I kicked out a wad of cool moist turf, and clapped it in a pad over the wound, my handkerchief under.  For his body, he was shaken and bruised, but otherwise not seriously hurt.

Presently he came to himself; to himself in the best sense of the word—­for Camille was sane.

I have no explanation to offer.  Only I know that, as a fall will set a long-stopped watch pulsing again, the blow here seemed to have restored the misplaced intellect to its normal balance.

When he woke, there was a new soft light of sanity in his eyes that was pathetic in the extreme.

“Monsieur,” he whispered, “the terror has passed.”

“God be thanked!  Camille,” I answered, much moved.

He jerked his poor battered head in reverence.

“A little while,” he said, “and I shall know.  The punishment was just.”

“What punishment, my poor Camille?”

“Hush!  The cloud has rolled away.  I stand naked before le bon Dieu.  Monsieur, lift me up; I am strong.”

I winced as I complied.  The palm of my hand was scorched and blistered in a dozen places.  He noticed at once, and kissed and fondled the wounded limb as softly as a woman might.

“Ah, the poor hand!” he murmured.  “Monsieur has touched the disc of fire.”

“Camille,” I whispered, “what is it?”

“Monsieur shall know—­ah! yes, he shall know; but not now.  Monsieur, my mother.”

“Thou art right, good son.”

I bound up his bruised forehead and my own burnt hand as well as I was able, and helped him to his feet.  He stood upon them staggering; but in a minute could essay to stumble on the homeward journey with assistance.  It was a long and toilsome progress; but in time we accomplished it.  Often we had to sit down in the blasted woods and rest awhile; often moisten our parched mouths at the runnels of snow-water that thridded the undergrowth.  The shadows were slanting eastwards as we reached the clearing we had quitted some hours earlier, and the goats had disappeared.  Petitjean was leading his charges homewards in default of a human commander, and presently we overtook them browsingly loitering and desirous of definite instructions.

I pass over Camille’s meeting with his mother, and the wonder, and fear, and pity of it all.  Our hurts were attended to, and the battery of questions met with the best armour of tact at command.  For myself, I said that I had scorched my hand against a red-hot rock, which was strictly true; for Camille, that it were wisest to take no early advantage of the reason that God had restored to him.  She was voluble, tearful, half-hysterical with joy and the ecstasy of gratitude.

“That a blow should effect the marvel!  Monsieur, but it passes comprehension.”

All night long I heard her stirring and sobbing softly outside his door, for I slept little, owing to pain and the wonder in my mind.  But towards morning I dozed, and my dreams were feverish and full of terror.