I did not answer.  I could only stare at him, mutely grateful for such an affection.  In all his wild life he had been true to me, and he had clung to me stanchly in this, my greatest peril.  Thankful that he was here, I searched his handsome person with my eyes.  He was dressed as usual, with care and fashion, in linen breeches and a light gray coat and a filmy ruffle at his neck.  But I thought there had come a change into his face.  The reckless quality seemed to have gone out of it, yet the spirit and daring remained, and with these all the sweetness that was once in his smile.  There were lines under his eyes that spoke of vigils.

“You have been sitting up with me,” I said.

“Of course,” he answered patting my shoulder.  “Of course I have.  What did you think I would be doing?”

“What was the matter with me?” I asked.

“Nothing much,” he said lightly, “a touch of the sun, and a great deal of overwork in behalf of your friends.  Now keep still, or I will be getting peppered.”

I was silent for a while, turning over this answer in my mind.  Then I said:—­

“I had yellow fever.”

He started.

“It is no use to lie to you,” he replied; “you’re too shrewd.”

I was silent again for a while.

“Nick,” I said, “you had no right to stay here.  You have—­other responsibilities now.”

He laughed.  It was the old buoyant, boyish laugh of sheer happiness, and I felt the better for hearing it.

“If you begin to preach, parson, I’ll go; I vow I’ll have no more sermonizing.  Davy,” he cried, “isn’t she just the dearest, sweetest, most beautiful person in the world?”

“Where is she?” I asked, temporizing.  Nick was not a subtle person, and I was ready to follow him at great length in the praise of Antoinette.  “I hope she is not here.”

“We made her go to Les Iles,” said he.

“And you risked your life and stayed here without her?” I said.

“As for risking life, that kind of criticism doesn’t come well from you.  And as for Antoinette,” he added with a smile, “I expect to see something of her later on.”

“Well,” I answered with a sigh of supreme content, “you have been a fool all your life, and I hope that she will make you sensible.”

“You never could make me so,” said Nick, “and besides, I don’t think you’ve been so damned sensible yourself.”

We were silent again for a space.

“Davy,” he asked, “do you remember what I said when you had that miniature here?”

“You said a great many things, I believe.”

“I told you to consider carefully the masterful features of that lady, and to thank God you hadn’t married her.  I vow I never thought she’d turn up.  Upon my oath I never thought I should be such a blind slave as I have been for the last fortnight.  Faith, Monsieur de St. Gre is a strong man, but he was no more than a puppet in his own house when he came back here for a day.  That lady could govern a province,—­no, a kingdom.  But I warrant you there would be no climbing of balconies in her dominions.  I have never been so generalled in my life.”