“You’ll go when I return?” he asked.
“If he be awake—yes.”
Bradford smiled to himself, as he passed through the door, murmuring:
“I know your desire, my sweet maid. You want your face to be the first he shall see when he regains consciousness—your voice to be the first he shall hear. Ah! Love may make cowards of men; but it makes angels of women.”
After Bradford left the cabin, La Violette kneeled upon the bare ground at the sleeping man’s side and gazed long and earnestly into his face, moving her lips as though in prayer. Then she timidly took his thin hand between her soft palms and kissed it gently—reverently, again and again. At last he stirred and opened his eyes. The blank stare of delirium was gone; there was intelligence in the look he fastened upon her. Embarrassed, she dropped his hand and drew herself erect, her face aflame. His lips moved; and she caught the faint whisper:
“La Violette.”
She nodded, but placed her finger upon her lips, in token of silence.
“Where am I?” he persisted.
“With friends,” she answered feelingly. “But you are very weak; you must not talk.”