Two or three minutes dragged miserably by. The surgeon dreaded to pronounce the words which he felt must soon be said. One of the women was still applying the battery current, the other chafing Belle’s left wrist and arm. Hunter placed his stethoscope to her chest and listened, his face wholly grave.
There was another faint flutter of the lids, another faint sigh.
“You’ll soon speak to me, won’t you, Belle?” Dave urged, quietly, but in that silent cabin his every word was distinct.
“Shall I apply the battery to another part of the body, Doctor?” asked one of the women after a few minutes.
“One part will do as well as another,” Hunter answered, in a very low voice. The woman understood, but she said no word, gave no sign, but went on with her task.
“Come, Belle,” spoke Dave, now with an effort at cheeriness of tone, “we’re losing a lot of time, little girl.”
This time there was a somewhat more pronounced fluttering of the lids. Then came a sigh that sounded like a catching of the breath.
“Say!” murmured Hunter, in the awe of a new discovery. “That’s the thing to do, Darrin! Go on talking to her. I believe that she knows, that your voice reaches her subconsciously. Talk, man, talk! But easily.”
So Darrin, with a hand resting with a feather’s weight on Belle’s pallid forehead, went on speaking. It made little difference what he said, but every word was cheery, tender.
At last there came a longer flutter, a quicker, deeper sigh. Belle fought with her eyelids, then parted them, gazing vacantly until she saw Darrin’s bronzed face.