An hour later the sick man opened his eyes and looked around, as though fearing to meet once more the traitor's malign glance.
"What is that you were saying about a promise, and a garden, and a señorita?" whispered the prisoner in the next bed.
"Saying! When?" he asked with a note of mortal anguish.
"Just now, when the vile afrancesado was with you. Have you forgotten?"
The man waited a moment, expecting a reply. None came; the man had fainted.
The afrancesado did not leave Bayonne that night as he intended. Stricken with the prison fever, he took to his bed, and there lay for several weeks, tended with unstinted care by his one-eyed servant. When he recovered from his delirium he was eager to set out, as soon as his strength permitted, on his return journey to Spain, and was amazed to hear from the French commandant that he must consider himself a prisoner.
"Nonsense!" he said; "la prisoner! What have you against me?"
"The prisoner you talked with in the sick ward, monsieur—"
"Is he dead?" asked Miguel eagerly.
"He may be, but his body has not been recovered. His health rapidly mended from the day of your interview with him, and ten days ago he escaped by swimming the Adour—a marvellous feat for a man in his condition."