Judge Parkerson, indeed, who had been dead for twenty years and more!
"Tell him that—that"—and the hand that was not in the gold went up to the withered forehead, "that—Bertrand Delmandé needs him!"
Madame Delmandé, at sight of the man with his box and his gold, had given a sharp cry, such as might follow the plunge of a knife. She lay now in her son's arms, panting hoarsely.
"Your father, St. Ange,—come back from the dead—your father!"
"Be calm, mother!" the man implored. "You had such sure proof of his death in that terrible battle, this may not be he."
"I know him! I know your father, my son!" and disengaging herself from the arms that held her, she dragged herself as a wounded serpent might to where the old man stood.
His hand was still in the gold, and on his face was yet the flush which had come there when he shouted out the name Bertrand Delmandé.
"Husband," she gasped, "do you know me—your wife?"
The little girl was playing gleefully with the yellow coin.
Bertrand stood, pulseless almost, like a young Actæon cut in marble.