And out of that blessed darkness, and the doubt and the bewilderment, came the sweetest voice in all the world, in a scared whisper, as one doubtful of her own senses—
"Who is it? Who calls?"
"It is I, Carette—Phil Carré;" and in a moment she was against the bars, and my hands touched her and hers touched me.
"Phil!" she cried, in vast amazement, and clung tight to my hands to make sure. "Is it possible? Oh, my dear, is it truly, truly you? I knew your voice, but—I thought I dreamed, and then I thought it the voice of the dead. You are not dead, Phil?" with a doubtful catch in her breath, as though a doubt had caught her suddenly by the throat.
"But no! I am not dead, my dear one;" and I drew the dear little hands through the bars and covered them with hot kisses.
"But how come you here, Phil? What brings you here?"
"You yourself, Carette. What else?"
"Bon Dieu, but it is good to hear you again, Phil! Can you get me out? They carried me off this morning—"
"I know. I reached Sercq this morning, and Krok brought us the word an hour later. I have been trying ever since to find where you were. I knew this place, for I was prisoner here myself for many weeks."