I sat motionless, stiff and numb, but afraid to move for fear of disturbing Desiree.

Presently she stirred again, and, bending over her, I saw her eyes slowly open.  They met my own with a curious, steadfast gaze—­she was still half asleep.

“Is that you, Paul?” she murmured.

“Yes.”

“I am glad.  I seem to feel—­what is it?”

“I don’t know, Desiree.  What do you mean?”

“Nothing—­nothing.  Oh. it feels so good—­good—­to have you hold me like this.”

“Yes?” I smiled.

“But, yes.  Where is Harry?”

“Asleep.  Are you hungry?”

“Yes—­no.  Not now.  I don’t know why.  I want to talk.  What has happened?”

I told her of everything that had occurred since she had swooned; she shuddered as memory returned, but forgot herself in my attempt at a humorous description of Harry’s valor as a hunter of food.

“You don’t need to turn up your nose,” I retorted to her expressive grimace; “you ate some of the stuff yourself.”

There was a silence; then suddenly Desiree’s voice came: 

“Paul—­” She hesitated and stopped.

“Yes.”

“What do you think of me?”

“Do you want a lengthy review?” I smiled.

What a woman she was!  Under those circumstances, and amid those surroundings, she was still Desiree Le Mire.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she said.  “I want to know.  I have never spoken of what I did that time in the cavern—­you know what I mean.  I am sorry now.  I suppose you despise me.”

“But you did nothing,” I objected.  “And you wouldn’t.  You were merely amusing yourself.”

She turned on me quickly with a flash of her old fire.

“Don’t play with me!” she burst out.  “My friend, you have never yet given me a serious word.”

“Nor any one else,” I answered.  “My dear Desiree, do you not know that I am incapable of seriousness?  Nothing in the world is worth it.”

“At least, you need not pretend,” she retorted.  “I meant once for you to die.  You know it.  And since you pretend not to understand me, I ask you—­these are strange words from my lips—­ will you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“My friend, you are becoming dull.  An evasive answer should always be a witty one.  Must I ask you again?”

“That—­depends,” I answered, hardly knowing what to say.

“On—­”

“On whether or not you were serious, once upon a time, when you made a—­shall we call it a confession?  If you were, I offended you in my own conceit, but let us be frank.  I thought you were acting, and I played my role.  I do not yet believe that you were; I am not conceited enough to think it possible.”

“I do not say,” Desiree began; then she stopped and added hastily:  “But that is past.  I shall not tell you that again.  Perhaps I forgot myself.  Perhaps it was a pretty play.  You have not answered me.”