“Dear old Gelert, you brave, good doggie,” he ejaculated feebly, in panting whispers. “You’ll have to try and find a third master now!” and then, overcome by the effort, which taxed what little strength was left in him, he swooned away like a dead man—the last distinct impression he had being that of seeing a bright star twinkle out from the opal sky above him as he lay on the battlefield, which seemed to be winking and blinking at him as if beckoning him up to heaven!
His awakening was very different.
On coming to his consciousness again, he felt nice and warm and comfortable, just as if he were in bed; and, opening his eyes, he saw the sweet face of a young girl bending over him.
“I must be dreaming,” he murmured to himself lazily. He felt so utterly free from pain and at ease that he did not experience the slightest anxiety or perplexity to know where he was. He was perfectly satisfied to take what came. “I must be dreaming, or else I am dead, and this is one of the angels come to take me away!”
Chapter Seven.
Madaleine.
“I am glad you are better,” said a soft voice in liquid accents, so close to his ear that he felt the perfumed breath of the speaker wafted across his face.
Fritz stared with wide-opened eyes. “I’m glad you’re better,” repeated the voice; “you are better, are you not; you feel conscious, don’t you, and in your right senses?”