He, too, was asleep, if sleep that can be called which, plunging the senses into unconsciousness, yet leaves pain and misery to play their active part upon the darkened stage of the mind. Of his youth, of his beauty, I might almost say of his very manhood—such as was wont to be suggested by the open, brave, and winning expression of his face—not a trace was left. The spoliation of suffering had been so complete, that the bare wreck of the noble temple it had ruined was all that remained. Now, even more completely than in his waking hours, might we master the full extent of the cruel transformation that had been wrought, since the candour of sleep was on the slumberer, and the self-consciousness that masks the subtle facial truths, inactive. His hair, formerly dark and luxuriant, was thinned about the forehead, was tangled and coarse, and mixed with gray and white. The protrusion of the cheek-bones formed a conspicuous feature; under them the flesh fell into a hollow, and, as much of it as the bristly moustache and whiskers suffered to be seen, was puckered and dried up like the rind of an old winter apple. The under lip was enlarged, and entirely altered the remembered aspect of the mouth. The eyebrows drooped where they had formerly arched, and the hair of them near the temples had fallen off. Time might, perhaps, efface some of these disfigurements deep graven by the stylet of pain; but no man could have looked upon that sleeping face without a conviction of the permanency of much that he beheld.
He slept; but though his slumber was deep, his movements were so restless, convulsive, and feverish, that it seemed every moment as if he must start up.
Once during the night the ship’s bell sounding seven awakened him, and he opened his eyes and raised his head, but soon let it fall again. Then it was during this short interval of wakefulness that the bewildered look of which Mr. Sherman had spoken might have been perceived; and it lingered for some minutes on his face after he had dropped asleep once more.
Several times during the night the kind-hearted man who watched by the poor fellow’s side rose from his chair, and scrutinised him anxiously; and once Mr. Banks popped his shaggy head in to ask how the sufferer did, but found both patient and doctor asleep.
The morning crept over the sky, and turned the port-hole and the piece of deck-glass white; and at six o’clock Mr. Sherman woke, and crept quietly to his cabin to refresh himself with a plunge in cold water; then went on deck, where he found the captain smoking a cigar, his feet in galoshes, and the hands washing down. A sparkling, genial morning, with a warm breeze from the west, the barque in full sail, and the green seas caressing her bows, and leaping back from their keen salute in avalanches of foam.
“Good morning, Mr. Sherman,” said the skipper. “This is the weather, eh, sir? Out of the Doldrums by Tuesday week, I hope. How’s your patient?”
“Sleeping soundly. He has passed a good night. If he can only get over the next few days, the tropical sun will set him to rights.”
“Is he awake now?”
“I think not. But we’ll go and see if you like.”
The captain threw away his cigar and followed Mr. Sherman below, not, however, before casting a look above and around, and singing out to the man at the wheel to “keep her at that.”