His French sentences seemed lifted above a pervasive hush upon the shore. The native faces wore a curious look of adulation; and Paula marvelled in that they seemed unconscious of this. She was not a Catholic; yet she uttered his name with a thrilling rapture, and with a meaning she had never known before:
"Father Fontanel——"
He turned, instantly divining her inspiration.
"Mr. Stock, who owns the ship yonder, is staying at the Hotel des Palms," she said quickly. "I have a carriage here. I was thinking that the sick woman and her child might be taken to your house in that. Afterward, when she is cared for, you might wish to ride with me to the Hotel—where I also live."
"Why, yes, Child—who are you?"
"Just a visitor in Saint Pierre—a woman from the States."
Her arrangement was followed, and the negro went back to his work. Father Fontanel joined her behind the carriage.
"But you speak French so well," he observed.
"Not a few Americans do. I was grateful that it came back to me here."
"Yes, for I do not speak a word of English," he said humbly.