Elia’s staring eyes suddenly lost their tension. He moved his head and tried to free his arms. Jim picked him up and set him on his feet, and noted that he breathed more freely. Yes, he had been in time.
Elia steadied himself for a moment against his arm. He was silent, and still breathing hard. His body was racked with fierce pain, but his poor distorted mind was suffering greater. Jim waited patiently. He understood. It was the awful shock that the boy, in his helpless fashion, was struggling with.
Some moments passed thus, and at last the words which Jim was waiting for came. But they shocked him strangely.
“Did you kill him?” Elia asked, with a struggle controlling his halting tongue.
“No, boy, he’s only knocked out––I think.”
“You’re a fule,” whispered the lad viciously.
Jim had no answer to this, and the boy, recovering slowly, spoke again.
“Best kill him now,” he said. “He’s a devil. He’s smashed me all up. He’s smashed my sick body, and things feel queer inside me. Kill him, Jim! Kill him!”
Watching the working face, the man sickened at the inhuman desire of the boy. Where did he ever get such a frightful nature from? It was monstrous.