“You have a look of your father,” said he.  “That was what puzzled me a little.  I was just saying to—­I was just thinking that there was something familiar about you....  Ah, well, we’ve all come down in the world since then.  The Ste. Marie blood, though.  Who’d have thought it?”

The man shook his head a little sorrowfully, but Ste. Marie stared up at him in frowning incomprehension.  The pain had dulled him somewhat.  And presently O’Hara again moved toward the door.  On the way he said: 

“I’ll bring or send you something to eat—­not too much.  And later on I’ll give you a sleeping-powder.  With that head of yours you may have trouble in getting to sleep.  Understand, I’m doing this for your father’s son, and not because you’ve any right yourself to consideration.”

Ste. Marie raised himself with difficulty on one elbow.

“Wait!” said he.  “Wait a moment!” and the other halted just inside the door.  “You seem to have known my father,” said Ste. Marie, “and to have respected him.  For my father’s sake, will you listen to me for five minutes?”

“No, I won’t,” said the Irishman, sharply.  “So you may as well hold your tongue.  Nothing you can say to me or to any one in this house will have the slightest effect.  We know what you came spying here for.  We know all about it.”

“Yes,” said Ste. Marie, with a little sigh, and he fell back upon the pillows.  “Yes, I suppose you do.  I was rather a fool to speak.  You wouldn’t all be doing what you’re doing if words could affect you.  I was a fool to speak.”

The Irishman stared at him for another moment, and went out of the room, closing the door behind him.

So he was left once more alone to his pain and his bitter self-reproaches and his wild and futile plans for escape.  But O’Hara returned in an hour or thereabout with food for him—­a cup of broth and a slice of bread; and when Ste. Marie had eaten these the Irishman looked once more to his wounded leg, and gave him a sleeping-powder dissolved in water.

He lay restless and wide-eyed for an hour, and then drifted away through intermediate mists into a sleep full of horrible dreams, but it was at least relief from bodily suffering, and when he awoke in the morning his headache was almost gone.

He awoke to sunshine and fresh, sweet odors and the twittering of birds.  By good chance O’Hara had been the last to enter the room on the evening before, and so no one had come to close the shutters or draw the blinds.  The windows were open wide, and the morning breeze, very soft and aromatic, blew in and out and filled the place with sweetness.  The room was a corner room, with windows that looked south and east, and the early sun slanted in and lay in golden squares across the floor.