“‘Now,’ continued the other rapidly, ‘you must free yourself by one supreme effort. If we fail the first time it will be useless to try again. So we must not fail. Are you ready?’
“‘Yes,’ said my father, and with a mighty effort heaved himself up out of the sand. Yet he must have failed, must have sunk deeper than ever, but for that strong arm which helped him, drawing him up and forward to the edge of the cloak, which formed for a moment a little isle of safety.
“But only for a moment. Already the sand was pouring over its edges and it was being rapidly engulfed.
“‘We must get back without it,’ said the unknown. ‘Come.’
“Of the desperate struggle which followed my father never told me much—indeed I doubt if he remembered its details very clearly. They aided each other, encouraged each other, drew each other forward—each determined that the other should be saved—and at the end dropped exhausted, side by side, on the firm sand beyond.
“My father’s rescuer was a young man of Poitiers—the younger son of a good family—and his name was Louis Marie de Benseval.”
I paused. I was indeed somewhat overcome by my own story, and more especially by the memories which it evoked. As for Mlle. de Chambray, she sat with her face so in the shadow that I could scarcely discern her features. She made no comment, only stirred slightly, and I saw her eyes shining up at me.
“I fear I have been prolix,” I said. “I have wearied you. I will try to hasten——”
“Please do not,” she broke in. “You have not wearied me. I wish to hear the whole story. But will you not sit down?” and she made a little inviting gesture.
“No,” I said, resisting it. “I have not yet come to the difficult part. If I should sit there beside you I fear that my courage would fail me.”