Returning, Mr. Hampton found Allola giving the Athensian a drink from the canvas water jar which always was kept hanging in the draught at the doorway so that evaporation kept the water cool. He was turning over in his mind the possibilities, and wondering which of the many questions crowding for answer he should put. His small stock of Athensian words, moreover, complicated the task. But the other, palpably refreshed and strengthened by his drink, solved a portion of his problem by addressing him in French as he approached.
“Monsieur, doubtless speaks French,” said the Athensian cooly. “This knowledge of my language is deplorable. Let us speak therefore in French.”
“Agreed,” said Mr. Hampton. “Only, let me say that your surprise at my partial knowledge of your language was no greater than mine at hearing such excellent French from your lips.”
“How long have I lain here?” asked the man abruptly.
“Ten days,” said Mr. Hampton.
“And you have cared for me all that time? I must have been very ill.”
“I have cared for you,” said Mr. Hampton gravely. “And you were ill, very ill, you came close to death.”
“Ah,” muttered the Athensian, his eyelids fluttering shut. They remained so a moment, then snapped open with the effect of a camera shutter’s quick flicker. Mr. Hampton was surprised at the vigor of the other’s glance. “And has no attempt been made by others to come and get me?”
“None,” said Mr. Hampton.
“Ah,” said the man once more. Again his eyes closed. Again they opened, and this time they seemed filled with ferocity.