"Dear me," he said in disturbed meditation; "dear me!"

She suddenly opened the bedroom door and went in, followed by Nic. The
Regimental Surgeon dropped his mouth and cheeks in his hand reflectively,
his eyes showing quaintly and quizzically above the glasses and his
fingers.

"Well, well! Well, well!" he said, as if he had encountered a
difficulty. "It--it will never be possible. He would not marry her,"
he added, and then, turning, went abstractedly down the stairs.

Ferrol was in a deep sleep when Christine and her brother entered the
chamber. Her face turned still more pale when she saw him, flushed, and
became pale again. There were leaden hollows round his eyes, and his
hair was matted with perspiration. Yet he was handsome--and helpless.
Her eyes filled with tears. She turned her head away from her brother
and went softly to the window, but not before she had touched the pale
hand that lay nerveless upon the coverlet.

"It's not feverish," she said to Nic, as if in necessary explanation of
the act.

She stood at the window for a moment, looking out, then said:

"Come here, Nic, and tell me all about it."

He told her all he knew: how he had come to the old house by appointment
with Ferrol; had tried to get into the store-room; had found the doors
bolted; had heard the noise of a wild animal inside; had run out, tried a