Truly he has no reason to regret that heart affection, that love for humanity which sent him out to snatch the dusky child of Malta from the fangs of the beast.
Now they have reached a door that is heavily barred, proving that their course has been different from the one by means of which they gained the dungeon.
The woman lays down her lantern and takes away the bars. Then she places her hand on John's arm.
"You saved my child, Chicago; I save you."
She smiles, this dusky daughter of Malta, as if greatly pleased at being able to frame her thoughts in English—smiles and nods at the young doctor.
"But you—she may punish you," he says, and she understands, shaking her head.
"She no dare; I am of Malta; also, I shall see her, this proud mistress, no more," which doubtless means that she intends taking French leave as soon as the Americans have gone.
John takes her hand and presses it to his lips; a dusky hand it is, but no cavalier of old ever kissed the slender member of a lady love with more reverence than he shows.
"Go, it is danger to stay," she says, with something of a look of alarm on her face, as from the interior of the dwelling comes some sort of clamor which may after all only turn out to be the barking of a dog confined in the court where the fountain plays, but which at any rate arouses her fears.
They are only too glad to do so; after being confined in that murky dungeon the outside air seems peculiarly sweet.