“Thank God!” she exclaimed, fervently clasping her hands. “But oh! how can it have happened? It must be a miracle!”
“No, it was your plunge into the river; I have heard of one or two such cases before, and if ever I take it,” said Ormiston, half laughing, half shuddering, “my first rush shall be for old Father Thames. Here, drink this, I am certain it will complete the cure.”
The girl—she was nothing but a girl—drank it off and sat upright like one inspired with new life. As she set down the glass, she lifted her dark, solemn, beautiful eyes to his face with a long, searching gaze.
“What is your name?” she simply asked.
“Ormiston, madame,” he said, bowing low.
“You have saved my life, have you not?”
“It was the Earl of Rochester who reserved you from the river; but I would have done it a moment later.”
“I do not mean that. I mean”—with a slight shudder—“are you not one of those I saw at the plague-pit? Oh! that dreadful, dreadful plague-pit!” she cried, covering her face with her hands.
“Yes. I am one of those.”
“And who was the other?”