"But where am I?—and you—"
"Listen. You are still in danger, unless you are prudent. Drink this, and then go to sleep. When you waken, I will tell you all that I know of this affair," and she uttered a weary sigh, as she spoke.
"I will mind—you look like an angel," muttered Jack, his heavy lids drooping as he sunk back after quaffing the drink. "I've thought so ever since—that night. And I—I love—you!" The last word being scarcely distinguishable, as he dropped asleep.
The maiden looked astonished, as well she might, since until a few hours before, she had never once suspected the existence of such a personage as Jack Tyrrel.
It was hours before Jack awoke, but then he felt much better, though still very weak and faint from much loss of blood. His brain, though light, did not throb, his flesh was cool and moist.
He was not long in reminding his fair nurse of her promise, and in a few clear sentences she told him all she knew concerning the matter.
Her father—the madman, for such indeed he was—had returned from one of his frequent excursions, bearing the senseless body upon his shoulder, both covered with blood. She could gather nothing from his incoherent ravings, save that he intended offering up his victim as a sacrifice to some imaginary deity. Great as was her influence over him, even in his wildest moods it was with absolute danger to herself that she rescued Jack from his hands. Then, however, he soon calmed down, and watched her dress Tyrrel's wounds with vacant curiosity. This done, she discovered that her father also was wounded; a deep hurt, evidently from a bullet, passing entirely through the left shoulder. Scarcely waiting for this to be dressed, he left the cave, muttering wild threats against some person or persons. That was in the early part of the night; it was now broad day, and she was very uneasy concerning him.
Such, in substance, was her explanation. In return, Jack briefly sketched the events of the past few days.
"And now, lady—"
"Lucy is my name," she simply added.