enveloped me, to their surface, where intelligence and
wakefulness awaited.

And as I felt myself borne up and up in that effortless ascension, my
senses awake and my reason still half-dormant, an exquisite sense of
languor pervaded my whole being. Presently meseemed that the surface
was gained at last, and an instinct impelled me to open my eyes upon the
light, of which, through closed lids, I had become conscious.

I beheld a fair-sized room superbly furnished, and flooded with amber
sunlight suggestive in itself of warmth and luxury, the vision of which
heightened the delicious torpor that held me in thrall. The bed I
lay upon was such, I told myself, as would not have disgraced a royal
sleeper. It was upheld by great pillars of black oak, carved with a
score of fantastic figures, and all around it, descending from the dome
above, hung curtains of rich damask, drawn back at the side that looked
upon the window. Near at hand stood a table laden with phials and such
utensils as one sees by the bedside of the wealthy sick. All this I
beheld in a languid, unreasoning fashion through my half-open lids, and
albeit the luxury of the room and the fine linen of my bed told me that
this was neither my Paris lodging in the Rue St. Antoine, nor yet my
chamber at the hostelry of the Lys de France, still I taxed not my brain
with any questions touching my whereabouts.

I closed my eyes, and I must have slept again: when next I opened them
a burly figure stood in the deep bay of the latticed window, looking out
through the leaded panes.

I recognised the stalwart frame of Michelot, and at last I asked myself
where I might be. It did not seem to occur to me that I had but to call
him to receive an answer to that question. Instead, I closed my
eyes again, and essayed to think. But just then there came a gentle
scratching at the door, and I could hear Michelot tiptoeing across
the room; next he and the one he had admitted tiptoed back towards my
bedside, and as they came I caught a whisper in a voice that seemed to
drag me to full consciousness.

"How fares the poor invalid this morning?"

"The fever is gone, Mademoiselle, and he may wake at any moment; indeed,
it is strange that he should sleep so long."

"He will be the better for it when he does awaken. I will remain here
while you rest, Michelot. My poor fellow, you are almost as worn with
your vigils as he is with the fever."

"Pooh! I am strong enough, Mademoiselle," h