There followed a pause of some duration, during which he must have been alone; then again his unknown friend touched him, patted his shoulder, spoke.
"Here's a hot drink. You will feel better when you have had it.
Afterwards you shall go to bed."
He raised his head and stared about him. Mordaunt, holding a cup of steaming milk that gave out a strong aroma of brandy, was stooping over him. There was another man in the room, evidently a servant, engaged in kindling a fire.
Slowly the vagabond's gaze focussed itself upon Mordaunt's face. He saw it clearly for the first time and gave a slight start of recognition.
"I have seen you before," he muttered, frowning uncertainly. "Where?
Where?"
"Never mind now," returned the Englishman gently. "Drink this. You need it."
He lifted a shaking hand and dropped it again. All the strength seemed to have gone out of him.
"Monsieur will pardon my feebleness," he murmured almost inarticulately.
"I am—a little—fatigued. It is nothing. It will pass."
"Drink!" Mordaunt said insistently.
He held the rim of the cup against the trembling lips, and perforce the Frenchman drank, at first slowly, then with avidity, till at last he clasped the cup in both his quivering hands and drained it.