Badly wounded, but alive, and he will live." Mark heard the prostrate man muttering, and felt the hand he grasped trembling violently.
"It puts life into me," he whispered, "when I was nearly spent.

Tell me--pray tell me--where is my boy! Not a prisoner ?" "No: safe with us, at the Black Tor." "Safe--at the Black Tor!" faltered Sir Morton.

"Then you are an Eden ?" "Of course: and my father is close by here with a dozen stout men to punish these villains and save you, and--you do not say anything about your child." There was no reply, and Mark pressed the hand he held, to find that there was no response, and that it was turning wet and cold, for the unfortunate prisoner had been unable to bear the tidings, and had swooned away.
"Go back," whispered Mark, "and tell my father whom we have found." "Leave the light ?" said the boy.
"No, take it.

Tell him all you have heard." The light glided away, and the next minute a faint sigh told that Sir Morton was regaining his senses, his complete recovery thereof being announced by a trembling pressure of the hand.
"Weak," he whispered.

"I was badly wounded.