Yet once more she roused herself, the flame still flickering in the lamp of life, though, now, as she spoke, her words were incoherent and without sequence, making it difficult for him to piece them together.
"My father could not live," she whispered: "He must see me. A night's journey, at least, to Dorchester. And no horses. No horses to be had. None! Ah! what was to do? And nigh fifty leagues--nigh fifty leagues."
"What is she telling me?" Andrew wondered, gazing at her.
"Hark how their hoofs ring upon the ground," she went on, speaking rapidly, strongly also. "Hark! See, too, how the carriage sways; listen to the crack of the whips. And he will live, he tells me; will surely live till I reach him. Live to bless me, his child! Away! On! Always on! Now across a moor, a heath; now a village; and now rest. A change of horses. Ha! we grow nearer. He brings me drink and food; drink, warm and spiced. And, see, the summer dawn is coming; the rooks leave the trees. Soon--soon we shall be there. I can feel the sea breeze on my cheek--feel it, inhale it--we are on the sea. We shall be there soon, he tells me--on the sea."
"On the sea!" muttered Andrew to himself. "On the sea! To reach Dorchester!"
"Over the sea, now. Over. Away. We draw near. Yet. Yet--I do not recognize my own country, my father's land. Why do these people speak the French tongue? What plains, what mountains are these? It is not Dorset; not--not Dorset; the door opens. See, there is Clemence--how she scowls at me--and Beaujos. Ha! look, Andrew; look, he scowls too. Look! Look! Look! Where am I? My God! a prisoner. In his power. Philip! Father! Andrew! Save me. Save me. Save----"
She fell back exhausted, her hands trembling on the coverlet, plucking and clutching at it, too; her hair dank and heavy with wet, her face as marble, and her lips flecked with foam.
"Philip! Philip," she moaned. "Philip, save me!"
"Be calm, Marion, there is none can harm you. I am by your side. Here."
"And Philip?"