e
world.

It was I awoke her after all.

I was pondering whether we should not make our way out by the tunnel, for
if we stopped there much longer we should starve. And the idea had struck
me all of a heap, that if any ill had befallen George Hamon or my
grandfather we might wait in vain for their coming, when a shout came
pealing down the long and narrow cleft of the cave--

"Carre! Phil Carre!"

I thought it was George Hamon's voice, and the start I gave woke Carette,
and we set off for the rock parlour.

Before we got there the shouts had ceased, and in their place we heard a
torrent of amazed oaths and knew that Uncle George had lighted on Torode.

"Dieu-de-dieu--de-dieu-de-dieu-de-dieu!" met us as we drew near. "What in
the name of the holy St. Magloire is this?" cried he, as soon as he saw us.
He had lit his lantern, his head was bound round with a bloody cloth and
he was bending over the bed.

"We had a visitor," I said jauntily, for the sight of him was very
cheering, even though he seemed all on his beam-ends, and maybe the sight
of a basket he had dropped on the ground went no small way towards
uplifting my spirits.

"Thousand devils!" he said furiously,--and I had never in my life seen him
so before.--"A visitor!--Here! But it is not possible--"

I pointed to the wounded man. "It is Monsieur Torode from Herm. We had a
discussion, and he got hurt."

"Torode!" he said, and knelt hastily, and held his lantern so that the
light fell full on the dark face, and peered into it intently, while we
stood wondering.

His eyes gleamed like venomous pointed tools. He stared long and hard. Then
he did a strange thing. He put his hand under Torode's black moustache and
folded it back off his mouth, and drew back himself to arm's length, and
stared and stared, and we knew that some strange matter was toward.

And then of a sudden he sprang back with a cry,--great strange cry.

"My God! My God! it is he himself!--Rachel!" and he reeled sideways against
the wall.

"Who?" I asked. And he looked very strangely at me, and said--

"Your father,--Paul Martel," and I deemed him crazy.

"My poor Rachel!" he groaned. "We must hide it. She must not know. She must
never know. My God! Why did I blab it out?"

"Uncle George!" I said soothingly, and laid my hand on his shoulder, for I
made sure his wound had upset his brain.

"Give me time, Phil. I am not crazy. Give me time. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" and
he sat down heav