"Well, then, I say this to you. You have not sacrificed me, you have saved me!"
It was perhaps characteristic of her that she did not say anything more. The subject dropped here, and she did not renew it.
It was a hard battle which Denis Oglethorpe fought during the next fortnight, in that small chamber of the wayside inn at St. Quentin; and it was a stern antagonist he waged war against—that grim old enemy, Death.
But, with the help of the little doctor, the vis medicatrix natural, and his three nurses, he gained the victory at length, and conquered, only by a hair's breadth. The fierce fire of the brain wearing itself out, left him as weak as a child, and for days after he returned to consciousness, he had scarcely power to move a limb or utter a word.
When first he opened his eyes upon life again, no one was in the room but Priscilla Gower; and so it was upon Priscilla Gower that his first conscious glance fell.
He looked at her for a minute, before he found strength to speak. But at last his faltering voice came back to him.
"Priscilla," he whispered weakly. "Is it you? Poor girl!"
She bent over him with a calm face, but she did not attempt to caress him.
"Yes," she said. "Don't try your strength too much yet, Denis. It is I."
His heavy wearied eyes searched hers for an instant.