“‘Dip this handkerchief in the lake and bring water in the cup of the flask. Quick—have you not seen a woman faint before?’
“The steward stared with increasing wonder.
“‘Himmel,’ he cried—‘a little brandy upon her lips, now.’
“‘Would you choke her, imbecile? Get the water, before I lay my whip upon your shoulders!’
“The man ran to the brink of the lake, for they had just passed the town of Jézero, and bringing the water and the wetted handkerchief, he helped his master to bathe Christine’s forehead and to chafe her hands. Count Paul had not followed the great war of the year ’70 for nothing. There was no better surgeon in the State. So well did he treat the patient whom God had put in his path that anon she opened her eyes, and the name upon her lips was neither that of her lover nor of the shepherd. Excellency, she spoke of me, crying for Father Andrea.
“‘Girl,’ said the Count in his brusque way, now wetting her lips with the brandy, ‘how did you come here?’
“The question was repeated, but she had no strength to answer him, only crying for me again, and then shutting her eyes as though she would sleep.
“‘I am tired,’ she said; ‘oh, I sink through the ground. Let me rest, Andrea; it is well with me here.’
“Her voice was weak when she spoke, yet it was sweet as of old time—a plaintive, winning voice, captivating as the note of a bird. Count Paul the recluse, accustomed to the grating tones of the native women, thought it the prettiest voice he had heard.
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘you are right; this is no peasant woman. I am going to carry her to the house. Let the white room be prepared—and hot wine. Do you hear me—the white room and hot wine!’