"Harry," she was whispering, as he stared at her loveliness, "don't you know me?"
"Moira!" he muttered weakly. "I'm not——" But his hands made no movement toward her and a warm flush spread over the part of his face that was visible.
"You've been very sick, Harry. But we came as soon as they'd let us. And you're going to get well, thank the Holy Virgin, and then——"
"I'm not——" the words stuck in Jim Horton's throat. And he couldn't utter them.
"You're not what?" she questioned anxiously.
Another pause of uncertainty.
"I—I'm not—very strong yet," he muttered weakly, turning his head to one side.
And as he said it, he knew that in sheer weakness of fiber, spiritual as well as physical, he had made a decision.
The Satyr behind her laughed softly.
"Naturally," he said, "but ye're going to be well very soon."