“How can I serve you? You have but to ask.”
“I wish I could think that,” was the quick answer, with a flash from her eyes. “But first for this,” and she rapidly bared the wound, revealing an arm and shoulder of surpassing beauty of form. “Can you bind this up?” For the moment I was amazed at this complete abandonment of all usual womanly reserve. The action was deliberate, however, and I read it as at once a sign of her trust and confidence in me, and a test of my honour. The hurt was not serious. The man’s blade had pierced the soft white flesh of the shoulder, but had not penetrated deep; and I had no difficulty in staunching the blood and binding it up.
“It is not a serious wound,” I said reassuringly. “I am glad.”
“That is no fault of the dastard who struck at me. It was aimed at my heart.”
She showed not the least embarrassment, but appeared bent on making me feel that she trusted me as implicitly as a child. When I had bound up the wound she resumed her dress, taking care to put the stains of blood out of sight; and then, with a few swift, graceful movements, for all the stiffness of the hurt, she coiled up the loose tresses of her hair.
When she had finished she went to a cabinet, and, taking wine and glasses, filled them.
“You will pledge me?” and she looked the invitation. “We women are so weak. I am beginning to feel the reaction.”
I was putting the glass to my lips when she stopped me.
“Stay, I wish to know to whom I owe my life?”
So powerful was the strange influence she exerted that I was on the point of blurting out the truth, that I was Gerald Winthrop, an Englishman, when I steadied my scrambled wits, and, mindful of my secret mission in the country and of the part I was playing, I replied: