"You understand what I say--you see me?" he inquired in a soothing
voice.

"Most assuredly," replied Whittaker, coolly. "Most assuredly, my
father. And I do not think there is much the matter with me."

"Holy Saints, but you go too quickly," laughed the monk. "You will
be wanting next to get up and walk."

"I should not mind trying."

"Ah, that is good! Then you will soon be well. Senorita, we shall
have no trouble with this patient. This, Senor, is the Senorita
Cheyne; in whose house you find yourself, and to whom your thanks
are due."

Whittaker turned in bed to thank her; but instead of speaking, he
quietly fainted. He came to his senses again, and found that it was
evening. The windows of his room were open, and he could see across
the valley the brown hills of Catalonia, faintly tinged with pink.
A nursing sister in her dark blue dress and white winged cap was
seated at the open window, gazing reflectively across the valley.
There was an odour of violets in the room. A fitful breeze stirred
the lace curtains. Whittaker perceived his own travel-worn
portmanteau lying half unpacked on a side table. It seemed that
some one had opened it to seek the few necessaries of the moment.
He noted with a feeling of helplessness that his simple travelling
accessories had been neatly arranged on the dressing-table. A clean
handkerchief lay on the table at the bedside. The wounded man
became conscious of a feeling that he had lost some of the solitary