A few minutes afterward they went out. Louisiana stood at the end of the porch, leaning against a wooden pillar and twisting an arm around it.
"Are ye better?" Mr. Rogers asked. "I am goin' to 'tend to my stock, an' if ye aint, mebbe the camphire—sperrits of camphire——"
"I don't need it," she answered. "I am quite well."
So he went away and left them, promising to return shortly and "gear up their critters" for them that they might go on their way.
When he was gone, there was a silence of a few seconds which Ferrol could not exactly account for. Almost for the first time in his manhood, he did not know what to say. Gradually there had settled upon him the conviction that something had gone very wrong indeed, that there was something mysterious and complicated at work, that somehow he himself was involved, and that his position was at once a most singular and delicate one. It was several moments before he could decide that his best plan seemed to be to try to conceal his bewilderment and appear at ease. And, very naturally, the speech he chose to begin with was the most unlucky he could have hit upon.
"He is charming," he said. "What a lovable old fellow! What a delicious old fellow! He has been telling me about the novel. It is the story of a Frenchman, and his name—try to guess his name."
But Louisiana did not try.
"You couldn't guess it," he went on. "It is better than all the rest. His name was—Frankoyse."
That instant she turned round. She was shaking all over like a leaf.
"Good heavens!" flashed through his mind. "This is a climax! This is the real creature!"