One time, coming upon him unawares, I saw his lips moving as though he were attempting speech to himself, but as soon as he saw me he set himself once more to his grim silence, and the look in his eyes reminded me somehow of Krok.

On the seventh day, when the doctor asked his usual question, and I as usual replied, he said gravely, “’Cre nom-de-Dieu, I doubt if he will ever speak again.  You see—­” and he went off into a very full and deep explanation about certain parts of the brain, of which I understood nothing except that they were on the left side and controlled the powers of speech, and he feared the bullet and the inflammation it had caused had damaged them beyond repair.  And when I turned to look at Torode the dumb misery in his eyes assured me in my own mind that it was so, for I had seen just that look in Krok’s eyes many a time.

Another whole week I waited, visiting Krok three times in all, and the last time finding him living quite contentedly in the finished house.  And then, Torode having spoken no word, and the doctor saying he could do no more for him, I had him carried down to the boat and took him across to the Ecrehous.

He had been gaining strength daily, and, except for a certain disinclination to exertion of any kind, and his lack of speech, looked almost himself again.  Later on, when he walked and worked, I noticed a weakness in his left arm, and his left leg dragged a little.

At Krok’s suggestion I had bargained for a small boat, and I took him also a further supply of provisions, and flour, and fishing-lines.  And before I left them I thought it right to explain to Torode just what had happened.

He listened in a cold black fury, but fell soon into a slough of despond.  His life was over, but he was not dead.  For him, as for the rest of us, death would, I think, have been more merciful—­and yet, I would not have had him die at my hands.

And so I left the two dumb men on the Ecrehous and returned to Sercq, and of my welcome there I need not tell.

My mother and Aunt Jeanne were full of questionings which taxed my wits to breaking point to evade, especially Aunt Jeanne’s.  She tried to trap me in a hundred ways, leading up from the most distant and innocent points to that which had kept me away so long.  And since truth consists as much in not withholding as in telling, I was brought within measurable distance of lying by Aunt Jeanne’s pertinacity, for which I think the blame should fairly rest with her.

I told them simply that I had been on matters connected with Torode, and would still be engaged on them for some time to come, and left it there.

Carette, of course, understood, and approved all I had done.  She saw with me the necessity of keeping the matter from my mother, lest her peace of mind should suffer shipwreck again, and to no purpose.  Her loving tenderness and thought for my mother at this time were a very great delight to me, and commended her still more to my mother herself.