e answered. "I will get a
mouthful of food and return, for I would be by when he wakes."

Then their voices sank so low that as they withdrew I caught not what
was said. The door closed softly and for a space there was silence,
broken at last by a sigh above my head. With an answering sigh I
opened wide my eyes and feasted them upon the lovely face of Yvonne de
Canaples, as she bent over me with a look of tenderness and pity that at
once recalled to me our parting when I was arrested.

But suddenly meeting the stare of my gaze, she drew back with a
half-stifled cry, whose meaning my dull wits sought not to interpret,
but methought I caught from her lips the words, "Thank God!"

"Where am I, Mademoiselle?" I inquired, and the faintness of my voice
amazed me.

"You know me!" she exclaimed, as though the thing were a miracle. Then
coming forward again, and setting her cool, sweet hand upon my forehead,

"Hush," she murmured in the accents one might use to soothe a child.
"You are at Canaples, among friends. Now sleep."

"At Canaples!" I echoed. "How came I here? I am a prisoner, am I not?"

"A prisoner!" she exclaimed. "No, no, you are not a prisoner. You are
among friends."

"Did I then but dream that Montresor arrested me yesterday on the road
to Meung? Ah! I recollect! M. de Montresor gave me leave on parole to go
to Reaux."

Then, like an avalanche, remembrance swept down upon me, and my memory
drew a vivid picture of the happenings at St. Sulpice.

"My God!" I cried. "Am I not dead, then?" And I sought to struggle up
into a sitting posture, but that gentle hand upon my forehead restrained
and robbed me of all will that was not hers.

"Hush, Monsieur!" she said softly. "Lie still. By a miracle and the
faithfulness of Michelot you live. Be thankful, be content, and sleep."

"But my wounds, Mademoiselle?" I inquired feebly.

"They are healed."

"Healed?" quoth I, and in my amazement my voice sounded louder than it
had yet done since my awakening. "Healed! Three such wounds as I took
last night, to say naught of a broken head, healed?"

"'T was not last night, Monsieur."

"Not last night? Was it not last night that I went to Reaux?"

"It is nearly a month since that took place," she answered with a smile.
"For nearly a month have you lain unconscious upon that bed, with the
angel of Death at your pillow. You have fought and won a silent battle.
Now sleep, Monsieur, and ask no more questions until next