He did not open his eyes, but his lips ceased the Latin exhortations.
"I dream!" he exclaimed to himself, in that humble tone I had observed on a previous occasion when he forgot himself and his stern rôle and lapsed into some gentler habitude of the past.
"Was that Gaston's voice? So, I remember, he crept upon me as I read in the garden at Morbouil! Dear olden days! Their memory comes so seldom. So little time left for the work to be done. Ah, Jesus, the task is heavy—heavy——"
He opened his eyes, peered into mine.
"You!" he gasped.
"Yes, 'tis I, Father—Henry Ormerod!"
"My enemy! France's enemy!"
"Not your enemy! And never France's unless she wills it. I am come here to save you."
"How may that be?" he asked dumbly. "Are you alone amongst these savages?"
"Alone with my friends whom you know—and one woman."