That was what I saw, and could not forbear seeing.  I tried to recall my theory, and to close my eyes to the pathetic beauty of the face before me; but it was altogether in vain.  If I had seen her before, or if I had been prepared to see any one like her, I might have succeeded; but I was completely thrown off my guard.  There the charming face lay:  the eyes gleaming, the white forehead tinted, and the delicate mouth contracting with pain:  the bright, silky curls tossed about in confusion.  I see it now just as I saw it then.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

WITHOUT RESOURCES.

I suppose I did not stand still more than five seconds, yet during that pause a host of questions had flashed through my brain.  Who was this beautiful creature?  Where had she come from?  How did it happen that she was in Tardif’s house? and so on.  But I recalled myself sharply to my senses; I was here as her physician, and common-sense and duty demanded of me to keep my head clear.  I advanced to her side, and took the small, blue-veined hand in mine, and felt her pulse with my fingers.  It beat under them a low but fast measure; too fast by a great deal.  I could see that the general condition of her health was perfect, a great charm in itself to me; but she had been bearing acute pain for over twenty-eight hours, and she was becoming exhausted.  A shudder ran through me at the thought of that long spell of suffering.

“You are in very great pain, I fear,” I said, lowering my voice.

“Yes,” her white lips answered, and she tried to smile a patient though a dreary smile, as she looked up into my face, “my arm is broken.  Are you a doctor?”

“I am Dr. Martin Dobree,” I said, passing my hand softly down her arm.  The fracture was above the elbow, and was of a kind to make the setting of it give her considerable pain.  I could see she was scarce fit to bear any further suffering just then; but what was to be done?  She was not likely to get much rest till the bone was set.

“Have you had much sleep since your fall?” I asked, looking at the weariness visible in her eyes.

“Not any,” she replied; “not one moment’s sleep.”

“Did you have no sleep all night?” I inquired again.

“No.” she said, “I could not fall asleep.”

There were two things I could do—­give her an opiate, and strengthen her a little with sleep beforehand, or administer chloroform to her before the operation.  I hesitated between the two.  A natural sleep would have done her a world of good, but there was a gleam in her eyes, and a feverish throb in her pulse, which gave me no hope of that.  Perhaps the chloroform, if she had no objection to it, would be the best.

“Did you ever take chloroform?” I asked.

“No:  I never needed it,” she answered.

“Should you object to taking it?”

“Any thing.” she replied, passively.  “I will do any thing you wish.”