"What--what is it?" whispered Andrew.
And again the lips moved, though with the same result, while still from Debrasques' eye shone the look of intelligence--of comprehension.
Andrew tried now another method. Debrasques could not tell him what was in his thoughts, but, at least, he could make signs, though with his eyes alone; he would question him, and, by a lucky chance, might hit on some suggestion--strike some chord that would fathom the other's meaning.
"You are not surprised at--at this disappearance?" he asked therefore. Then the eyes of the other told him by the bright glance that shot into them that here, at least, he had questioned aright. The Marquis was not surprised!
"You do not think he is dead?" And again, as he watched the other's face, he saw that he had surmised correctly. The eyelids closed over the eyes for a moment, and, next, the latter looked out brightly at him from beneath the re-opened lids. It was not death that, to Debrasques' mind, had caused his cousin's disappearance.
"What then? Why go? Oh! Valentin," for so he sometimes now addressed the young man, "if you could but speak one word, only one."
But this he could not do, try as he might. So that Andrew, seeing how painful the effort was to him, desisted from his questioning almost as soon as he had commenced it.
Yet, even as he busied himself about the room, making his pillows more comfortable, arranging the bed clothes, and doing other kindly services, he observed that the Marquis seemed struggling to regain his speech--that he had something to tell him.
Suddenly, as still he mused on what Debrasques might mean, there came back to his memory the manner in which De Bois-Vallée had received the wild shout of his cousin, the words: "Traitor! Scoundrel! I have told him all." He recalled the look on the Vicomte's face, the glance of hatred he had darted at that cousin, followed by the look of fear which had seemed to blanch his countenance, as, digging his spurs into his already jaded horse, he had ridden off towards Holtzheim.
The look of fear! Ay! that was it. It must be. For, not knowing that Debrasques was delirious from his injuries, he had believed that, whatever revelations he had to make, had in truth been made. Vause, he doubtless thought, now knew as much of some mystery that lay beneath his own conduct as Debrasques knew himself. And, dreading him more than before, had therefore disappeared. Andrew felt certain that, in this surmise, he had hit the mark. He knew it; it was borne in upon him!