w how awful
it all is, but Mark--Mark, old chap, don't--don't say anything to me;
only tell me you are going to be better!"

"I can't speak. I can't think. Don't talk to me. Go away."

Dean uttered a groan of misery, and rising slowly he left his cousin to
begin fighting once more against the confusion that oppressed his brain.

And now as the poor fellow lay seeming to go backward into what was like
so much mental darkness, he heard the gruff voices of the two men
talking, and then his cousin's words sounding as if in appeal, while
soon after Mark opened his eyes to find that somebody was leaning over
him. But the sun had set, and it was growing too dark now for him to
make out who it was.

Then he knew.

"Asleep, Mr Mark, sir?"

"No, Dan. What does it all mean? Is it fever?--No, no, don't speak. I
remember now. Hasn't there been a big fight?"

"Yes, sir; horrid."

"Did you get hurt?"

"A bit pricked, sir."

"With a spear?" said Mark sharply.

"Yes, sir. One of the black thieves made a job at me."

"But you are not hurt much?"

"Quite enough, sir. But a hurt soon heals up. I want to know about
you, sir."

"Yes, yes; but tell me--what about Buck Denham?"

"Got enough, sir, to make him horrid wild. But he don't mind much."

"Ah!" said Mark quietly, as he fought hard with the difficulty of
thinking. "Has the doctor seen him?"

"No, sir," said the man hesitatingly.

"But he ought to see him," continued Mark, "and you too. He knows so
much about that sort of thing. Why doesn't he come and see me? There!
There's that pain back again, as if I was burnt."

"Yes, sir; it is nasty, of course. I have done all I knowed to it."

"Thank you, Dan. What is it?"

"Spear, sir. But it's quite clean; I saw to that. It's your head's the
worst."

"Yes," sighed Mark. "It's my head's the worst. Well, now go and tell
the doctor to come."

Dan was silent.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, sir," said the man, "but hadn't you better try and go to sleep?"

"I have been trying for hours, Dan--ever since I lay down; and then as I
couldn't I got out of the waggon and came to have a chat with you; and
then--it wasn't you, because it was--because it was--is that you, Dan?"

"Yes, my dear lad; it's me. What is it you want?"

"I don't know, Dan, only I feel as if I couldn't think and talk
properly. Who's that?"

"Buck Denham, my lad. How goes it?" said the big fellow.

"I don't know, Buc