"Who are you? Where am I?" I murmured.
He took a pinch of snuff, sneezed with hearty enjoyment, and then answered me with genial condescension: "In due order, Jack, I reply that I am Dr. Cuthbert, surgeon to His Majesty's frigate Belligerent, of whose crew you are a member."
I stared at him, my memory still in that gray mist. Seeing my bewilderment, he was thoughtful enough to explain: "You were so foolish as to resist, my man, when Midshipman Hepburn impressed you. Either the blow which stunned you, or the close air of the forecastle, or the seeds of disease in your system, brought on a fever and delirium in which you have lain for the past fortnight."
"Fortnight!" I gasped. "But—I remember now—I must get to Vera Cruz—Vera Cruz! Fortnight! What is the date?"
"August the ninth."
I groaned.
"Vera Cruz?" he cackled. "Why should you wish to go to Vera Cruz?"
I put my hand to my head, and tried to think—to penetrate that gray mist. "I cannot remember—I cannot remember—only I know I must go—at once—and it has to do with this cross."
"Eh! eh!" he cackled. "I thought there was something in that rosary. Third mates of merchantmen do not usually go about with Romish crucifixes and beads about their necks. Your name?"
I opened my lips, but not a syllable came from them. I racked my brains, groping in that terrible mist of oblivion. It was in vain. I could not remember my own name!