She went to the window and passed out on to the balcony. Sarrion had, in obedience to her wishes, gone to his room. He was now sitting on a long chair on the balcony, apparently watching the dawn.
"Of what are you thinking as you sit there watching the new light in the mountains?" she asked gaily.
He looked at her with a softness in the eyes which usually expressed a tolerant cynicism.
"Of you," he answered. "I heard the murmur of your voices. You need not tell me that he has recovered consciousness."
"He wants to see you," she said. "I think he was surprised not to see you--to see only me--when he regained his senses."
There was the faintest suspicion of resentment in her voice.
"But I thought that the apothecary said that he was to be kept absolutely quiet," said Sarrion, rising.
"So he did. But he is only a man, you know, just like you and Marcos--and he doesn't understand."
"Oh!" said Sarrion meekly, as he followed her. She led the way into Marcos' room. She was as fresh and rosy as the morning itself, with the delicate pink and white of the convent still in her cheeks. It was on Sarrion's face that the night's work had left its mark.
"Here he is," she said. "He was not asleep. Is it a secret? I suppose it is--you have so many, you two."