He felt the sort of icicle that had petrified his breast melt, and his heart beat like that of his fellowmen.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "I was indeed ungrateful to God when life still holds such joys for me." And he fell sobbing upon Madame de Montrevel's neck without thinking of Sir John, who felt his English phlegm disperse as he silently wiped away the tears that flowed down his cheeks and moistened his lips.

The child, the mother, and Roland formed an adorable group of tenderness and emotion.
Suddenly little Edouard, like a leaf tossed about by the wind, flew from the group, exclaiming: "Sister Amelie! Why, where is she ?" and he rushed toward the house, repeating: "Sister Amelie, wake up! Get up! Hurry up!" And then the child could be heard kicking and rapping against a door.
Silence followed.

Then little Edouard shouted: "Help, mother! Help, brother Roland! Sister Amelie is ill!" Madame de Montrevel and her son flew toward the house.

Sir John, consummate tourist that he was, always carried a lancet and a smelling bottle in his pocket.

He jumped from the carriage and, obeying his first impulse, hurried up the portico.