He next applied himself, with good will and not unskilfully, to the task of restoring animation. The wound, it appeared, had touched no vital part—Big Ben's intention having been better than his aim—and, being helped by the position in which Bergan had lain, it had stanched itself. The blows of Ben's heavy fist had been much more effective. Dick wellnigh gave up in despair before his efforts were rewarded by the faintest sign that the soul had not forever quitted its earthly house. Taking heart then, he worked on till the eyes opened and the lips moved, but not with intelligent sight or coherent speech. The one beheld only the misty phantoms, as the other gave utterance but to the wild fancies, of a fevered and delirious imagination. Now, his uncle's death-bed was the gloomy subject of Bergan's ravings; now, he beheld Carice in danger or distress, and sought to hasten to her relief, making it necessary for Dick to hold him in bed by main strength.
For two nights and three days, Dick had thus been forced to keep watch over him, not daring to leave him for a moment, lest he should do himself irremediable harm, during his absence. Nor was he disinclined to the task. Bergan had won all his heart by the courtesy and consideration with which he had uniformly treated him, no less than his admiration by his fearless, upright character. "Your nephew has all my best proverbs in his life, whereas, I only have them in my head," he had once remarked to the Major, by way of lavishing his choicest encomium upon the rejected heir; and he now did his best for the young man's comfort and cure, with the somewhat meagre appliances at his command. In the way of nourishment, the cabin afforded only a little tea and beef broth; in the way of medicine, nothing but two or three soothing herb-drinks, cold water, pure air, and perfect silence. With the three last, however, nature can work wonders; and, in this case, she wrought so effectively that, on the afternoon of the third day, Bergan sank into a quiet sleep, to awake in great weakness, but fully himself.
"Where am I?" he asked, feebly, glancing wonderingly around him.
"Where charity begins—at home," answered Dick, graciously; "that is, if you will continue to make yourself so, as you have been doing for the last three days."
"Three days!" exclaimed Bergan, trying to spring up, but failing by reason of his weakness;—"what do you mean?"
Dick saw his mistake, but it was too late to retreat. Bergan's mind had at once recurred to the last item in his memory,—namely, Big Ben's uplifted fist,—and had easily connected it with his present condition. Being now made aware of the lapse of time since then by Dick's incautious admission, nothing remained but to give truthful answers to the questions that he rapidly put. Quick at logical inference, the facts that he had disappeared suddenly, and that no trace of him had been found, were soon patent to him. He was filled with dismay. What distress his mysterious absence must have cost his friends! What evil use of it might have been made by his enemy! At the thought, he made another attempt to rise, and partially succeeded, but only to fall back again, half fainting.
"Take care. Quien mas corre, menos vuela,—the more haste the worst speed," said Dick, warningly. "Stay a little, and news will find you."
"Not until it is too late, I fear," returned Bergan. "Since I cannot do it myself, I must beg you to go immediately to my Uncle Godfrey, and let him know that I am here, and ask him to come and see me at once, if possible. Tell him privately, so as not to startle anybody else," he added, with a thought of Carice; "and leave him to extend the information to whomsoever he pleases."
"I would much rather go to your Uncle Harry," objected Dick, loath to present himself at Oakstead, lest he should encounter Doctor Remy.
"He is dead," answered Bergan gravely.