"They have brought something to show you, Clément," she went on, as slowly as if counting her words—"something that you have missed for many years."
She opened the box and flashed the earrings before his eyes. He started up, and in a voice of anguish he cried, "The star buttons!"
"He recognizes! he remembers!" cried Véra.
"Remember?" he exclaimed—"remember what? A ship ploughing the Gulf—" He stopped, pressed his hands madly to his forehead. "Down, down, demon pain!" Then the words came pouring out like a torrent: "Light breaks through the night. A ship crosses the Gulf: a woman begs me, for the sake of her I love, to go with her—to save her father. He is in prison, he has murdered a man, but he is old: she loves him—she kneels to me. I promised to help him escape: I did my best. I said Florine could wait. I left my trunk in an old man's counting-room. We laid our plans, but we failed in all. The father was shot like a dog; I was captured; I was sent up the country for trial. Months in prison: free at last to fly to Florine, to find my bride. Now, now, now, it comes to me. I was too late: Florine had been murdered by the Indians!"
He flung his arms above his head and fell to the floor. We were in a state of the wildest excitement.
"Oh, he is saved! I am sure of it!" cried Véra. "Go now, dear young ladies: he must not see you when he comes to himself. Ze carriage is waiting. I will see you again."
"But we leave New Orleans to-morrow," said Lilly.
"I will write to you. You are my friends for life."
Lilly hastily scribbled an address on a card. "Here is my address," she said: "you will surely write?"
"Yes, yes! Heaven bless you!" She seized Lilly's hand and kissed it. "You shall hear from me: you shall find that Véra Gardiné is not ungrateful."