"I've got a patient on board," he said. "Will you help me?"
"You know that I will—very gladly. Is he here now?"
"It's not he—it's she. That's why I sent for one of her own sex. God help a foreign woman in this part of the world! This is a mere baby. She calls me an 'old, old man.' So I guess she's interesting."
He betrayed no emotion of any kind. His anxiety concerning the child, his perception of the irony of fate directing his footsteps into such strange paths, the baser curiosity which had sent him into the hills, were masked successfully by that clear-cut face. Gabrielle imagined that his act was an impulse of charity, and she was pleased that he had made her the instrument of it.
"Where is this precious derelict, and what has happened to her?"
"She's in the pink saloon. Don't speak of it lightly. She's lost her father, and has not a friend in the world. I knew she would find her way to your heart. Shall we go and see her? The doctor's there now, I guess. We'll have to get our orders."
He led the way to the cabin, and they went in. It was a beautiful room, and his servants already had smothered it in flowers. A young Austrian doctor from Ragusa was trying to give the head stewardess his instructions, and failing as dismally. He turned with relief to Gabrielle, whose German was pretty if not eloquent. The cabin was to be kept as quiet as possible; the patient must be watched zealously in case of sudden collapse. He understood that this was a case of shock, and could know nothing until consciousness returned. His suggestion that a nurse should be fetched from one of the military hospitals was refused almost ungraciously by the English girl he so plainly admired. Gabrielle would play the part herself. She had already removed her furs, and was busy about the cabin where artistic fingers could do so much. It was quite needless for the doctor to repeat his instructions as he was prepared to; she dismissed both him and her host with a wave of the hand which said "begone" as no tongue could have uttered the word.
It was nine o'clock at night before Faber saw her again. His dinghy had gone across to the Wanderer with a message explaining the circumstances, but he himself remained on deck, waiting for news that might be a new echo of this pitiful tragedy. But a few days ago he had entered that beautiful place and discovered the little nomad whose life now hung upon a thread. He had wished to bring happiness to her father and herself, but had failed beyond repair. Money did not help him in the wilds of Albania, nor could money buy one jot or tittle of content for the child of the man he had discovered in the cavern. Had not he himself paid for the journey to Ranovica—a whim which cost the life of a man to whom he owed his very existence? And now the child was his legacy. He stood at the taffrail wondering what unnameable secret she had carried down from the hills.
Perhaps he remembered the multitude of women who had so suffered since God Almighty created a battlefield; but understanding had never come in that way hitherto. Little Maryska—he would have given a good deal of his lavish fortune to have saved her life that night. His heart bounded when Gabrielle came out of the cabin at last to bring him better news of the invalid.
"She is conscious and would see you. I think you had better go down."