They lifted him into their remaining boat, rowed him ashore, carried him painfully up the hill to the old castle, and made a bed for him on the floor, in the very room in which Don Guzman and Rose Salterne had plighted their troth to each other, five wild years before.
Three miserable days were passed within that lonely tower. Amyas, utterly unnerved by the horror of his misfortune, and by the over-excitement of the last few weeks, was incessantly delirious; while Cary, and Brimblecombe, and the men nursed him by turns, as sailors and wives only can nurse; and listened with awe to his piteous self-reproaches and entreaties to Heaven to remove that woe, which, as he shrieked again and again, was a just judgment on him for his wilfulness and ferocity. The surgeon talked, of course, learnedly about melancholic humors, and his liver’s being “adust by the over-pungency of the animal spirits,” and then fell back on the universal panacea of blood-letting, which he effected with fear and trembling during a short interval of prostration; encouraged by which he attempted to administer a large bolus of aloes, was knocked down for his pains, and then thought it better to leave Nature to her own work. In the meanwhile, Cary had sent off one of the island skiffs to Clovelly, with letters to his father, and to Mrs. Leigh, entreating the latter to come off to the island: but the heavy westerly winds made that as impossible as it was to move Amyas on board, and the men had to do their best, and did it well enough.
On the fourth day his raving ceased: but he was still too weak to be moved. Toward noon, however, he called for food, ate a little, and seemed revived.
“Will,” he said, after awhile, “this room is as stifling as it is dark. I feel as if I should be a sound man once more if I could but get one snuff of the sea-breeze.”
The surgeon shook his head at the notion of moving him: but Amyas was peremptory.
“I am captain still, Tom Surgeon, and will sail for the Indies, if I choose. Will Cary, Jack Brimblecombe, will you obey a blind general?”
“What you will in reason,” said they both at once.
“Then lead me out, my masters, and over the down to the south end. To the point at the south end I must go; there is no other place will suit.”
And he rose firmly to his feet, and held out his hands for theirs.
“Let him have his humor,” whispered Cary. “It may be the working off of his madness.”
“This sudden strength is a note of fresh fever, Mr. Lieutenant,” said the surgeon, “and the rules of the art prescribe rather a fresh blood-letting.”
Amyas overheard the last word, and broke out:
“Thou pig-sticking Philistine, wilt thou make sport with blind Samson? Come near me to let blood from my arm, and see if I do not let blood from thy coxcomb. Catch him, Will, and bring him me here!”
The surgeon vanished as the blind giant made a step forward; and they set forth, Amyas walking slowly, but firmly, between his two friends.
“Whither?” asked Cary.
“To the south end. The crag above the Devil’s-limekiln. No other place will suit.”
Jack gave a murmur, and half-stopped, as a frightful suspicion crossed him.
“That is a dangerous place!”