“Decidedly better! the skin is moist; the eye is clearer; the fever is subsiding; he will do very well now.”
This was spoken by the house-surgeon of one of the London hospitals, as he stood by the bed-side of a patient in the fever ward—feeling the pulse, and watching the countenance. The patient raised himself slightly on the pillows, and looked round with a wondering air.
“Why! who—who am I?”
“Who are you?” said the Doctor, “that is a pretty question for a man to ask about himself. You are described in the hospital books as Pietro Limoncello—Journeyman Tailor. You’ll remember it all presently.”
“How came I here?”
“You were brought here by those who took pity on you; you were found lying on your own shop-board in a state of delirium, and you were instantly removed to this hospital. You have been for some days insensible.”
“Oh, Doctor! I have had such dreams.”
“Very likely—men in health have strange dreams, sometimes; men in fever have still stranger ones. You have had time enough for a good deal of dreaming. But come! you are going to get well now; the fever has gone down, and your senses have come back to you. This is visitors’ day: would you like to see a friend for a moment? I think you may.”
“I have got no friends in this country,” said Pietro.