Then it was slowly borne in upon her that that was no dream-voice, no trick of her overburdened mind.

A voice, a living, actual voice had uttered those words in this room, here at her elbow.
She turned, and again she almost screamed; for there, just behind her, his glittering eyes fixed upon her with singular intentness, stood the swarthy, black-haired Italian gaoler they had given her because he had no French.
He had come up so quietly behind her that she had not heard his approach, and he was leaning forward now, with an odd suggestion of crouching in his attitude, like a beast about to spring.

Yet his gaze riveted hers as with a fascination.

And so, while she looked, his lips moved, and from them, in that same voice of her dreams, came from this man who had no French, the words: "Be not afraid, mademoiselle.

I am that blunderer, Garnache, that unworthy fool whose temper ruined what chance of saving you he had a week ago." She stared like one going mad.
"Garnache!" said she, in a husky whisper.