He thought he was dreaming, yet on instinct he rose, staggering slightly, for sharp pain was still darting through his head and temples.
“Madame! Pardon me! Was I sleeping?”
“You were, and rest again. You look ill,” she said gently, and there was, for a moment, less of that accent in her voice, which the night before had marked so distinctly, so pointedly, the line of demarcation between a Princess of Spain and a soldier of Africa.
“I thank you; I ail nothing.”
He had no sense that he did, in the presence of that face which had the beauty of his old life; under the charm of that voice which had the music of his buried years.
“I fear that is scarcely true!” she answered him. “You look in pain; though as a soldier, perhaps, you will not own it?”
“A headache from the sun—no more, madame.”
He was careful not again to forget the social gulf which yawned between them.
“That is quite bad enough! Your service must be severe?”
“In Africa, Milady, one cannot expect indulgence.”