"Why, Martial!"
"Martial!" exclaimed La Louve, snatching the sleeve of old Férot's jacket, "My man ill?"
"Bless me! Did you not know it?"
"Martial? Do you mean Martial?"
"To be sure I do; but don't hold me so tight, you'll tear my blouse. Now be quiet, there's a good girl. I declare you frighten me, you stare about so wildly."
"Ill! Martial ill? And how long has he been so?"
"Oh, two or three days."
"'Tis false! He would have written and told me of it, had it been so."
"Ah, but then, don't you see? He's been too bad to handle a pen."
"Too ill to write! And he is on the isle! Are you sure—quite sure he is there?"