I pulled out the stopper. I applied the flask to the lips of the unconscious Calros, pouring into his mouth a portion of the Catalonian spirit.
The effect was almost instantaneous. His bosom began to heave, his breath issued forth more freely, his glazed eyes showed signs of reanimation.
The girl could scarcely be restrained from repeating her fond embraces.
Presently the eyes of the invalid seemed to see—almost to recognise. His lips moved, as though he was endeavouring to speak, but as yet there came forth no sound.
Once more I applied the flask, pouring into his throat nearly a wine-glassful of the Catalan.
In less than a score of seconds the dose produced its effect—made known by a movement throughout the frame of the Jarocho, and a muttered whisper proceeding from his lips.
Again the girl would have strangled him with her passionate caresses. Judging from the joy with which she witnessed his resuscitation, her affection for him must have been boundless.
“Keep away from him!” I said, adding to the verbal caution a slight exertion of physical force. “There is scarcely an ounce of blood in his body, that is why he has fainted; that and the shock caused by the threat of—”
I did not choose to disquiet her by repeating what appeared to be a dreaded name. “Excitement of any kind may prove fatal. If you love him stay out of his sight; at least for a while, till he recover strength sufficient to bear your presence.”