“Well, Mr Chester,” said he, “how do you feel? You are very much better this morning, are you not?”
“I really don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t feel as though there is much the matter with me beyond weakness; my hands seem as though they were chained down to the bed, and I have very little feeling in my limbs; but beyond that I don’t think there is very much wrong. I suppose I have been ill, though. What has been the matter with me?”
“Oh! quite a complication of disorders,” he returned lightly; “brain-fever among other things. Have you no recollection of falling ill?”
“None whatever,” I said. “Stay, though—was it not something to do with a thunder-storm and—um—what was it?”
“There, there; never mind now; it is all over and done with. Don’t try to recall the circumstances just now; your brain is still too weak to be much exercised; it will all come back in good time, never fear. Do you feel at all sleepy?”
“Not so much sleepy as hungry,” I replied. “I feel as though I had not yet had my breakfast.”
“Neither have you,” he returned with a laugh. “The fact is you were not awake at breakfast-time, and Atkins here had strict orders not to disturb you. However, it is not yet too late; I daresay we shall be able to find something for you. I will see to it myself; and when you have taken your breakfast, just try to get to sleep again. Sleep will now do you as much good as either food or medicine.”
He then retired to the far end of the room, Atkins accompanying him; and after whispering to his subordinate for a minute, he turned, nodded encouragingly to me, and retired.
When he was gone I endeavoured to get a little information out of Atkins, the attendant, but he briefly informed me that his orders not to talk to me were imperative, and begged that I would not ask him to transgress them.
In a short time a basin of some kind of light broth, with a little bread crumbled into it, made its appearance, the whole of which I demolished, and soon afterwards fell into a sound sleep.