“Tell me,” I murmured, striving to restrain the leaping of my heart.
“Well, you deserve some reward. Her first word was ‘Tavernay!’”
“Yes,” I said, my eyes suddenly misty; “she had just seen me dragged away to be hanged.”
“And when we told her what had befallen you she ran to where you lay——”
“But her ankle,” I broke in. “Did you know——”
“Yes, but she had forgotten it. She ran to where you lay; she washed and dressed your wound; she had you borne hither on a litter; and she remained beside you until yesterday—until, in a word, it was certain that you would recover.”
“Then she has gone?” I asked. “She has gone?” and my heart seemed to stop in my bosom.
“Yes, she has gone.”
“But her ankle?” I protested. “Oh, how she must have suffered!”
“She did not suffer at all,” said Marigny. “When she at last had time to remember her injury she found that it no longer existed. She attributed its cure to you.”