“Oh,” she said with a breath of relief. “Extremely indirectly, I should say!”
“Besides,” I added, “I wish you to advise me—and your advice will be worth much more to me than M. le Comte’s, or any other’s.”
“Thank you; although that sounds somewhat as if it were a continuation of the riddle. Pray continue.”
“It is necessary that I should go back a little,” I explained. “Thirty years ago my father made a pilgrimage to Mont Saint-Michel to discharge a vow. As he approached the rock across the sands he was suddenly conscious that his horse was having difficulty in proceeding. In a moment more the horse had sunk to his belly and my father perceived that he had blundered into a quicksand. He flung himself from the saddle, and abandoning the beast to its fate,—which indeed nothing could have averted,—endeavored to make his way back to solid ground. He sank to his ankles, to his knees, to his waist. His struggles to escape served only to entangle him more deeply, until at last, seeing them in vain, he set himself to await the end courageously. He glanced around over the sands to make sure that there was no help in sight, then he turned his face toward the cross above the rock and commended his soul to God.
“But the moment he ceased to struggle he robbed the quicksand of its violence. He still sank indeed, but so slowly that at the end of an hour the sand had scarcely reached his breast. He reckoned that it would be three hours at least before the sand covered nose and mouth, but he knew that the tide would end it before that. Nevertheless, hope began to revive a little and again he looked around for aid, but he had evidently wandered some distance from the road, and the only persons passing were so far away that they did not perceive him nor hear his shouts. So again he resigned himself, and the thought even came to him to renew his struggles in order to bring the end more quickly. But he decided that this would be cowardly, if not sinful, and so waited quietly. He was relieved to see that his horse, struggling to the last, had sunk from sight, so that its sufferings were ended.
“He closed his eyes and even dozed a little, for he had been exhausted by his previous efforts, but he was startled wide awake by a voice shouting. The sand had reached his armpits. His arms, extended in front of him, were covered. He turned his head with difficulty and saw a man standing at the edge of the quicksand. He was tearing off his doublet in desperate haste.
“‘Do not venture into it!’ my father cried, comprehending his purpose. ‘I am past saving. Do not endanger yourself. Take a message for me—that is all I ask.’
“The other did not answer, but spread out his cloak before him and advanced across it. He sank somewhat, it is true, but his feet were not entangled in the sand. At the edge of his cloak he spread his doublet, stepped upon it and drew his cloak after him. But that moment almost proved his ruin, for he had sunk nearly to his knees before he got his cloak spread out again. My father watched him with bated breath as he freed himself and crept forward to the edge of it.
“‘Your hand,’ said the stranger; and he stretched out his own.
“My father disentangled one of his arms and grasped the hand extended to him.