Farris spoke with a rough encouragement he did not feel. “Don’t get upset. He’ll be all right now. I’ll soon bring him out of this.”
She shook her head. “No, you must not attempt that! He must come out of it by himself. And it will take many days.”
The devil it would, Farris thought. He had teak to find, and he needed Berreau to arrange for workers.
Then the dejection of the girl’s small figure got him. He patted her shoulder.
“All right, I’ll help you take care of him. And together, we’ll pound some sense into him and make him go back home. Now you see about dinner.”
She lit a gasoline lamp, and went out. He heard her calling the servants.
He looked down at Berreau. He felt a little sick, again. The Frenchman lay, eyes staring toward the ceiling. He was living, breathing — and yet his retarded life-tempo cut him off from Farris as effectually as death would.
No, not quite. Slowly, so slowly that he could hardly detect the movement, Berreau’s eyes turned toward Farris’ figure.
Lys came back into the room. She was quiet, but he was getting to know her better, and he knew by her face that she was startled.
“The servants are gone! Ahra, and the girls — and your guide. They must have seen us bring Andre in.”