“What hast thou, my friend, speak, for the love of God,” said the lady of Maufant, while her sister’s reluctant eye glanced at him, through unshed tears with yet more tender inquiry.

“A scratch, no more,” said Alain, tightening the scarf on his left arm, which showed stains of new blood.  “I am but now landed in Boulay Bay, and a militia-sentry discharged his matchlock at me as I ran down the lane under the battery.  They are indifferent marksmen, my good compatriots, and their pieces make small impression compared with Cromwell’s snaphaunces.”

Rose tenderly unbound the bandage, found a mere flesh-wound, to which she applied some lint steeped in styptic, and restored the ligature in a manner more effective.

“Remets-toi Alain, reprends ton haleine, et dis-nous ce que c’est,” said she, after paying these quasi-maternal attentions to the fugitive.  “And first tell me, how bears himself my Michael, and what greeting sends he to his home?”

But before Alain could answer there came a knocking at the gate:  and the scared ladies had barely time to dismiss Le Gallais by a side door almost hidden in the wainscot before Elliot entered, hat in hand, and looking shy and breathless in the leaping light of the hearth.

“Pardon me, fair ladies,” he stammered, “have you any welcome for an old friend.”

The two women leaned against each other, even more embarrassed than, for a moment, was their visitor.  They seemed to remember the voice, yet could not speak to much purpose for the beating of their scared pulses.  But it is not easy for female self-love to be deceived.  The boy had not changed so much in turning into man but that the face of an old love could resume its familiarity.

“’Tis Mr. Elliot,” presently said Marguerite, addressing her sister in English.  “Mr. Chevalier, the Centenier, told you of his return but yesterday when we went to the market at S. Helier.  I admire to see him here so soon.”

Rose advanced, with the restored self-possession of a lady on her own hearth, and gave the visitor her hand.  “Welcome back to Jersey, Mr. Elliot.  Time hath dealt kindly with you:  you are almost grown to man’s estate.”

The young Scot flushed, somewhat angrily, at this equivocal compliment.  “What Time hath done with me I cannot tell,” said he, with less than his wonted ease, “save that nothing Time can do can avail to quench old feelings.  This is the first liberty that I have had since we landed.  I have used it to lay myself at your feet.”

The ladies resumed their seats, motioning Tom to the place between them, just vacated by Le Gallais:  and the talk soon ran into easier grooves.

“I have that to say,” continued the page, “that may shake your spirits, fair ladies.  What I have listened to this day it may cost me my ears to have heard.  But,” with an air of important resolution, “cost what it may, I will not nor cannot keep it from you.”