“If we could have had him in a bed, we might have done some good,” said Gilmore, sadly. “Vane, old fellow, I’m afraid you must give it up.”
But, instead of ceasing his efforts, the lad tried the harder, and, in a tone of intense excitement, he panted:—
“Look!”
“At what?” cried Macey, eagerly; and then, going down on his knees, he thrust in his hand beneath the lad’s shirt.
“Yes! you can feel it. Keep on, Vane, keep on.”
“What!” shouted Gilmore; and then he gave a joyful cry, for there was a trembling about one of Distin’s eyelids, and a quarter of an hour later they saw him open his eyes, and begin to stare wonderingly round.
It was only for a few moments, and then they closed again, as if the spark of the fire of life that had been trembling had died out because there had been a slight cessation of the efforts to produce it.
But there was no farther relaxation. All, in turn, worked hard, full of excitement at the fruit borne by their efforts; and, at last, while Vane was striving his best, the patient’s eyes were opened, gazed round once more, blankly and wonderingly, till they rested upon Vane’s face, when memory reasserted itself, and an unpleasant frown darkened the Creole’s countenance.
“Don’t,” he cried, angrily, in a curiously weak, harsh voice, quite different from his usual tones; and he dragged himself away, and tried to rise, but sank back.
Vane quitted his place, and made way for Macey, whose turn it would have been to continue their efforts, but Distin gave himself a jerk, and fixed his eyes on Gilmore, who raised him by passing one hand beneath his shoulders.