In this one he recognised her to whose salvation Chance had first led
him, and now found time to appreciate a face of pallid loveliness,
intelligent and composed, while she addressed him quietly and directly
to the point in a voice whose timbre was, he fancied, out of character
with the excellent accent of its French. An exquisite voice,
nevertheless. English, he guessed, or possibly American, but much at
home in France....
"Monsieur d'Aubrac has been wounded, a knife thrust. It will be
necessary to get him to a surgeon as quickly as possible. I fancy there
will be none nearer than Nant. Do you know the way?"
"One can doubtless find it," said Duchemin modestly. "But I myself am
not without knowledge of wounds. Perhaps..."
"If monsieur would be so good."
Duchemin knelt beside the man, who welcomed him with open eyes and a
wry smile that was almost as faint as his voice.
"It is nothing, monsieur--a clean cut in the arm, with some loss of
blood."
"But let me see."
The young girl in whose lap rested the head of Monsieur d'Aubrac sat
back and watched Duchemin with curious, grave eyes in which traces of
moisture glimmered.
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