“Hiram Bradford, you’re very brave now; you insult a man who is too weak to give you the drubbing your words merit. You’ve forgotten that I defeated you in a fair contest of strength and skill—when I was myself. Yes, I will rouse myself; I will try to recover my health—if for no other purpose than to make you eat your words!”
A spasm of pain contorted Bradford’s scarred face. But quickly recovering his equanimity, he chuckled huskily:
“That’s it—get angry at me. I thought I could stir you. You feel better already, don’t you?”
Douglas earnestly scanned the speaker’s face for a full minute. Bradford burst out laughing. With a sheepish grin, the younger man said:
“I understand you now. Your words and actions are a part of your plan of treatment, eh? Well, I’ll shake off my lethargy—if I can. I’ll be a man, and strive to recover my health and strength. I am ashamed of myself. Please forgive my childish petulance. Here is my hand.”
The two shook hands, silently—solemnly. Then Douglas continued:
“Twice you have saved my life, Bradford. I am grateful—I don’t hate you as I did. I may as well confess that I rather like you—that I feel you are my friend. I want to thank you for your unremitting and tender care. Yet I cannot understand why you keep me a prisoner. And here I give you fair warning: As soon as I’m able, I’ll again try to escape.”
A smile almost beatific lighted the elder man’s marred visage, as he replied feelingly:
“I am your friend; and I am delighted to know you begin to realize it. Please say again that you don’t hate me.”