Eaton—he still, with the habit of five years of concealment, even thought of himself by that name—awoke to full consciousness at eight o'clock the next morning. He was in the room he had occupied before in Santoine's house; the sunlight, reflected from the lake, was playing on the ceiling. His wounds had been dressed; his body was comfortable and without fever. He had indistinct memories of being carried, of people bending over him, of being cared for; but of all else that had happened since his capture he knew nothing.
He saw and recognized, against the lighted square of the window, a man standing looking out at the lake.
"Lawrence," he said.
The man turned and came toward the bed. "Yes, Hugh."
Eaton raised himself excitedly upon his pillows. "Lawrence, that was he—last night—in the study. It was Latron! I saw him! You'll believe me, Lawrence—you at least will. They got away on a boat—they must be followed—" With the first return of consciousness he had taken up again that battle against circumstances which had been his only thought for five years.
But now, suddenly he was aware that his sister was also in the room, sitting upon the opposite side of the bed. Her hand came forward and clasped his; she bent over him, holding him and fondling him.
"It is all right, Hugh," she whispered—"Oh, Hugh! it is all right now."
"All right?" he questioned dazedly.
"Yes; Mr. Santoine knows; he—he was not what we thought him. He believed all the while that you were justly sentenced. Now he knows otherwise—"
"He—Santoine—believed that?" Eaton asked incredulously.