of her silent, peering attitude, knowing only that a deep, ominous excitement thrilled her to the very centre of her soul.
He had sunk exhausted on the narrow white bed, a thin, pathetic figure in a faded, mended silk dressing-gown, with a tired white face and black eyes that glowed like coals. His hands were clinched between his knees, his head hung upon his breast. His voice was weak and strained now, no longer the deep tone that had waked her, and his quaint broken English, as if he saw her there before him, was sadder than any eloquence.
" 'But you will go to ze doctorre—promise me you will go.' Ah, mon Dieu, Mlle. Sabine, what good is zat? I want no doctorre—me; I want my home! To you, what is it? But only a strange land, a new people, a voyage, and you come back. Ah, me, I am twelve years away! Twelve years away!
" 'You work too hard, you need rest.'
