“He must indeed be a fine fellow!” said Catherine.

Rodin, with his head bowed upon his breast, seemed quite indifferent to this conversation.  The dismay and stupor, in which he had been plunged, only increased upon reflection.  The two girls, who had just been saved, were fifteen years of age; were dressed in mourning; were so like, that one might be taken for the other; one of them wore round her neck a chain with a bronze medal; he could scarcely doubt that they were the daughters of General Simon.  But how could those sisters be amongst the number of shipwrecked passengers?  How could they have escaped from the prison at Leipsic?  How did it happen, that he had not been informed of it?  Could they have fled, or had they been set at liberty?  How was it possible that he should not be apprise of such an event?  But these secondary thoughts, which offered themselves in crowds to the mind of M. Rodin, were swallowed up in the one fact:  “the daughters of General Simon are here!”—­His plan, so laboriously laid, was thus entirely destroyed.

“When I speak of the deliverer of these young girls,” resumed the bailiff, addressing his wife, and without remarking M. Rodin’s absence of mind, “you are expecting no doubt to see a Hercules?—­well, he is altogether the reverse.  He is almost a boy in look, with fair, sweet face, and light, curling locks.  I left him a cloak to cover him, for he had nothing on but his shirt, black knee-breeches, and a pair of black worsted stockings—­which struck me as singular.”

“Why, it was certainly not a sailor’s dress.”

“Besides, though the ship was English, I believe my hero is a Frenchman, for he speaks our language as well as we do.  What brought the tears to my eyes, was to see the young girls, when they came to themselves.  As soon as they saw him, they threw themselves at his feet, and seemed to look up to him and thank him, as one would pray.  Then they cast their eyes around them, as if in search of some other person, and, having exchanged a few words, they fell sobbing into each other’s arms.”

“What a dreadful thing it is!  How many poor creatures must have perished!”

“When we quitted the rocks, the sea had already cast ashore seven dead bodies, besides fragments of the wrecks, and packages.  I spoke to some of the coast-guard, and they will remain all day on the look-out; and if, as I hope, any more should escape with life, they are to be brought here.  But surely that is the sound of voices!—­yes, it is our shipwrecked guests!”

The bailiff and his wife ran to the door of the room—­that door, which opened on the long gallery—­whilst Rodin, biting convulsively his flat nails, awaited with angry impatience the arrival of the strangers.  A touching picture soon presented itself to his view.

From the end of the dark some gallery, only lighted on one side by several windows, three persons, conducted by a peasant, advanced slowly.  This group consisted of the two maidens, and the intrepid young man to whom they owed their lives.  Rose and Blanche were on either side of their deliverer, who, walking with great difficulty, supported himself lightly on their arms.