The voice was as unfamiliar as the little dark face that peered into his, yet he smiled, muttering faintly that all was well—or would be if he might have a draught of brandy.
His request evidently fell on deaf ears. But presently a flask was put to his lips. Not brandy, or anything like it, yet the long drink of milk, which he swallowed thirstily, revived him, and he sat up.
A little peasant-girl, in picturesque Breton dress, stood by his side, surveying him with mingled curiosity and awe.
Cécile's lessons might have stood him in good stead had his brain been less confused. As it was, he was content to let this sympathetic friend guide him along the path.
Feeble, staggering steps, with frequent halts when the giddiness overpowered him; but the girl, though small, was stronger than might have been expected, and helped him bravely, till together they reached a little hut close to the pathway.
What followed was but a confused dream to Morice Conyers. He remembered vaguely that an old, white-capped woman came to his side, and that somehow he reached a bed. Then the dream darkened till all became a blank, in which surging waves and roaring winds alone were heard, whilst he drifted helpless and feeble before the tempest.
But morning light told a different tale. Youth, a vigorous constitution, old Nanette's balsam of herbs, or Providence,—which it was Morice did not trouble to consider. All he knew was that he was alive, and thanked God for it, remembering Cécile. Afterwards he recollected that he was hungry.
The white-capped old woman, who had been but a wraith figure the night before, came to his side with a bowl of chestnut soup and black bread.
Coarse fare—but our dainty beau had never tasted a more delicious meal.
Ah! It was good to be alive.