Before we got there the shouts had ceased, and in their place we heard a torrent of amazed oaths and knew that Uncle George had lighted on Torode.
"Dieu-de-dieu—de-dieu-de-dieu-de-dieu!" met us as we drew near. "What in the name of the holy St. Magloire is this?" cried he, as soon as he saw us. He had lit his lantern, his head was bound round with a bloody cloth and he was bending over the bed.
"We had a visitor," I said jauntily, for the sight of him was very cheering, even though he seemed all on his beam-ends, and maybe the sight of a basket he had dropped on the ground went no small way towards uplifting my spirits.
"Thousand devils!" he said furiously,—and I had never in my life seen him so before.—"A visitor!—Here! But it is not possible—"
I pointed to the wounded man. "It is Monsieur Torode from Herm. We had a discussion, and he got hurt."
"Torode!" he said, and knelt hastily, and held his lantern so that the light fell full on the dark face, and peered into it intently, while we stood wondering.
His eyes gleamed like venomous pointed tools. He stared long and hard. Then he did a strange thing. He put his hand under Torode's black moustache and folded it back off his mouth, and drew back himself to arm's length, and stared and stared, and we knew that some strange matter was toward.
And then of a sudden he sprang back with a cry,—great strange cry.
"My God! My God! it is he himself!—Rachel!" and he reeled sideways against the wall.
"Who?" I asked. And he looked very strangely at me, and said—