There he had neither home, parents, friends nor lover. Here he possessed at least interests.
A rustling sound behind him made him turn quickly. In the gloom he could only see the outline of a white moving figure. He groped for the matches, struck one and lit a candle.
Arithelli sat upright in bed; she had pushed back the clothes, and her long fingers were dragging at the blue scarf. It was knotted at the back under her plait of hair, and she had almost succeeded in loosening it. The fatal inertia was passed, and she was beside herself with heat and pain and the fight for breath.
A couple of strides brought Emile to the bedside. He caught her hands between his own and drew them down.
"Listen, Arithelli," he said quietly. "You mustn't do that. This is to cure your throat. It may hurt you now, but to-morrow you will be better, voyez-vous?"
The girl writhed in his grasp, turning her head from side to side. The wild eyes, the tense, quivering body, made Emile think of some forest animal in a trap.
The bandage had fallen from her throat and therefore was useless, and the aromatic scent of the crushed herbs was pungent in the air. He remembered Michael's injunction, "See that she keeps it on. It's her only chance."
She was still struggling frantically, and he needed both hands. For a moment he meditated tying her wrists together, but he decided to trust to his influence over her to make her do as he wished, she had always obeyed him hitherto, and he knew that she was perfectly conscious now, and capable of understanding what he wanted.
He set his teeth and tightened his grip, and spoke again in the same quiet voice.
"Look at me! That's right. Put your hands down, and keep them so.
You must not touch your throat."