"It's Piquette, Monsieur," she repeated, prodding at him and shaking his shoulders.
This time his eyelids opened wider, and he looked at her vaguely. But his lips muttered her name.
"You mus' rouse yourself—you mus'! We are going out of here—at once."
With an effort he struggled up to a sitting posture while she supported him, pinching his shoulders and arms. Then she saw for the first time an earthen pitcher on a stool nearby. There was still some water in it, and she threw it in his face. He sputtered and choked, but she silenced him.
"Quiet—for your life! Dey're upstairs, aren't dey?"
"Yes—upstairs. I—I'm weak as a cat."
"Naturally, but you've got to 'elp yourself. I can't carry you."
"Carry me—no——" He toppled sideways and would have fallen, but she caught him and held him, shaking and pinching him again.
"No. You've got to wake up. Do you hear?" she whispered desperately. "They may come down 'ere at any moment."
A dim notion of what she was talking about seemed to come to him, for with an effort he threw off the heaviness that was coming over him again.