“Ach, mein Gott! Dere he ish again. Now you mine vat I says. Dat ish ter tuyvel. Don’ you co to say ash it vas not. Dat ish ter tuyvel, unt no mistake. My prains are all hurly-purly. I mos’ deat mit fright.”
“Shet up. Don’t ye see the lady?” said Ben. “Sorry to call ye out of yer sleep, miss, but our friend of this mornin’ hez paid us a visit. See how the black brute has marked Jules.”
“So he has. This is terrible. I can not do any thing to help you, Mr. Damand?”
“No,” said Jules. “I shall do very well. They are only scratches.”
“Very painful ones, I fear.”
“A little. They will soon go away. I shall be satisfied if they do not leave deep scars. You had better retire again. It served me right. I should have kept better watch, when I had such treasures to guard.”
“Can I be of no service?”
“No. Not the least. Thank you.”
She retired again, and Ben found some of the plants which he had used for Bentley’s wounds that morning, and made a salve for Jules’ face. When this was done, he sent the Frenchman into the house, and took his place as guard, half hoping that the brute would come back, and give him a shot. Twice during the night he heard its eldritch screams, far off in the hills, but it did not come back. Ben stood on his guard, however, until the night passed, and the gray light of morning appeared in the sky.