His eyes opened fully by automatic process rather than by will, and the
heavy dark of the dungeon was grateful then, because they, too, like all
the rest of him, were very weak. Yet a little light came in as usual
with the fresh air from above, and by and by he lifted one hand and
looked at it. It was a strange hand, very white, very thin, with the
blue veins standing out from the back.
It was almost the hand of a skeleton. He did not know it. Certainly it
did not belong to him. He looked at it wondering, and then he did a
strange thing. It was his left hand that he was holding before him. He
put his right hand upon it, drew that hand slowly over the fingers, then
the palm and along the wrist until he reached his shoulder. It was his
hand after all. His languid curiosity satisfied he let the hand drop
back by his body. It fell like a stone. After a while he touched his
head, and found that his hair was cut closely. It seemed thin, too.
He realized that he had been ill, and very ill indeed he must have been
to be so weak. He wondered a little how long it had been since he first
lapsed into unconsciousness, and then the wonder ceased. Whether the
time had been long or short it did not matter. But he shut his eyes and
listened for the last thing that he remembered.
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