“You can get to it, Hilary dear,” Margarita said. “Crawl to it and then you will reach it. Oh, well done, Hilary; how splendid of you!”
The sick man crawled on hand and knees to the wall. He leaned for a moment there and said, “I can’t reach it.”
“Rest and gather strength,” Sard said.
“Hilary,” his sister said, “crawl to that little table in the middle of the room. You will be able to push that to the wall and then climb to the water.”
“Yes, I will,” Hilary said: “only I must wait for a moment, for this sickness to pass.”
He stayed there huddled against the wall, with his eyes shut, for two or three minutes. He looked liker a dead man than a living. At last he moved forward from the wall and slowly crawled to the table. The table was liker a large old English stool than a table. When he reached it, he drooped forward over it as though he would never have the strength to rise.
“Take your time,” Sard said. “Do not try to lift that stool, but push it before you while you lean on it. So. That is you. Not too big a push at a time: take it quietly.”
“Oh, I do feel so sick!” Hilary said.
“No wonder. You’ve had a bat on the head,” Sard said. “You are a marvel to be moving at all, but go handsomely; there’s always time; always lots of time; no rushing. Now wait; rest; gather your strength again.”
He waited, leaning on the stool, while the others watched him.