Marston smiled. He did not want to talk and the relief he saw in his comrade's face was soothing. He went to sleep again and it was dark when he awoke. He did not dream that night and in a few days got, rather shakily, out of his bunk. Wyndham put some cushions for him on the locker and they began to talk.
"The boat's full to the hatches and we go to sea to-morrow," Wyndham said. "If the wind keeps fair, I expect to put you on board the Spanish liner for the Canaries in three or four days. You'll transfer to a homeward Cape boat when you arrive."
"But I don't want to go home yet," Marston objected.
"You are going all the same," Wyndham declared. "You have been very ill and a sick man hasn't much chance in this miasmatic air. There's no use in arguing; you have got to go."
Marston grumbled, but they sailed with the next high tide, and when they made the port where the Spanish steamer lay he let Wyndham help him on board.