For the moment he was so weary and excited that he was unable to utter a word, and stood there gasping for breath in front of the man, who lay on the bed, and who likewise remained silent, gazing at him with such utter amazement that he was all but dazed.
At last the man cried out:
“Nasibu! Are you there?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the young negro.
“Do you see any one and is any one standing in front of me?”
But before the boy could answer Stasch regained his voice:
“Sir,” he said, “my name is Stanislaus Tarkowski. I was captured by the Dervishes, and have escaped with little Miss Rawlison, and we are hiding in the jungle. But Nell is very ill, and I pray you to help us.”
The stranger blinked at him, then passed his hand across his forehead and said to himself:
“I not only see him, but hear him—it can not be imagination—What? Help? I need help myself. I’m wounded!”
But suddenly he shook himself, as if awakening from a dream or a trance, looked round, and regaining his presence of mind, said with a gleam of joy in his eyes: