“Must—rest—” Señor Zorro gasped.
And with the gasp he passed into unconsciousness.
Back to earth he struggled as through a land of hideous dreams. He tossed and groaned and tried to open his eyes, but felt that he could not. There seemed to be a roaring in his ears that was not of the sea. And finally it came to him that it was a human voice, attempting to beat through his unconsciousness and bring him to an understanding of things.
“Señor! Señor—” the voice said.
Señor Zorro struggled yet again, groaned once more, and opened his eyes. But not into the burning glare of the open sea! He was in cool shade, he found, and from a distance came the hissing of the surf. He blinked his eyes rapidly, felt something at his lips, and drank deeply of pure, cold water.
“Señor!” There was the voice again. “For the love of the saints, señor, come back to life!”
Full consciousness returned to him in a breath. He opened his eyes wider and struggled to sit up. Then he saw that he was in some sort of a poor hut, and that a native was beside him, with an arm beneath his shoulders.
“Ha!” Señor Zorro gasped.
“Thank the saints, señor!” the native cried.
Señor Zorro, with the help of the native, sat up. He had been stretched on a sort of couch, he found. He glanced around the interior of the poor hut, through the open door at the sparkling sea.