When he came to himself he was in a darkened room. He felt as weak as the proverbial rat, his limbs were powerless, while he was unable to utter a sound. For some time he lay wondering if he was alive, till, with an effort, he called out—so feebly that he hardly recognized his own voice.
Presently someone entered bearing a lamp, which he carefully shaded with one hand lest the glare should fall upon the wounded man. Reeves saw that it was Gerald.
"Better?" asked the lad, being absolutely at a loss to say something different.
"Aye," replied the correspondent, with a groan. "Where's Hugh?"
"Sound asleep. He's all right."
"And Garth?"
"Like yourself; cut up a bit, but mending."
"And the others?"
"Only two of them came out of the scrap besides Garth and yourself—both more or less dead."
"What's up with me?" demanded Reeves. "Not crippled for life, I hope?"