“It hurts!” she murmured piteously.

“Have patience, mademoiselle!  It will be better in a moment,” came the quick reply.  “I shall not hurt you more than is necessary.  It is to arrest the bleeding, this.  Mademoiselle will endure the pain like a brave child, yes?”

Chris swallowed a little shudder.  The dizziness was passing.  She was beginning to see more clearly, and her gaze travelled with dawning criticism over the neat white figure that ministered so confidently to her need.

“I knew he’d be French,” she whispered half aloud.

“But I speak English, mademoiselle,” he returned, without raising his black head,

“Yes,” she said, with a sigh of relief.  “I’m very glad of that.  Must you pull it any tighter?  I—­I can bear it, of course, but I’d much rather you didn’t if—­if you don’t mind.”

She spoke gaspingly.  Her eyes were full of tears, though she kept them resolutely from falling.

“Poor little one!” he said.  “But you are very brave.  Once more—­so—­and we will not do it again.  The pain is not so bad now, no?”

He looked up at her with a smile so kindly that Chris nearly broke down altogether.  She made a desperate grab after her self-control, and by dint of biting her lower lip very hard just saved herself from this calamity.

It was a very pleasing face that looked into her own, olive-hued, with brows as delicate as a woman’s.  A thin line of black moustache outlined a mouth that was something over-sensitive.  He was certainly quite a captivating fairy prince.

Chris shook the thick hair back upon her shoulders and surveyed him with interest.  “It’s getting better,” she said.  “It was a horrid cut, wasn’t it?  You don’t know how it hurt.”

“But I can imagine it,” he declared.  “I saw immediately that it was serious.  Mademoiselle cannot attempt to walk.”

“Oh, but I must indeed!” protested Chris in dismay.  “I shall be drowned if I stay here.”

He shook his head.  “Ah no, no!  You shall not stay here.  If you will accept my assistance, all will be well.”

“But you can’t—­carry me!” gasped Chris.

He rose to his feet, still smiling.  “And why not, little one?  Because you think that I have not the strength?”

Chris looked up at him speculatively.  She felt no shyness; he was not the sort of person with whom she could feel shy.  He was too kindly, too protecting, too altogether charming, for that.  But he was of slender build, and she could not help entertaining a very decided doubt as to his physical powers.

“I am much heavier—­and much older—­than you think,” she remarked at length.

He laughed boyishly, as if she had made a joke. “Mais c’est drole, cela!  Me, I have no thoughts upon the subject, mademoiselle.  I believe what I see, and I assure you that I am well capable of carrying you across the rocks to Valpre.  You lodge at Valpre?”