d kissed and fondled the wounded
limb as softly as a woman might.

"Ah, the poor hand!" he murmured. "Monsieur has touched the disc of
fire."

"Camille," I whispered, "what is it?"

"Monsieur shall know--ah! yes, he shall know; but not now. Monsieur, my
mother."

"Thou art right, good son."

I bound up his bruised forehead and my own burnt hand as well as I was
able, and helped him to his feet. He stood upon them staggering; but
in a minute could essay to stumble on the homeward journey with
assistance. It was a long and toilsome progress; but in time we
accomplished it. Often we had to sit down in the blasted woods and rest
awhile; often moisten our parched mouths at the runnels of snow-water
that thridded the undergrowth. The shadows were slanting eastwards
as we reached the clearing we had quitted some hours earlier, and the
goats had disappeared. Petitjean was leading his charges homewards in
default of a human commander, and presently we overtook them browsingly
loitering and desirous of definite instructions.

I pass over Camille's meeting with his mother, and the wonder, and fear,
and pity of it all. Our hurts were attended to, and the battery of
questions met with the best armour of tact at command. For myself, I
said that I had scorched my hand against a red-hot rock, which was
strictly true; for Camille, that it were wisest to take no early
advantage of the reason that God had restored to him. She was voluble,
tearful, half-hysterical with joy and the ecstasy of gratitude.

"That a blow should effect the marvel! Monsieur, but it passes
comprehension."

All night long I heard her stirring and sobbing softly outside his door,
for I slept little, owing to pain and the wonder in my mind. But towards
morning I dozed, and my dreams were feverish and full of terror.

The next day Camille kept his bed and I my room. By this I at least
escaped the first onset of local curiosity, for the villagers naturally
made of Camille's restoration a nine-days' wonder. But towards evening
Madame Barbiere brought a message from him that he would like to see
Monsieur alone, if Monsieur would condescend to visit him in his room. I
went at once, and found him, as Haydon found Keats, lying in a white bed,
hectic, and on his back. He greeted me with a smile peculiarly sweet and
restful.

"Does Monsieur wish to know?" he said in a low voice.

"If it will not hurt thee, Camille."

"Not now--not now; the good God has made me