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So the dawn came, and flung his torch into the cell at Denise’s feet.

Now that the daylight absolved her from suspense, she turned, a little fearfully, and knelt down beside the bed. The man’s face was in the shadow, so that it looked very sharp and grey to her, yet he was breathing quietly with his lips closed. Only a little blood had soaked through the bandages. Yet Denise knelt watching him, unable to shake off the haunting dread that he might not wake to see another dawn.

Whether it was the daylight playing on his face, or the long gaze of Denise’s eyes, Aymery awoke without so much as the stirring of a hand, and looked up straight into the woman’s face. And for some moments those two stared silently into each other’s eyes.

Aymery half rose upon his elbow, but Denise’s hand went to his unwounded shoulder.

“Lie still,” she said to him, with a pressure of the hand.

He obeyed her, and sank back upon the bed. Denise saw his lips move, but no words came from them. His eyes wandered from her face about the cell, as though the slow consciousness of it all were flowing into his brain. And as the daylight broadened, his mind’s awakening seemed to keep pace with it. He was lying in Denise’s cell, and upon Denise’s bed.