"Percy! Percy!" she shrieked hysterically, tortured between doubt and hope, "I am here! Come to me! Where are you? Percy! Percy!. . .""It's all very well calling me, m'dear!" said the same sleepy, drawly voice, "but odd's life, I cannot come to you: those demmed frog-eaters have trussed me like a goose on a spit, and I am weak as a mouse. . .I cannot get away."And still Marguerite did not understand. She did not realise for at least another ten seconds whence came that voice, so drawly, so dear, but alas! with a strange accent of weakness and of suffering.
There was no one within sight. . .except by that rock. . .Great God!. . .the Jew!. . .Was she mad or dreaming?. . .
His back was against the pale moonlight, he was half crouching, trying vainly to raise himself with his arms tightly pinioned.
Marguerite ran up to him, took his head in both her hands. . .
and look straight into a pair of blue eyes, good-natured, even a trifle amused--shining out of the weird and distorted mask of the Jew.
