Closely I watched the pallid face—the poor, peaked face which had looked upon so much that a woman ought not to know exists—but no signal flare came to the waxen cheeks. I took the flask and carefully poured some brandy between the parted lips—poor lips, which I knew had taken kisses not given by love. The fiery liquid trickled down her throat, but there was no movement, no attempt to swallow. I gave more, for this was the sovereign test for life. There came a rigor, so slight that I was not altogether sure of it. More brandy. A shiver passed over the limp form; a choking, gasping sound issued from her throat, followed by a moan of pain. I stood erect, looking down at her intently. Almost imperceptibly the faintest glow showed in the marble pallor of her skin. She was reviving. The danger was past. The gaunt woman crouched at my feet looked up at me mutely, interrogatively.
"Continue to rub her hands and feet," I said. "Keep all her clothing loose. Give her very small quantities of liquor from time to time. She had better not see me immediately on awaking."
Then I took the priest by the hand and silently led him out on the porch. A wooden settee was placed against the railing at one end. I conducted him here, and we sat down. My clothes were still wet, but I gave this no thought.
I proceeded first to assure Father John that his niece was practically out of danger, then recounted everything in detail pertaining to the accident in the river. He listened in eager silence, his expression still one of amazement and distress. I looked at him as I talked. He was a very small man. His skin was yellowish brown, like parchment. His brows projected; his eyes were black and keen; his nose was straight and thin, but quite large. His chin protruded into rather a sharp point, and his mouth was the most sensitive I have ever seen on a man. His lips were beautifully bowed, and had retained their color. They were never in perfect repose, but were constantly beset by what I am tempted to describe as "invisible" twitchings. As I spoke on, he gradually became calmer, after a while relighting his pipe. This seemed to act magically upon him, for soon after he began to smoke the wild expression vanished from his face.
"So you are ze stranger on ze Bal' Knob?" he queried, when I had finished my recital.
"Yes; I am out after health."
"Health?" he repeated, sweeping his keen eyes over my stalwart form in open astonishment.
"I don't appear to be an invalid, I'll admit," I hastened to add. "But something started up in here"—I touched my chest—"and the doctor sent me to the woods."
"Ah! Ze—ze—ze lungs.... You never struck me to have ze consumption. You are ze stron' man."
"It was just a beginning—a fear, rather than an actuality. I have been there a month, and I am already much better."