Before she knew his intention he was on his knees before her, and had taken the cut foot very gently into his hands.
Chris leaned back, clinging to the boulder. The sunlight danced giddily in her eyes. She felt as if she were slipping over the edge of the world.
"I can't—stand," she faltered weakly.
"No, no, petite! But naturally!" came the reassuring reply. "Be seated,
I beg. Permit me to assist you!"
Chris, being quite incapable of doing otherwise, yielded herself to the gentle insistence of an arm that encircled her. She had an impression—fleeting at the time but returning to her later—of friendly dark eyes that looked for an instant into hers; and then, exactly how it happened she knew not, she was sitting propped against the rock, while all the world swam dizzily around her, and someone with sure, steady hands wound a bandage tightly and ever more tightly around her wounded foot.
"It hurts!" she murmured piteously.
"Have patience, mademoiselle! It will be better in a moment," came the quick reply. "I shall not hurt you more than is necessary. It is to arrest the bleeding, this. Mademoiselle will endure the pain like a brave child, yes?"
Chris swallowed a little shudder. The dizziness was passing. She was beginning to see more clearly, and her gaze travelled with dawning criticism over the neat white figure that ministered so confidently to her need.
"I knew he'd be French," she whispered half aloud.
"But I speak English, mademoiselle," he returned, without raising his black head,