“I don’t hate you,” Ross said quietly.
“And you wouldn’t harm me, if you could?”
“No—unless——”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you should offer injury to me or some one dear to me.”
“Which I’ll never do,” Bradford answered earnestly. “Now we understand each other. You’re to try to get well; I’m to help you. You’re going to try to escape; I’m going to try to prevent you from succeeding. Have I stated the case correctly?”
“Yes,” Douglas returned smilingly.
“Very well. Now you’d better lie down and take a nap. You’re tired.”
From that day, Ross began to improve more rapidly. His cough gradually subsided; his appetite grew better. He commenced to regain strength and flesh. But the lancinating pain was still in his chest; and it took but little exercise or excitement to exhaust him. Then, too, his mind was perturbed. The stronger he grew, the more he chafed under the yoke of captivity. He worried about Amy. He thought of her by day, and dreamed of her by night. Was she alive—was she well? Was she grieving over his supposed death, or was she wholly unaware of the misfortunes that had befallen him?