Marguerite did not trust her ears. Half-raising herself on
her hands, she strained every sense to see or hear, to know the
meaning of this very earthly sound.
All was still again for the space of a few seconds; the same
silence once more fell upon the great and lonely vastness.
Then Marguerite, who had listened as in a trance, who felt she
must be dreaming with that cool, magnetic moonlight overhead, heard
again; and this time her heart stood still, her eyes large and
dilated, looked round her, not daring to trust her other sense.
"Odd's life! but I wish those demmed fellows had not hit quite so hard!"
This time it was quite unmistakable, only one particular pair
of essentially British lips could have uttered those words, in sleepy,
drawly, affected tones.
"Damn!" repeated those same British lips, emphatically.
"Zounds! but I'm as weak as a rat!"
In a moment Marguerite was on her feet.
Was she dreaming? Were those great, stony cliffs the gates of paradise?
Was the fragrant breath of the breeze suddenly caused by the flutter
of angels' wings, bringing tidings of unearthly joys to her, after
all her suffering, or--faint and ill--was she the prey of delirium?
She listened again, and once again she heard the same very
earthly sounds of good, honest British language, not the least akin to
whisperings from paradise or flutter of angels' wings.
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