“I trust that scoundrel did not hurt you, mademoiselle?” he said, voice and eyes alike full of solicitude, as she noticed in her swift flitting upward glance when he spoke.
“No, monsieur,” she replied, and could say no more.
“I have set a mark on him to know him by, and he will have a reckoning to settle. By your leave, I will see to this poor fellow’s hurt. I am something of a surgeon. A soldier must be many things,” and with a bow he went over to Denys and bent over him.
This act relieved Gabrielle’s embarrassment, and fear for Denys made her less conscious of her own confusing thoughts. After a moment’s hesitation she knelt down on the other side of the wounded man.
“My poor Denys,” she murmured.
Her companion with quick deft touch found the wound, and after examining it, staunched the blood which was flowing freely.
“An ill sight for your eyes, mademoiselle,” he said.
“I am a soldier’s daughter, monsieur, and accustomed to the treatment of the sick. Is the hurt serious, think you?”
“To the best of my judgment, no, unless there be some internal injury, which is not likely, judging by the direction of the wound. It was a coward’s thrust in truth, but like most coward’s work, ill done, thank Heaven. It is mainly a flesh wound. But a surgeon should see it with as little delay as possible.”
“There will be help from the maison directly. I have sent for it.”