Leonie rubbed a gentle hand on the invalid's shoulder; it was presumably the seat of the worst pain. He suffered rheumatism in its most acute form, so the coastguard explained between his throes. He was afraid to seek help from the land, lest his condition should be known and he be removed from his post. Their silence was implored with tears and prayers—he would give them food and shelter if they would keep his secret. They promised assuringly.
Meanwhile the lad had disappeared into the inner room—it suggested a combined kitchen and workshop—and came back dangling from his arm some fragmentary portions of his wardrobe, which he displayed with pride.
"If madame would condescend?" he hinted.
At the word "madame" Leonie blushed delightedly.
He led the way into the kitchen, and deposited the dry clothes on a chair.
Ralph remained by the sick man, rubbing the afflicted limb, and expressing himself in the vilest French he knew in hope to imitate the local jargon.
He spoke sufficiently to crave bread and drink, and to learn that these were only obtained when fetched from the land in the island boat. His son, the coastguard said, was seldom allowed to go ashore, lest he should commit himself and divulge the fact that illness kept his sire from duty. Fortunately the boat had been provisioned that morning, and there was food for several days.
During the conversation the artist adjusted the coastguard's overcoat and trousers, which latter were three inches too short for his lengthy British limbs.
Presently a transformed Leonie emerged from the inner chamber. "An ideal fisher boy," the painter thought, as his enraptured eye travelled up and down the coarse blue clothing. When it reached some loose locks of her shining hair he became puzzled. She, divining his thought, felt in the pocket of her newly-acquired coat, and drew forth a maze of gold, soft as fleece of raw silk fresh from the cocoon, and gave it him.