He had been walking with his eyes closed because it was cooler that way. Then a bee stung him. Then another. On the chest. Now on the arm. Now a whole flight. He cried out. He opened his eyes.
He was lying on a bed. People were about him. He had been climbing those stairs naked. It would never do that those strangers should see him. He must speak of it. His hand touched cloth. He was wearing trousers. His chest was bare, and some one was bending over him touching places here and there on his body with something that stung. Not bees after all. He looked up with mildly wondering eyes and saw a face bending over him—a kindly bearded face, a face that he could trust. Not like—not like—that strange mask face of the Japanese. . . . That other. . . .
He struggled on to his elbow crying: "No, no. I can't any more. I've had enough. He's mad, I tell you——"
A kind rough voice said to him: "That's all right, my friend. That's all over. No harm done——"
My friend! That sounded good. He looked round him and in the distance saw Dunbar. He broke into smiles holding out his hand.
"Dunbar, old man! That's fine. So you're all right?"
Dunbar came over, sat on his bed, putting his arm around him.
"All right? I should think so. So are we all. Even Jabez isn't much the worse. That devil missed his eyes, thank heaven. He'll have two scars to the end of his time to remind him, though."
Harkness sat up. He knew now where he was, on a sofa in the hall—in the hall with the tattered banners and the clock that coughed like a dog. He looked at the clock—just a quarter to seven! Only three-quarters of an hour since that awful knock on the door.
Then he saw Hesther.