Beebee sat herself innocently down on the grass close beside the wounded stranger, and in her sweet musical young voice commenced to read that romantic and spirited poem, while Edgar listened, his eyes on her face, or on the portion of it visible.
She read on and on and on, and the time flew quietly, quickly past.
Presently, however, her quick ears detected the sound of horses’ hoofs, soft though their footfall was upon the long greensward.
“They come,” she cried, rising, and just at that moment the boughs were dashed aside, and Miss Morgan entered the glade, speedily followed by four or five men bearing a litter. The priest himself was with them.
“Ah!” he said in French, “one poor fellow has had his coup de grace. He has gone, I trust, to a better world than this; but you, Monsieur—”
Me bent down and felt Edgar’s pulse, long and anxiously.
A finely-formed man was this French Catholic priest. Very tall, brown with the sun, and bearded.
“You will live,” he said. “You have youth and strength, and you shall have rest and quiet. All will combine to restore you.”
“Thank Heaven,” said Beebee.
She was bending down over me, and I noticed that she was weeping. I licked her hand, and she then took me up and embraced me.