“Cecile?” he said, distinctly.
The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to her throat.
“Dearest?” he said, inquiringly.
Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand and laid her cheek on it, crying silently.
As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to wall. At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at her.
The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she bent over him.
“I want—Graylock,” he whispered. The girl flushed, bent nearer, gazing at him intently.
“Graylock,” he repeated.
“Not now,” she murmured, “not today. Rest for a while.”
“Please,” he said, looking up at her trustfully—“Graylock. Now.”