"Pardon, monsieur," she said. It was a contralto voice, of a quality that made his pulses leap.
He stopped short and turned toward her, incredulous that it could be he to whom she had spoken. But there was no one else in sight; and then he saw that her hands were gripped tightly in her lap and that her lips were quivering.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, and took a step toward her. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Oh!" she cried, her face lighting, and a wave of colour sweeping into her cheeks. "Then you are an American!"
"Yes; thank God!"
"So say I!" she echoed. "For myself, I mean. I also am an American. We will speak English, then."
"I should much prefer it," he smiled. "My French is wholly academic—and covered with moss, at that. It doesn't even enable me to get my eggs turned!"
She looked at him, the colour deepening in her cheeks. Dan, looking back, decided that he had never seen such eyes; he could scarcely believe that she was an American. She did not look in the least like one. But she was speaking rapidly.
"I am in trouble," she said, "as the result of my own carelessness. I was crossing these rocks, without watching sufficiently where I was going, and my foot slipped. See," and she swept aside her skirts. "I cannot get it out."
Dan was on his knees in an instant.