"Let me go, Avoye!" he said, putting his hands on hers that held him, and the sharp change in his voice made her look up in alarm. Her arms went about him very quickly, and, before he quite knew what had happened, he was sitting once more at her side on the settle. But his head, this time, was resting on her shoulder.
Even this he ought not to permit himself. But it was so paradisially sweet, so unspeakably restful, and he was so tired.
"I should not have let you stand," the low voice like the song of a brook was saying in his ear. "Oh, my dearest, now that you are returned, and I can nurse you back to health . . ."
"I am tiring you," he murmured, and tried to move; but she held him.
"No, no, I am as strong as a rock. . . . You have a friend, you say, who nursed you? Aymar, I envy him!"
"Little to envy," he got out, and tried again to move. But he seemed to have neither strength nor will.
Avoye's glance fell on his attenuated hand, lying inert and open in her lap. Her own closed on it. "Aymar, what a hand! And cold! Oh, my dear, my dear!" She caught it to her breast as if to warm it. "And this bandaged arm . . ."
He said nothing, and for a few moments they both sat in absolute silence by the dead hearth. Then he made a great effort, lifted his head, and drew himself away. It was like leaving the gates of Eden, for he knew that he would never sit like that again with his head on her shoulder, with that heavenly feeling of being cared for by her who had always been his first care. And it was his own act which had shut those gates . . . betrayed to it by just that care for her. If he had been a really honourable man he would not have entered Eden now, even for these few blessed moments.
And something was stabbing at his mind, so weary now that it was difficult to discover what it was. At last he captured the thorn.
"Avoye, I have not yet asked after M. de Vaubernier? Is he . . . well?"