He stared wildly at him, and then around the firelit room.
"Ah!" said Ridgar softly, getting slowly to his feet with a smile at
once tender and exaggeratedly calm. "You have awakened, have you; eh,
lad? Would you sleep the whole night away as well as the day?"
He came to the bed and took McElroy's hand tenderly in his, while he
gave Rette a warning glance.
McElroy tried to rise, but only his head obeyed, lifting itself a bit
from the pillow to fall helplessly back.
He looked up at Ridgar with a look that cut that good man's heart, so
full was it of wild entreaty and piteous grief.
"Maren?" whispered the weak lips. "Maren,--where--?" And they, too,
failed him."
"Safe," said Ridgar gently; "all is well. We are at De Seviere and
there is no need to think. Do you drink a sip of Rette's good broth and
sleep again."
With a sigh of ineffable relief the sick man obeyed like a child,
falling back into the shadows, though this time they were the blessed
shades of the Vale of Healing Rest.
Rette in a corner was wiping her eyes and saying, over and over, a
prayer of thanksgiving for deliverance from death.
With infinite tact Ridgar kept him quiet, promising the tale of what
had happened, and, when the flow of returning life could no longer be
stemmed, he set himself the task of telling what he knew of those swift
days.
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