They had improvised a kind of bed on the floor of the small sitting-room; they were standing round him, Maurice and Arthur talking earnestly, the guide only waiting for a sign to do anything that might be desired of him, when suddenly, to their astonishment, the man they had thought utterly insensible looked up and tried to raise himself. He fell back helpless. Then he opened his lips and tried to speak. Maurice stooped over him to catch the words, for his voice was thick and changed. "La fillette!" he murmured; "I saw her." Then, as Maurice pointed out the child fast asleep among the pillows: "It is well," he said quietly, and his head fell back again. He was thinking.
Gradually the events of the night were shaping themselves out of the mists which his long insensibility had thrown over his mind. "I remember," he said at last in a faint, low tone. He beckoned to Arthur, who wondered at the recognition which he read in the face of the stricken man. But the dying have their privileges. Arthur overcame his repugnance and stooped down to listen to his words. "Tell me—" was all he said, pointing to the bed where Laura lay asleep.
The young man understood what he wanted. In as few words as possible he told of his discovery, of Laura's anxiety, of their midnight journey, and once or twice, as his tale went on, a tear rolled down L'Estrange's face, for in spirit as in body the man was overcome.
When it was ended he called Maurice to his side, and held out the only hand over which his will had any power, whispering as he did so, "Is it peace?"
Maurice took the hand and held it in his own. "Forgive me—" he began, but the man interrupted him with something of his old imperiousness.
"Young people," he said, "lie down—rest."
It was, after all, the most sensible, suggestion. They gave him some brandy and hot water, which seemed to revive him; then, as utter weariness had taken possession of Arthur and the guide, they thought it best to obey, Maurice, who had piled fuel on the stove, declaring his intention of watching it and L'Estrange. But he too gave way before long, and the morning light streamed in upon the little chalet parlor, full of prostrate forms stretched out on the floor and wrapped in every kind of material.
Before the full morning light had aroused the weary men Laura had risen from her bed, and had knelt down by her friend to place one of the pillows her father had arranged for her under his head.
He was awake, and he opened his eyes with a smile, but the smile passed into a frown, and Laura feared she had offended him. The fact was, L'Estrange was steeling his heart and hers. He wanted to detach himself from his darling—to accustom himself to do without her—to teach her, if possible to care for him less.
But the little one put it down to pain, and tears filled her eyes "Mon père is worse," she murmured.