They came at once to his bedside, with
exclamations of satisfaction.
"How do you feel?" one asked in Swedish.
"I do not know," he said in a low tone. "Where am I, how did I get
here?"
"You are with friends. Never mind how you got here. You have been
ill, but you will soon get well again. Someone hit you on the head,
and we picked you up and brought you here."
"I am weak and faint," Charlie murmured. "Have you any food?"
"You shall have some food, directly it is prepared. Take a drink of
wine, and see if you can eat a bit of bread while the broth is
preparing."
Charlie drank a little of the wine that was put to his lips, and
then broke up the bread, and ate it crumb by crumb, as if it were a
great effort to do so, although he had difficulty in restraining
himself from eating it voraciously. When he had finished it, he
closed his eyes again, as if sleep had overpowered him. An hour
later, there was a touch on his shoulder.
"Here is some broth, young fellow. Wake up and drink that, it will
do you good."
Charlie, as before, slowly sipped down the broth, and then really
fell asleep, for the jolting had fatigued him terribly.
It was evening when he awoke. Two men were sitting at a blazing
fire. When he moved, one of them brought him another basin of
broth, and fed him with a spoon.
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