"The vitality of this man is little less than marvelous," he said.
Annette Ilington started forward.
"Then he will live?" she said.
The surgeon nodded.
The little group bent forward. And with good reason, the figure on the couch stirred slightly—the huge form quivered. At last the unconscious man became no longer so. He opened the cabin, struggling the while to rise.
"You'll never know from me where Lost Isle is," he muttered. "Look at Pelee—death—destruction. Pray God, the Princess—"
He lifted his head. The surgeon seized him by one arm and a unformed attendant by another. But he tossed them from him as though by the turn of a wrist and struggled to a sitting posture.
"You will," he snarled, clutching at his hand. "It's just as well I found you out, Hernandez—you and your henchman, Ponto; just as well before—Come on, both of you together."
In another instant he would have been upon his feet. But his eyes fell upon Annette Ilington.
"Anne," he cried. He stretched forth a hand as though to touch her, then suddenly withdrew it. He shrugged his shoulders. "What's the use?" he muttered to himself, "I'm dreaming—dreaming."
"Dreaming," said the surgeon somberly, "for thirteen years."
Neal gripped his mother's arm. 