f the nurses and doctors, Cardo still lived.

"Extraordinary vitality! Has he never spoken a word?"

"Never a sound or a word until he began moaning to-day."

"Good sign, this moaning. Mind, keep up his strength."

And gradually, under the constant care of Doctor Belton, who was much
interested in the case, Cardo, or Charles Williams as he was now
called, recovered strength of body; and, to a slight extent,
restoration to consciousness; for though he lay inert and motionless,
his lips moved incessantly in a low muttering or whispering, in which
the nurses in vain endeavoured to find a clue to the mystery of his
illness.

CHAPTER XII.

A CLIMAX.

A bitter north wind, laden with sleet and rain, blew over Abersethin
Bay, tearing the surface into streaks of foam. The fishing boats were
drawn up on the grassy slope which bordered the sandy beach, and
weighted with heavy stones. The cottage doors were all closed, and if
a stray pedestrian was anywhere to be seen, he was hurrying on his way,
his hands in his pockets and his cap tied firmly under his chin. On
the cliffs above, the wind swirled and rushed, blowing the grass all
one way and sweeping over the stunted thorn bushes. In the corners
under the hedges, the cows and horses sheltered in little groups, and
the few gaunt trees which grew on that exposed coast groaned and
creaked as they bent away from the storm.

At Dinas the wind blew with bitter keenness through every chink and
cranny, roaring and whistling round the bare gray house, rattling the
doors and windows with every angry gust. In the little parlour at the
back of the house it was not heard so plainly. A bright fire burned in
the grate, and the crimson curtains gave it a look of warmth and
comfort which Essec Powell unconsciously enjoyed. He was sitting in
his arm-chair and in his favourite position, listening with great
interest to Valmai, who was reading aloud in Welsh from the
"Mabinogion." The tale was of love and chivalry, and it should have
interested the girl more than it did the old man who listened with such
attention, but her thoughts refused to follow the thread of the story.
She stopped occasionally to listen to the wind as it howled in the
chimney. All through the short, dark afternoon she read with untiring
patience, until at last, when the light was fading, Gwen brought in the
tea and put an end to the reading for a time.

Valmai had stayed at Fordsea until her uncle had