“Don’t think of that. Your duty is to go. Your being here does not make our captivity easier. No”—decidedly, in answer to a glance—“not when you look as you have done lately.”
“What are the conditions? I can’t read to-day.”
“Not to bear arms against the French Army for twelve months from the date of your reaching England, unless an exchange is arranged sooner. It will not be, of course! There is no exchange for détenus. That only means that for one year you will be still a prisoner on parole; only in England instead of in France. It will take you some months to grow strong enough for fighting.”
“I am strong already,” was the answer; and even in those few minutes it was remarkable how his face had changed, gaining a healthier tint and losing its languor, while the very hollows seemed to be already filling up. “One year from the day I arrive in England! Then I must be off at once—not lose a day.”
“Next week,” suggested Jack.
“To-morrow. But I cannot understand. What can have induced the Emperor to free me? Why me more than any other détenu?”
“Ask Mademoiselle de St. Roques,” said Jack; and this brought upon Lucille a flood of questions. She related simply, and in few words, what she had done, not specifying, as she had specified to Jack, the precise manner of description given of Ivor’s health.
Denham lifted her hand to his lips.
“It is you, then, whom I have to thank!” he said, much moved. “But no thanks could repay what you have done. I can never forget this debt.”
Then he turned to Mrs. Baron.