Arithelli sat upright in bed; she had pushed back the clothes, and her
long fingers were dragging at the blue scarf. It was knotted at the
back under her plait of hair, and she had almost succeeded in loosening
it. The fatal inertia was passed, and she was beside herself with heat
and pain and the fight for breath.

A couple of strides brought Emile to the bedside. He caught her hands
between his own and drew them down.

"Listen, Arithelli," he said quietly. "You mustn't do that. This is
to cure your throat. It may hurt you now, but to-morrow you will be
better, _voyez-vous_?"

The girl writhed in his grasp, turning her head from side to side. The
wild eyes, the tense, quivering body, made Emile think of some forest
animal in a trap.

The bandage had fallen from her throat and therefore was useless, and
the aromatic scent of the crushed herbs was pungent in the air. He
remembered Michael's injunction, "See that she keeps it on. It's her
only chance."

She was still struggling frantically, and he needed both hands. For a
moment he meditated tying her wrists together, but he decided to trust
to his influence over her to make her do as he wished, she had always
obeyed him hitherto, and he knew that she was perfectly conscious now,
and capable of understanding what he wanted.

He set his teeth and tightened his grip, and spoke again in the same
quiet voice.

"Look at me! That's right. Put your hands down, and keep them so.
You must not touch your throat."

He held her eyes with his own as he spoke, and after a momentary
struggle and shrinking she grew quiet, and he felt her body relax. Her
eyes closed and she sank down against the pillow, turning her face
towards him.

"_Pauvre enfant_!" Emile muttered.

He released her hands and they lay still, and she made no movement to
hinder him as he re-adjusted the bandage.

He stood looking down upon her. A vast compassion shone in the grey
eyes, that she had only seen hard and penetrating. The gesture of mute
abandonment, the ready compliance had appealed to his complex nature,
which he kept hidden under an armour of coldness and cynicism. For an
instant his years of outlawry and poverty were blotted out and he had
gone back to the days in Russia when he had first come into his
kingdom, and had believed women faithful and their honour a thing on
which to stake one's own.

As sweet and yielding Marie Roumanoff had seemed when she had lain in
his