The girl left Roy, and went closer to the sleeping man. He remained motionless, the eyes closed, a slight dew of exhaustion on the brow, the face extremely pale. She sheltered the light from his eyes with her hand, and, turning away, began putting things straight. A few touches altered wondrously the look of the whole room. Roy lay and watched her.
"What's your name?" he asked. "Are you M. de Bertrand's daughter? I'm deaf still, so don't whisper."
"No. I am Lucille de St. Roques." She came near, not to have to raise her voice, and Roy again shrank from her. "It does not matter. I have had the complaint, and I do not fear."
"I wonder where your home is."
"Ah,—for that, I have not now a true home. Cependant, I have kind friends at Verdun, where I live. I am but just come here—unexpected."
"And have you a father and mother in that place—Ver—something?" Little dreamt Roy how familiar a name it would become in a few months!
"Verdun. My father and mother they were of the old noblesse, and—hélas!—thirteen years ago, in the Revolution, they were guillotined."
"O I say, how horrid!" exclaimed Roy. "Why, you must have been quite a little thing!"
"I was not yet eight years old. I was in prison with them, many many weeks, before they went out to die."
Ivor woke suddenly and stood up, leaning against the solid four-poster, since the room went round with him. He saw a girlish figure, and vaguely felt that she had no business there.