'Your Highness must save yourself as much as possible,' comes in cordial echo from M. de Lalain. 'We could ill spare you now.'
'What would we do if Monseigneur fell?' adds another.
And then an angelic voice breaks in suddenly, saying with sweet compassion:
'Fie, Monsieur my guardian, to weary Monseigneur so! Cannot you see that he is fainting?'
But Gilles hardly hears. Tired nature is asserting her rights over him at last. He sinks wearied upon the nearest step. It seems to him as if soft arms are thrown around him, whilst others—more powerful and insistent—busy themselves dexterously with his jerkin.
It is all very vague and infinitely sweet. Soft linen is laid upon his wounded shoulder, something pungent and sweet-smelling is held to his nostrils, whilst from very far away, in the regions of dreams and of paradise, a soft voice murmurs with angelic solicitude:
'Think you it will heal?'
'Very quickly, gracious lady,' a gruff voice replies. ''Tis only a flesh wound. Excitement hath brought on a brief swoon. It is nothing.'
After which Gilles remembers nothing more.