The Count did not recognize the stranger, though a dim impression of having seen him before floated across his mind; and there was something in his appearance which agreed with the trading captain’s conviction that he was a man of birth and position. In any case Ælius was not one who was inclined to resist such an appeal to his compassion. The stranger, still unconscious, was landed, together with a few effects which were said to belong to him, and at once handed over to the care of Carna. All her diligence and watchfulness as a nurse, and all the skill of the old physician, were wanted before the patient could be brought back to life. For fourteen days he lay hovering on the very verge of death, mostly sunk in a stupor so complete that it was barely possible to perceive either pulse or breath; sometimes muttering in delirium a few broken sentences, of which all that physician and nurse were able to distinguish was that they were certainly Latin, and that they seemed to be verse. It was on the morning of the fifteenth day that there came a change. Carna sat by the window of the sick man’s room. It had a southern aspect, and the sunshine came with a softened brilliance through the thick tinted glass, and brought out the exquisite tints of the girl’s glossy hair, as she sat bending over the embroidery with which she was employing her nimble, never-idle fingers. “By heaven! another, fairer Proserpine!” said the sick man. The girl turned her head at the sound of the clearly pronounced words which her practised ear distinguished at once from the strained or blurred utterances of delirium. She held up her finger to her lips. “Do not speak,” she said; “you have been very ill, and must not tire yourself.” “Lady,” said the sick man, with a smile, “you must at least let me ask you where I am.” “Yes, you shall hear, if you will promise to ask no more questions, but to be content with what you are told. You are with friends, in the island of Vectis, in the house of Ælius, Count of the Saxon Shore. And now be quiet, and don’t spoil all our pains in making yourself ill again.” She gave him a little broth which was being kept hot by the fire in readiness for the time when he should recover consciousness; and after this had been disposed of, and she had found by feeling his pulse that he was free from fever, a small quantity of well diluted wine. “And now,” she said, “you must sleep”—a command which he was ready enough to obey. After this his recovery was rapid. For a time, indeed, the cautious old physician, though he did not forbid conversation, prohibited any reference to business. “You will want, of course,” he said, “to tell your story, and to make your plans for the future; that will excite you, and, till you are stronger, may bring about a relapse. Be content for a while with the ladies’ company”—Ælia, now that no nursing had to be done, was often with her foster-sister—“the Count will see you when I give permission.”