"Well?" Ralph questioned, though he felt sure, from his father's manner, what the answer would be.
"The parson fears the worst," David answered, bringing out the words in jerks. "Poor man! He's in great trouble. I almost forgot my own when I thought of his."
"But what was the news he got from the War Office?" Ralph questioned.
"Not much. He's on the list of the dangerously wounded, that's all."
"But he may recover," Ralph said, after a pause.
"Yes, he may," David answered, with a sigh. "God alone knows, but the parson gave me no comfort at all."
"How so?"
"He says that the swords and spears of the dervishes are often poisoned; then, you see, water is scarce, and the heat is terrible, so that a sick man has no chance like he has here."
Ralph did not reply. For a moment or two he looked at his father, then went on with his hoeing. David walked by his side between the rows of turnips. His face was drawn and pale, and his lips twitched incessantly.
"The world seems terribly topsy-turvy," he said at length, as if speaking to himself. "I oughtn't to be idling here, but all the heart's gone out of me somehow."