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Updated: May 16, 2025
They put Ferrol to bed, and his wounds were seen to and everything that was necessary was done. A nurse was sent for to look after him, and Sledge decided to stay in the house all night. After all the arrangements had been made, the doctor, before he went away, said to Sledge: "He will recover all right, he is not in the slightest danger; but I don't know who is to break the news to him."
At daylight of the 9th the news was in the hands of the First Lord, who issued instant orders for the blockading squadrons off Rochefort and Ferrol to unite, and to take post one hundred miles west of Cape Finisterre.
Alterations were going on as Madame Lavilette, Ferrol and Christine entered. For some time Ferrol watched the proceedings with a casual eye, but presently he begged his hostess that she would leave the tall, old oak clock where it was in the big hall, and that the new, platter-faced office clock, intended for its substitute, be hung up in the kitchen.
"No, it's not Castine!" he said, as if in reply to her look. In a vague way, however, she felt it to be ominous. The village had no thought or care for anything except the Rebellion and news of it; and for several days Ferrol and Christine lived their new life unobserved by the people of the village, even by the household of Manor Casimbault.
It meant to Ferrol freedom from poverty, misery and financial subterfuge for a moment; and he could be quiet for, as he said, "This confounded cold takes the iron out of my blood." Like all people stricken with this disease, he never called it anything but a cold. All those illusions which accompany the malady were his. He would always be better "to-morrow."
His face quieted, and his body came to its natural pose again, though his eyes retained an active malice. He turned to go. "Remember what I tell you," said Ferrol: "if you publish that lie, you'll not live to hear it go about. I mean what I say." Blood showed upon his lips, and a tiny little stream flowed down the corner of his mouth.
In the dusk, Ferrol and Christine sat in his room: she, defiant, indignant, courageous; he hiding his real feelings, and knowing that all she now planned and arranged would come to naught. Three times that day he had had violent paroxysms of coughing; and at last had thrown himself on his bed, exhausted, helplessly wishing that something would end it all. Illusion had passed for ever.
In this way he was directed to gain a foot-hold in England, and he was to state immediately whether he could accomplish this with his own resources or should require the assistance of the fleet at Ferrol.
The Foxhound had for some days been cruising in the Bay of Biscay, and was one morning about the latitude of Ferrol.
"I should think you'd had enough of pistols for one twenty-four hours." "Do you know, Ferrol, you looked just then so like the robber last night that, for one moment, I half thought! And the pistol, too, looks just the same that silver piece on the butt!" "Oh, yes, this piece for the name of the owner!" said Ferrol, in a laughing brogue, and he coughed a little.
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