“Does it still pain?” added Blanche.
“No, children; the surgeon of the village would bandage me up in this manner. If my head was carbonadoes with sabre cuts, I could not have more wrappings. They will take me for an old milksop; it is only a blank wound, and I have a good mind to—” And therewith the soldier raised one of his hands to the bandage.
“Will you leave that alone?” cried Rose catching his arm. “How can you be so unreasonable—at your age?”
“Well, well! don’t scold! I will do what you wish, and keep it on.” Then, drawing the sisters to one end of the room, he said to them in a low voice, whilst he looked at the young priest from the corner of his eye: “Who is that gentleman who was holding your hands when I came in? He has very much the look of a curate. You see, my children, you must be on your guard; because—”
“He?” cried both sisters at once, turning towards Gabriel. “Without him, we should not now be here to kiss you.”
“What’s that?” cried the soldier, suddenly drawing up his tall figure, and gazing full at the missionary.
“It is our guardian angel,” resumed Blanche.
“Without him,” said Rose, “we must have perished this morning in the shipwreck.”
“Ah! it is he, who—” Dagobert could say no more. With swelling heart, and tears in his eyes, he ran to the missionary, offered him both his hands, and exclaimed in a tone of gratitude impossible to describe: “Sir, I owe you the lives of these two children. I feel what a debt that service lays upon me. I will not say more—because it includes everything!”
Then, as if struck with a sudden recollection, he cried: “Stop! when I was trying to cling to a rock, so as not to be carried away by the waves, was it not you that held out your hand to me? Yes—that light hair—that youthful countenance—yes—it was certainly you—now I am sure of it!”