He scarcely dared hope that she would have enough strength to swallow
his strange medicine, but, to his joy, the dry lips parted and clung to
the glass until every drop of the liquid had been drained, then, with a
long sigh of relief, her head fell back, and he laid it gently on the
pillow.
"Have I revived her, or--killed her?" he muttered, in a fright.
Another match. If it had been the last one, he must have one glimpse of
her face now.
It lay pale, with shut eyes, and apparently lifeless, on the white
pillow. He felt her pulse hurriedly. A feeble, thread-like pulsation
assured him that life still lingered. He sat down sorrowfully in a
chair by the bed, holding the pulse beneath his finger, waiting sadly
for the last.
Seven o'clock by the light of the last match, and the pulse still
throbbed softly, and, he almost dared to hope, more strongly.
"What does it mean? Has my experiment indeed given her a few more hours
of life?" he wondered, gladly.
It seemed so, for the thread-like pulse gradually grew stronger, and
bending down his head, he caught a faint but regular breathing.
"Marie," he said, softly, and a quickened breath that was almost a gasp
assured him that she heard. "I am here by your side," he went on. "It
is dark, and I have used all the matches, so I can not watch your face
to see if you are better. Can you speak to me, dear?"
"Monsieur," she uttered, faintly, and his heart leaped with joy at the
sound.
"You are better," he exclaimed, and she murmured a faint:
"Yes."
Then she seemed to fall asleep. He fought bravely against the deathly
weakness that was stealing over him. A passionate prayer was in his
heart:
"Lord, send us help before it is too late!"
Hours seemed to pass while he sat there in a strange half-stupor that
most likely would merge into delirium, as hers had done. Oh, the
gnawings of hunger, the pangs of thirst, how terrible they were!
"Yet, thank Heaven, I have lightened hers for a little while by the
life-fluid I freely gave!" he muttered.
Suddenly, in the darkness, a little groping hand fell on his face.
"Are you there still?" asked Marie's voice, weak but clear.
"I am here still," he answered, taking the hand again in his own. The
pulse was much better now. She continued, softly: "I feel stronger, but
I was surely dying when you gave me the sweet, warm milk to drink. It
put new life in my veins, but--" she paused as if a new thought had
struck her mind.
"Well?" he said, gently, and she answered:
"I can not imagine where you found the milk. I hope you had some, too.
It is so reviving. Did you?"
"Yes, plenty," he replied, with a shudder, and she said:
"I am so glad. But how dreary it is all in the dark! Sing again,
please."
It had seemed to him a minute ago that he was almost too weak to speak,
but he made a great effort to please her, although he knew that it
would exhaust his strength all the sooner. He sung with all the power
that remained in his weak lungs. In the darkness and the gloom, the
dear old hymn, learned at his mother's knee in childhood, sounded
sweetly solemn:
"Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!
"Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes,
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain--"
There was a sudden, swift break in the voice that soared upward to
the pitying heavens--his strength had not given out, but something
wonderful had happened.
From over their heads, and seeming to come through the small pipe
provided to ventilate their darksome prison, had come the distinct
sound of a human voice.
"Halloo!"