Frightened at his immobility, Louis despatched the attendant for a bottle of spirits; then bending over him he caught the emaciated hand to feel the pulse. As he peered anxiously into the withered face, the stranger turned slightly and uttered a few unintelligible words.
The sound of the voice struck him strangely. Bending lower he tried to distinguish the features of the patient; but the semi-obscurity of the room and the disordered hair and beard rendered his examination fruitless.
Then the mulatto's eyes opened slowly; raising his head languidly, his gaze wandered over the room and rested on the familiar objects.
"Where am I?" he murmured. "Is it a dream? My God! my God!"
This time the voice was more distinct and Louis trembled visibly; then a bitter smile came to his lips and he shook his head sadly.
"Alas!" he said, in a low tone, "what illusions sorrow will cause." Then turning to the patient, he added kindly: "Do you feel stronger now?"
At these words, the stranger sat bolt upright, and catching Louis' hand kissed it rapturously.
"There, don't agitate yourself," resumed the young man. "I have done nothing to win your gratitude. Some day I may be able to do more. But tell me how you feel. Was it fatigue or weakness that caused your swoon?"
The old man still remained silent, his head bowed down and pressing
Louis' hand convulsively to his breast.
A singular emotion filled the young man's heart, and the tears came into his eyes as he continued: