“Nice and cool. He must be mending, and sooner or later I believe he will recover. It is time, though, that he made some sign of returning consciousness. Ah, Mayne, my lad, this is the thirst for gold with a vengeance. I dreaded it; I have dreaded it for years. Poor fellow! A thorough gentleman at heart, but his desire for wealth was his ruin.”
The words leaped to my lips, but I felt that all Mr Gunson had told me of his former life was in confidence; and beside, Mr Raydon’s treatment did not encourage mine, so I was silent for a moment or so, gazing sadly at the thin worn face before me, and wishing that I was a clever doctor and able to cure him, when I started with surprise and pleasure, for Mr Gunson’s eyes opened, and he lay looking fixedly at me for some time in the midst of a painful silence.
Then a look of recognition came into his gaze, and he smiled at me faintly.
“Time to get up?” he said, in a whisper. “I—”
He looked quickly round then, and his face worked a little.
“Where am I?—what?” he faltered. “Mayne, where am I? Ah! I remember now,” he said, faintly.
Mr Raydon bent over him.
“Don’t try to talk, Gunson. You have been ill, but you are getting better now.”
“Yes,” he said, softly; “I remember. Struck down just now.”
I exchanged glances with Mr Raydon.