them back again into their original position, without opening his eyes.
“They…are hiding,” he murmured thickly…“in the…orange grove.…If the felucca sails…closer…they will”…
Soames, finding something very horrifying in the broken words, shook the sleeper more urgently.
“Wake up, sir!” he cried; “I am going to prepare your bath.”
“Don’t let them…escape,” murmured the man, slowly opening his eyes— “I have not”…
He struggled upright, glaring madly at the intruder. His light gray eyes had a glassiness as of long sickness, and his pupils, which were unnaturally dilated, began rapidly to contract; became almost invisible. Then they expanded again—and again contracted.
“Who—the deuce are you?” he murmured, passing his hand across his unshaven face.
“My name is—Lucas, sir,” said Soames, conscious that if he remained much longer in the place he should be physically sick. “At your service—shall I prepare the bath?”
“The bath?” said the man, sitting up more straightly— “certainly, yes—of course”…
He looked at Soames, with a light of growing sanity creeping into his eyes; a faint flush tinged the pallid face, and his loose mouth twitched sensitively.
“Then, Said,” he began, looking Soames up and
