Later in the day--when Marion had been put into a warm and comfortable bed, in which she lay in a stupor for hour after hour--Andrew told him, and gave the Marquis the history of all that had occurred since he quitted the army for a time, after having obtained leave from Turenne to do so.
"And now, Valentin," he said, "since you have recovered sufficiently to do so, and since, also, it seems, poor girl! that Marion will pass away without being able to throw any light on all the mystery which surrounds her abduction from England--her long detention in that house of his--I ask you, I call upon you to tell me----"
But, ere he could proceed further in his demand, they were interrupted by the entrance of Clemence into the room in which they sat--the room in which, a month, ago, he and Jean had meditated on how he should gain admission into the now ruined house of the Wolf of Lorraine.
"She desires to see you," she said, addressing Andrew; "she is now entirely herself again. Yet," and, as she spoke, both the others could see that she had been weeping; that, also, it was with difficulty she kept back her tears. "Yet, it will not, cannot be for long. My God! My God!" she exclaimed, with a sudden wail of anguish, while the great full lips trembled with emotion, and from her large eyes the drops ran down to her cheeks, "she is dying. Will not live through the night! Come to her. Come at once!"
Bidding Debrasques await his return, Andrew arose and followed her. Followed her, recognizing that, if he ever was to hear the whole story of De Bois-Vallée's villainy, it must be now. If what Clemence said was true--if she was not mistaken, and the unhappy girl was close to her end--he must learn all now or never.
He found her sitting up in her bed, her fair hair streaming down behind her back, her eyes sunk deep in their sockets, with, round them, an awful purple blackness; upon her face that look which even those who have never previously seen the signs of swift advancing death understand in a moment. And one quick glance at her from him, who had been so often face to face with death, was sufficient now. No need to speak, to ask any question--that look told all.
He stood before her, by her side--this man who had striven so hard to save her, this rough, valiant soldier, whose life had been risked a dozen times within the last month in the hope that he should bear her off to freedom again; stood before her gazing down on that pallid face, then turned his own away as once--how long ago it seemed now!--he had turned it away from the brother whom he had also seen stretched upon what was soon to be his death-bed.
"Nay," she said, looking up at him--and he was startled, he knew not why, at the calmness of her tones--"Nay! do not turn away. Ah!" for as at her bidding he faced round again, she saw that his eyes were wet with tears, "do not weep. You have been so bold, so strong, so brave, have struggled so hard for me, on my behalf, on Philip's behalf. Do not weep!" and she put out her hand--he felt the clamminess of death upon it!--and clasped his.
He strove to speak, to say some word--yet none came to his lips; he was mute. Yet wondered at himself for being so, remembering how rarely words failed him when wanted--whether gibe, or joke, or defiance to a foe. Could do nothing but seat himself in the deep chair by the bed-head, to which she had motioned him with a glance of her eyes, and hold her hand in his own great brown one. Nor could he think of aught except the two lives which had both been wrecked by the same man, and wonder if words--or, better still, actions--would fail him when at last, and finally (it must be finally this time, he found himself meditating), he and De Bois-Vallée met again.
Then suddenly, breaking in on his thoughts, he heard Marion Wyatt speaking again. The voice clear as before.