"Then you think—you think——"
"She recognized you. Could you not see it—that note in her voice as of one who wakes from a long sleep? That was why I stopped you from throwing aside the window-curtains. The light of the burning city—it might have brought back the memory of that night at the keep."
"And for the same reason you have kept yourself out of sight," said Constans, coldly.
The man trembled. "Yes; I am afraid," he answered, and Constans, for all his bitterness of heart, was fain to pity him.
A series of muffled explosions startled them. Quinton Edge moved softly towards the outer door. "The fire must be coming nearer," he whispered. "I will make sure of our position and return within a few minutes. Hush! she is sleeping again."
But when Constans went and stood by the couch, Issa was looking at him with wide-opened eyes.
"Constans—little brother," she said, weakly, and yet with an infinite content. He dropped to his knees beside her and tried to answer, but could not.
"Surely it must be close to morning now," she went on, slowly. "I can hear the doves cooing on the tiles, the wind is blowing over the water-meadows, and the lark is in the blue—ah, God! how beautiful this dear world of ours! It is the May-time, little brother, and the arbutus will be in bloom—the shy, pink blossoms that nestle on the sunny slopes of the rocks and at the roots of the birch-trees. We will gather them—you and I—and bring them home to deck our lady mother's chamber. The May-bloom—it is in the air. How sweet—how sweet!"
Constans, following the look in her eyes, saw a low table standing against the opposite wall. Upon it was a bowl filled with the delicate arbutus—fresh and fragrant as though but lately gathered. He went softly across the room and despoiled the bowl of a spray. She took it from him eagerly. Then the violet eyes clouded.
"I cannot remember—it must be that I am still so tired—it is strange. The morning—it cannot be far distant—now——"