"Three weeks agone," she answered.
"Have I been here three weeks?" I asked, amazed.
"More than that; 'twill be four come next Thursday. Now, drink this, and try to sleep once more, for you've been very ill."
Obediently I did as I was told, and after a long sleep I awoke feeling considerably refreshed.
"Art better, Master Markham?" asked my most attentive nurse.
"Ay, mistress; but what is your name, and how came you to know mine?"
"They of the Cornish fishing boat that brought you here told me about you," she replied, smiling. "And my name, an it please you, is Widdicombe."
"How can I thank you for your kindness, Mistress Widdicombe? But tell me, how came I here?"
Briefly she told me that the men of the Emma Farleigh had brought me ashore, and, filled with compassion—for, she said, I bore a strong resemblance to her only son, who had been slain at Stratton fighting bravely for His Majesty—she had brought me to her house. Here a surgeon from Fort Charles, skilled in the treatment of gun-shot wounds, had probed and extracted Chaloner's bullet, and for nearly four weeks I lay unconscious.
During that time either Mistress Widdicombe or her husband, who was a sergeant of foot under Sir Edmund Fortescue, had watched day and night at my bedside, and I undoubtedly owed my life to the generous devotion of this worthy Devonshire couple.