Not comprehending her in the least, Pierre stared at her, with a great fear that her mind was really unsettled by all the terrible scenes through which she had passed.
“Is it what?” he asked, coming to her side, and she replied:
“Bring the light. I must see the face of this young man. I cannot wait till morning.”
“But, mademoiselle,” Pierre remonstrated, “think of the danger to him. Christine’s orders were to let him sleep; he was not to be disturbed.”
“Nor shall I disturb him; but I shall see him. Bring the light!” Queenie said, peremptorily, as she moved to the other side of the bed, toward which the sick man’s face was turned.
Carefully pushing down the pillow, so as to bring the features more distinctly to view, Queenie stood for one brief instant gazing upon them; then, turning to Pierre, she whispered:
“Nearer, Pierre; hold the lamp a little nearer, please.”
He obeyed her, and as the full rays of the light fell upon the white, pinched face of the sleeper, Queenie threw her arms high in the air, and, in a voice Pierre would never have recognized as hers, cried out:
“Oh, Pierre, Pierre! it is—it is—my Phil—come back to me again! Christine! Christine! come, and help!”
It was a loud, wailing cry, and the next moment Queenie lay across the foot of the bed, where she had fallen in a death-like swoon, while over her bent Christine. She had not left the house at all, but had sat below, waiting for some such denouement when the truth should become known to Queenie.