Sufficeth it to say, after ten minutes of this treatment, during which Peter’s face had slowly changed, first to a look of rest, and then to one which denoted eagerness, doubt and anxiety, but not pain, that he finally put out his hands and took Leonore’s.
“You have come to me,” he said, “Has he told you?”
“Who? What?” asked Leonore.
“You still think I could?” cried Peter. “Then why are you here?” He opened his eyes wildly and would have risen, only Leonore was kneeling in front of the chair still.
“Don’t excite yourself, Peter,” begged Leonore. “We’ll not talk of that now. Not till you are better.”
“What are you here for?” cried Peter. “Why did you come—?”
“Oh, please, Peter, be quiet.”
“Tell me, I will have it.” Peter was exciting himself, more from Leonore’s look than by what she said.
“Oh, Peter. I made papa bring me—because—Oh! I wanted to ask you to do something. For my sake!”
“What is it?”