‘A very strange proceeding, Monsieur,’ said the priest, frowning.
I knelt down and touched poor Anatole’s chill face, but Mademoiselle had no word. She could only stand and stare in haggard amazement.
‘I have not asked your opinion, Monsieur. It is your help I desire,’ said Dr. Vermont, with an unabated ferocity of pride.
‘Am I not shot?’ asked Anatole vaguely, opening his eyes and glancing about in terror.
He made an instinctive gesture to feel for the wound on his forehead, and sat up straight. He was wild and giddy, and, seeing me first, could not take his eyes off my face; he even stretched out his hand in awe to touch me.
‘But for that confounded darkness, we might have had him in shelter long ago,’ muttered Dr. Vermont. ‘Julien and Gaston have gone to look for a lamp. Can you stand, Anatole?’ he asked the bewildered youth.
Anatole stood up quite promptly, without any assistance. The rain fell from every part of his form in rills, and, as he shook himself free, he breathed a deep, happy sigh.
‘Great God! I am saved,’ he murmured, and staggered forward.
‘Will nobody explain this hideous mystery?’ shouted the chaplain, like ourselves on the verge of hysterics from emotion.
Dr. Vermont, standing with the lantern in his hand, shrugged impertinently, and a ray of light glancing off his pale face, revealed its enigmatic smile.