"Yes. I shall be all right now. You'll be all right after some breakfast. It isn't so bad here, is it?"
"No. Not so bad. But there's this smell of death, Lionel."
"That's fever. That will pass away, you'll find."
"Was I delirious?"
"Yes. A little."
"You were pretty bad."
"Yes. I was pretty bad all yesterday," said Lionel. "It's horrible when one gets into that state. One is so ashamed afterwards. It is part of the sickness. You were awfully gentle with me, Roger."
"I saw that you were pretty bad. We shall have to get to work to-morrow, and get things into order. They are in a bad way in the village there. There are twenty-nine cases left. We might save sixteen of them."
"Is there any trace of how they got it? Do they know?"
"They don't talk any language known to Merrylegs."