And Rette, wondering and vaguely touched, complied.
McElroy was looking, after his habit, at the leaping flames and his thin hands played absently and constantly with the covering of the bed, when the door opened and closed and the little maid stood shrinking against it.
He did not look up for long, thinking, if his dull mind could form a thought through his melancholy dreams, that Ridgar had come in.
At last a sigh that was like a gasp pierced his lethargy and he raised his eyes.
She stood with one small hand over her beating heart and her cheeks white in the firelight.
“Ah! little one!” he said gently. “Why did you come through such a night? 'Tis wild as—as—Sit in the big chair,” he added kindly.
But Francette, in whose face was an unbearable anguish, came swiftly and fell on her knees beside the bed, raising her eyes to his.
“M'sieu!” she cried, with great labouring breaths. “Oh! M'sieu, I have come to confess! If there is in your good heart pity for one who has sinned beyond pardon, give it me, I pray, for love of the good God!” McElroy stared down at her in wonder.
“Confess? Sinned?” he said. “Why, little one, what can a child like you know of sin? 'Tis only some blunderer like myself who should speak its damnable name.”
“Nay, nay! Oh, no! No! No! Not on you is there one lightest touch, M'sieu, but on me,—me—me—does rest the weight of all!”