"'Twas three full weeks ago," she said. "And it was not in the wood
field--'twas in the wine cellar. Never tell me you do not remember; I--I
could never--ah, Mother of Sorrows! that would be worse than all."
Here was a curious coil, but I could break one strand of it, at least,
and so I did.
"I remember well enough," I hastened to say. "But being here, and seeing
you there in the great chair, carried me back to that other time, making
all the interval stand as a dream. Have I been ailing?"
"You have been terribly near to death, Monsieur John; so near that
Doctor Carew has twice given you over."
"No," said I; "there was no fear of that. I am like that man in the old
German folk tale who made a compact with the Evil One, selling thereby
his chance to die. Death would not take me as a gift, Mistress Margery;
I have tried him too often."
"Hush!" she said; "'tis an ill thing to jest about. Why should you want
to die?"
"Rather ask why I should choose to live. But this is beside the mark.
You should have let me die, dear lady; but since you did not, we must
e'en make the best of it."
She faced me with a smile that struggled with some deeper stirring of
the heart; I knew not what.
"'Tis a monstrous doleful alternative, _n'est-ce pas_? And I must not
let you talk of doleful things; indeed, I must not let you talk at
all--'tis Doctor Carew's order."
So saying, she smoothed the counterpane and straightened my pillows;
and after giving me a great spoonful of some cordial that first set a
pleasant glow alight in me and afterward made me drowsy, she took post
again in the hollow of the big chair and was so sitting when I fell
asleep.
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