At that moment Bradford awoke, and, through his half-closed lids, dreamily watched the play before him. He saw La Violette pat the dog’s head and whisper to him. Then she turned her attention to the restless sufferer—renewing the poultice upon his chest, changing the position of his head and gently soothing him to rest, as a mother would quiet a fretful child. It was a pretty picture; and Bradford smiled a self-satisfied smile, as he gazed upon it. He was about to close his eyes, in an attempt to sleep again, when he observed La Violette bend down and passionately kiss the unconscious man’s lips.
“Amy, Amy!” Douglas mumbled, his dry tongue hardly able to shape the words. “Is it you, Amy—and have you come to me at last? I’ve wanted you so long—so long! And you are still true to me? Say that you are, Amy. For I dreamed—or did someone tell me?—that you were false—false!”
La Violette started back as if someone had dealt her a sharp blow. She glanced apprehensively toward Bradford’s couch; but he appeared to be sleeping. Her beautiful face was colorless; her violet eyes were swimming with tears. Bending over her charge, she whispered faintly:
“Who is Amy?”
“Amy, Amy,” Douglas repeated, parrot-like.
“It is not Amy,” she murmured tenderly—lovingly. “It is I—La Violette; and I love you!”
“Ah!” the delirious man ejaculated, and opened his eyes very wide.
She started back. She feared—yet hoped—he had recognized her, understood her meaning. His next words undeceived her, however.
“You—you cannot fool me,” he mumbled huskily. “You are Amy. I—I love you, Amy——”
And then he closed his eyes and lay quiet, the movement of his parched lips alone telling that he was communing with the phantoms that beset his feverish brain.