"I don't know what to do when they faint," I replied.
"There's ways and ways," he responded. "Some say to shake them, but I can't bring myself to that; some say to pat their chins and say 'chuck-a-bunny!' but I have no skill for that either. Do you think—if we could get her out o' the chaise—and let her be rained on—"
"No, no," I said, controlling a violent desire to laugh. "I'll calm her, Jack. Perhaps she has recovered."
As we advanced through the rain in the dim radiance of the chaise-lamps, I looked curiously at Mount, and he up at me.
"Lord," he murmured, "how you have changed, lad!"
"You, too," I said, for he was haggard and dirty and truly enough in rags. No marvel that the lady had fainted at first sight o' him, let alone his pistol thrust through the chaise-window.
"Poor old Jack," I said, softened by his misery. "Why did you desert me after you had saved my life? I owe you so much that it were a charity to aid me discharge the debt—or as much of it as I may."
"Ho!" he muttered. "'Twas no debt, lad, and I'm but a pottle-pot after all. Now, by the ring-tailed coon o' Canada, I care not what befalls me, for Cade's gone—or dead—and I've the heart of a chipmunk left to face the devil."
"Soft," I whispered; "the lady's astir in her chaise. Wait you here, Jack! So!—I dismount. Touch not the horse; he bites at raggedness; he'll stand; so—o, Warlock. Wait, my beauty! So—o."
And I advanced to the chaise-window, cap in hand.