The girl lay still on the floor where they had left her. She had swooned, and as she returned to consciousness slowly, gradually, her breath came in little gasps through her parted lips and she moaned as she lay. Velasco had dragged himself to his knees and was peering about him, feeling with his hands in the dim waning light. He was muttering to himself in little outbursts of anger and rebellion, rocking his arms to and fro.
"What a hole! What a beastly place! The floor is wet; ugh!—The walls are dank and shiny—things are crawling! Good heavens, something ran over my foot!—It must be a rat, scurrying—scampering! Sapristi! There's another! What a scrape to be in—what a scrape!"
The girl lifted her head and looked at him, straining her eyes for the outline of his shoulders, the mass of his dark curls. He had turned half away and was wringing his hands, feeling them and exclaiming to himself. She crept towards him and stretched out her hand, touching his shoulder.
"Monsieur—Ah, Monsieur Velasco!"
He shuddered away from her: "You, is it you! Are you alive? I thought you were dead! Mon Dieu, I thought I was shut in with a corpse! It is frightful, horrible! I have suffered! God, how I have suffered—the torture of the damned!"
"Monsieur!"
"My hands are cut; I know they are cut! Look, can you see,—are they covered with blood? I am sure I feel it trickling!—Look!"
"No—no, Monsieur, there is no blood."
"I tell you I feel it—and my shoulder, my arm—I shall never be able to play again! I am ruined—ruined—and for what? Why did you come to me? Why didn't you go to someone else—anybody?"
"Ah forgive me, forgive me." The girl crept closer and laid her hand on his shoulder, pathetically as if half afraid. "I shouldn't have gone to you, but—listen, Monsieur—let me tell you—let me explain! I thought there was no danger, not for you, otherwise—Oh, do believe me, not for the world would I have done it! I knew you were an artist; Bobo told us you were going to Germany—I thought—Can you ever forgive me?"