I
The Parson turned to the window, weeping.
Kit crossed to comfort him.
"It's all right, sir," he said tenderly, taking the other by the arm.
A hand plucked at his ankle.
"Little Chap," whispered a voice.
The boy looked down.
At his feet, propped on a straw-stuffed haversack against the wall, lay the Gentleman.
Kit was kneeling beside him in an instant.
"O, sir!" he cried, with sobbing heart.
The other tweaked his nose with tender fingers.
"Cela ne fait rien."
"But are you hurt, sir?"
"Pas trop…. Not quite what I was at dawn; and not quite what I shall be at dark."
He was sitting strangely huddled.
"May I see?" begged Kit, fingers at his breast.
"Certainly not," the other replied with his faint chuckle.
"But have they made you comfortable?"
"Quite…. So kind, you English—once you've got your own way. I've been lying here, dreaming and drifting, while the flies buzzed and Sailor on the table there muttered about his Saviour."
The Parson bent over him.
"Sir," he said, "what you must think of me—"
His voice came in gusts.
The other lifted his face.
"Comfort yourself, my friend. In your place I should have done the same."
"I swear to you—" gasped the Parson, broken and blubbering.
The other took his fingers.
"Friend," he said, "you won; but I didn't lose."
The old flicker of swords was in his eyes.
"Defeat can't touch the man who won't admit it. Look at Sailor there! He was impregnable. So am I."