“Doubtless. Swimming against such a current was a severe strain upon your strength. Let me feel your pulse.”
He pressed his finger upon Robert’s pulse and reported that the action was slow.
“It means exhaustion,” he said. “You must sleep well, and to-morrow morning you will feel as well as usual.”
“But I ought to go home,” said Robert, trying to rise. “My aunt will feel anxious about me.”
“Who is your aunt?”
“I am the nephew of John Trafton, who has a small house on the cliff.”
“I know. He is a fisherman.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t disturb yourself. Word shall be sent to your aunt that you are safe. I will give you a sleeping draught, and to-morrow morning we will speak further.”
Somehow Robert did not dream of resisting the will of his host. The old man had an air of command to which it seemed natural to submit. Moreover, he knew that to this mysterious stranger—the hermit of the cliff, as the fishermen called him—he was indebted for his life, and such a man must necessarily be his friend. Robert was, besides, in that condition of physical languor when, if he had felt disposed, he would have found it very difficult to make resistance to the will of another.