did not know what that meant. He did not hear any words spoken nor how it was. It was his coming back into a state of consciousness, and all he felt was that it somehow was at last. Time had nothing to do with it, and the first consistent thought was that it rained hard; the next that something was stinging his nostrils as if hundreds of tiny points were being inserted into the soft, delicate skin.
Soon after he seemed to be listening to people talking a long way off. They were making remarks about some one else, but he had no idea what, till it was as if something cracked in each ear and he started with his eyes wide open, to see that the sky above was all of a deep red glow, and on looking round him there were faces and mules, and packs lying just as if they had been taken off the mules’ backs.
“He’s coming round now,” said a familiar voice, and then he started again, to find that everything was clear, and that he was looking in the doctor’s face.
“Is he?” said Ned sharply, in a voice that he did not know for his own. “Has he been very bad?”
“Worse than any of us, Ned, my boy,” said another familiar voice.
“Is that you, father?” cried Ned.
“What’s left of me, my boy. I began to think we should never shake hands again. You two fellows saved our lives.”
Ned was silent, and lay with his hand pressed to his forehead, waiting till he could quite grasp that which seemed to be dancing strangely in his brain.
“No, father,” he said at length; “I recollect now. We did try, but we couldn’t. We broke down.”