“Nothing more, thank you—except, perhaps, that you might suggest the value of quietness of movement on the part of anyone coming below. No slamming of cabin-doors, or anything of that sort, you know,” answered the first voice, which I now recognised as that of the ship’s doctor on board the City of Cawnpore.
“All right; I’ll see to it,” replied the other voice, now quite familiar to me as that of General O’Brien. A gentle click of the cabin-door latch succeeded; and I opened my eyes languidly, to see Scudamore’s sharp-cut features bending close to mine, with an earnest, intent look in his kindly eyes.
“Well,” he exclaimed heartily, as our eyes met, “how do you feel now?”
“In horrible pain,” I answered, with another involuntary groan. “What is the matter with me, doctor? What has happened?”
“Only that you have been drowned; and that you have kept the general and myself busy, for two mortal hours and more, practising artificial respiration, before you would consent to come back to life. That is all!”
Then I remembered everything, and began to wonder by what means I had been recovered from those profound depths wherein my last conscious moments had been spent. I put the question to Scudamore, and he answered:
“Oh, as to that, we had no difficulty. There was a light heaving-line attached by one end to the hawser, and in the other end you had knotted a bowline which you passed over your shoulders and under your armpits. We simply hauled you aboard by means of that.”
“And how long did the barque live after I left her?” I asked.
“How long?” repeated the doctor, in surprise. “Why, not ten seconds! She was in the very act of foundering, stern first, when you jumped; and it was undoubtedly her suction that did the mischief. You must have been dragged fathoms deep by her; and but for the line round you, you would probably never have come to the surface again.”
“And what of the French people? Are they all right?” I demanded.