“Torture,” he answered, in a kind of groan. “I fell into the hands of savages who mutilated me. I am sorry. I see it shocks you,” and he stood still, leaning heavily on the crutch, his whole attitude one of despair with which hope still struggled faintly.
If it existed, it was destined to swift doom.
Edith made no movement, only said, pointing to a chair by him, the same in which Dick had smoked his cigarettes:
“Won’t you sit down?”
He fell on to, rather than sat in the chair, his heavy crutch clattering to the floor beside him.
“Will you have some tea?” she went on distractedly. “Oh, there is no other cup, take mine.”
“Thank you,” he answered, waving his hand in refusal. “I am drinking from a cup of my own, and I find it bitter.”
For a few seconds there was silence between them, which she broke, for she felt that it was driving her mad.
“Tell me,” she said—“tell me—dear—” the word stuck in her throat and came out with a kind of gasp, “what does all this mean? You see I am quite ignorant. I thought you dead; look at my dress.”
“Only what I have told you. I am an unfortunate man. I was set upon by an overwhelming force. I fought as best I could, until nearly all my people were killed, but unluckily I was stunned and taken prisoner. Afterwards they offered me the choice of Islam or death. I chose death; but they tortured me first, hacking off my foot and putting out my eye with hot irons, and in the end, when they were about to hang me, I was rescued.”