I made many ineffectual efforts to awake on the morning after my adventure. Fatigue and exhaustion, which seem always heaviest when incurred by danger, had completely worn me out, and scarcely had I succeeded in opening my eyes and muttering some broken words, ere again I dropped off to sleep, soundly, and without a dream. It was late in the afternoon when at length I sat up in my bed and looked about me. A gentle hand suddenly fell upon my shoulder, and a low voice, which I at once recognised as Father Tom's, whispered—
'There now, my dear fellow, lie down again. You must not stir for a couple of hours yet.'
I looked at him fixedly for a moment, and, as I clasped his hand in mine, asked—
'How is she, father?'
Scarcely were these words spoken when I felt a burning blush upon my cheek. It was the confidence of long months that found vent in one second—the pent-up secret of my heart that burst from me unconsciously, and I hid my face upon the pillow, and felt as though I had betrayed her.
'Well—quite well,' said the old man, as he pressed my hand forcibly in his own. 'But let us not speak now. You must take more rest, and then have your arm looked to. I believe you have forgotten all about it.'
'My arm!' repeated I, in some surprise; while, turning down the clothes, I perceived that my right arm was sorely bruised, and swollen to an immense size. 'The rocks have done this,' muttered I. 'And she, father—what of her, for heaven's sake?'
'Be calm, or I must leave you,' said the priest 'I said before that she was well. Poor boy!'
There was something so touching in the tone of the last words that without my knowing why, I felt a kind of creeping fear pass across me, and a dread of some unknown evil steal over me.
'Father,' said I, springing up, and grasping him with both my hands, while the pain of my wounded arm shot through my very heart, 'you are an honest man, and you are a man of God: you would not tell me a lie. Is she well?' The big drop fell from my brow as I spoke.