The Rocks of Valpré | Page 4

murmured piteously.
"Have patience, mademoiselle! It will be better in a moment," came the
quick reply. "I shall not hurt you more than is necessary. It is to arrest
the bleeding, this. Mademoiselle will endure the pain like a brave child,
yes?"
Chris swallowed a little shudder. The dizziness was passing. She was
beginning to see more clearly, and her gaze travelled with dawning

criticism over the neat white figure that ministered so confidently to her
need.
"I knew he'd be French," she whispered half aloud.
"But I speak English, mademoiselle," he returned, without raising his
black head,
"Yes," she said, with a sigh of relief. "I'm very glad of that. Must you
pull it any tighter? I--I can bear it, of course, but I'd much rather you
didn't if--if you don't mind."
She spoke gaspingly. Her eyes were full of tears, though she kept them
resolutely from falling.
"Poor little one!" he said. "But you are very brave. Once more--so--and
we will not do it again. The pain is not so bad now, no?"
He looked up at her with a smile so kindly that Chris nearly broke
down altogether. She made a desperate grab after her self-control, and
by dint of biting her lower lip very hard just saved herself from this
calamity.
It was a very pleasing face that looked into her own, olive-hued, with
brows as delicate as a woman's. A thin line of black moustache outlined
a mouth that was something over-sensitive. He was certainly quite a
captivating fairy prince.
Chris shook the thick hair back upon her shoulders and surveyed him
with interest. "It's getting better," she said. "It was a horrid cut, wasn't it?
You don't know how it hurt."
"But I can imagine it," he declared. "I saw immediately that it was
serious. Mademoiselle cannot attempt to walk."
"Oh, but I must indeed!" protested Chris in dismay. "I shall be drowned
if I stay here."
He shook his head. "Ah no, no! You shall not stay here. If you will

accept my assistance, all will be well."
"But you can't--carry me!" gasped Chris.
He rose to his feet, still smiling. "And why not, little one? Because you
think that I have not the strength?"
Chris looked up at him speculatively. She felt no shyness; he was not
the sort of person with whom she could feel shy. He was too kindly, too
protecting, too altogether charming, for that. But he was of slender
build, and she could not help entertaining a very decided doubt as to his
physical powers.
"I am much heavier--and much older--than you think," she remarked at
length.
He laughed boyishly, as if she had made a joke. "_Mais c'est drôle,
cela_! Me, I have no thoughts upon the subject, mademoiselle. I believe
what I see, and I assure you that I am well capable of carrying you
across the rocks to Valpré. You lodge at Valpré?"
Chris nodded. "And you? No," hastily checking herself, "don't tell me!
You live in the Magic Cave, of course. I knew you were there. It was
why I came."
"You knew, mademoiselle?" His eyes interrogated her.
She nodded again in answer. "You have lived there for hundreds of
years. You were under a spell, and I came and broke it. If I hadn't cut
my foot, you would have been there still. Do you really think you can
lift me? And what shall you do when you come to cross the rocks?
They are much too slippery to walk on."
He stooped to raise her, still smiling. "Have no fear, mademoiselle! I
know these rocks by heart."
She laughed with a child's pure merriment. "Oh, I am not afraid, preux
chevalier. But if you find me too heavy--"

"If I cannot carry the queen of the fairies," he interrupted, "I am not
worthy of the name."
He had her in his arms with the words, holding her lightly and easily, as
if she had been an infant. His eyes smiled reassuringly into hers.
"So, mademoiselle! We depart for Valpré!"
"What fun!" said Chris.
It seemed she was to enjoy her adventure after all, adverse
circumstances notwithstanding. Her foot throbbed and burned, but she
put this fact resolutely away from her. She had found the knight, and,
albeit he was French, she was very pleased with him. He was the
prettiest toy that had ever yet come her way.
Possibly in this respect the knight's sentiments resembled hers. For she
was very enchanting, this English girl, fresh as a rose and gay as a
butterfly, with a face that none called beautiful but which most paused
to admire. It was the vividness, the entrancing vitality of her, that
caught the attention. People smiled almost unwittingly when little Chris
Wyndham turned her laughing eyes their way; they