Ste. Marie opened his eyes with none of the dazed bewilderment that he might have expected.  The events of the preceding day came back to him instantly and without shock.  He put up an experimental hand, and found that his head was still very sore where he had struck it in falling, but the ache was almost gone.  He tried to stir his leg, and a protesting pain shot through it.  It burned dully, even when it was quiet, but the pain was not at all severe.  He realized that he was to get off rather well, considering what might have happened, and he was so grateful for this that he almost forgot to be angry with himself over his monumental folly.

A small bird chased by another wheeled in through the southern window and back again into free air.  Finally, the two settled down upon the parapet of the little shallow balcony which was there to have their disagreement out, and they talked it over with a great deal of noise and many threatening gestures and a complete loss of temper on both sides.  Ste. Marie, from his bed, cheered them on, but there came a commotion in the ivy which draped the wall below, and the two birds fled in ignominious haste, and just in the nick of time, for when the cause of the commotion shot into view it was a large black cat, of great bodily activity and an ardent single-heartedness of aim.

The black cat gazed for a moment resentfully after its vanished prey, and then composed its sleek body upon the iron rail, tail and paws tucked neatly under.  Ste. Marie chirruped, and the cat turned yellow eyes upon him in mild astonishment, as one who should say, “Who the deuce are you, and what the deuce are you doing here?” He chirruped again, and the cat, after an ostentatious yawn and stretch, came to him—­beating up to windward, as it were, and making the bed in three tacks.  When O’Hara entered the room some time later he found his patient in a very cheerful frame of mind, and the black cat sitting on his chest purring like a dynamo and kneading like an industrious baker.

“Ho,” said the Irishman, “you seem to have found a friend!”

“Well, I need one friend here,” argued Ste. Marie.  “I’m in the enemy’s stronghold.  You needn’t be alarmed; the cat can’t tell me anything, and it can’t help me to escape.  It can only sit on me and purr.  That’s harmless enough.”

O’Hara began one of his gruff laughs, but he seemed to remember himself in the middle of it and assumed an intimidating scowl instead.

“How’s the leg?” he demanded, shortly.  “Let me see it.”  He took off the bandages and cleansed and sprayed the wound with some antiseptic liquid that he had brought in a bottle.  “There’s a little fever,” said he, “but that can’t be avoided.  You’re going on very well—­a good deal better than you’d any right to expect.”  He had to inflict not a little pain in his examination and redressing of the wound.  He knew that, and once or twice he glanced up at Ste. Marie’s