"De Croix," I whispered, "make no alarm; I am Wayland."
"Wayland!" I could mark the amazement in his tone, as he instantly sat upright, peering through the gloom in the direction whence my voice came. "Mon Dieu! You are here? You saw all of it?"
"Ay," I answered, reaching out and groping in the darkness until I grasped his hand. "You have had a hard time, my lad; but the worst is over, and hope remains for us both."
He shuddered so violently I could feel the spasm shake his body.
"'Twas not the dying," he protested; "but did you see her, Wayland? Merciful God! was it really a living woman who stood there, or a ghost returned from the other world to haunt me and make living worse than death?"
"You mean the sister who interposed to save you?" I asked. "She was as truly alive as either of us. Think you she is not a stranger?"
He groaned, as if the confession was wrung from him by the terror of eternal torment.
"Mon Dieu! She is my wife!"
"Your wife?"
"Ay, my wife,—Marie Faneuf, of Montreal."