But his ears are open, and he hears a speech pleasanter than any yet spoken.
It is in the shape of a soliloquy--a few words softly murmured.

They are, "_Ay de mil_ 'Tis true what Conchita says, and as Valerian told me.
_He is, indeed, handsome--beautiful_!" More than ever Hamersley endeavours to counterfeit sleep, but he can resist no longer.

Involuntarily his eyes fly open, and, with head upraised, he turns towards the speaker.
He sees what he has been expecting, what he beheld in fancy throughout his long, delirious dream--the fair form and beautiful face that so much interested him, even in that hour when life seemed to be forsaking him.
It is the angel of the desert, no longer in huntress garb, but dressed as a lady.
There is a red tinge upon her cheek, that appears to have flushed up suddenly, as if suspecting her soliloquy has been heard.

The words have but parted from her lips, and the thought is yet thrilling in her heart.
Can he have heard it?
He shows no sign.
She approaches the couch with a look of solicitude, mingled with interrogation.

A hand is held out to her, and a word or two spoken to say she is recognised.