"Coward! coward!" she sobbed in anguish, "you have stilled the bravest heart in France!"
"Pray God that I have not," murmured Gaston fervently, as, impelled by some invisible force, he threw the pistol from him, then sank on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
But Mortémar had soon recovered his presence of mind, and had already reached his wounded friend, calling quickly to Jean Marie who apparently had followed in the wake of Madame la Marquise in her wild rush from her coach to the inner room.
Together the two men succeeded in lifting Lord Eglinton and in gently insinuating his body backward into a recumbent position. Thus Lydie—still on her knees—received her lord in her arms. Her eyes were fixed upon his pallid face with passionate intensity. It seemed as if she would wrest from those closed lids the secret of life or death.
"He'll not die? . . ." she whispered wildly; "tell me that he'll not die!"
A deep red stain was visible on the left side, spreading on the fine cloth of the coat. With clumsy though willing fingers, Mortémar was doing his best to get the waistcoat open, and to stop temporarily the rapid flow of blood with Lydie's scarf, which she had wrenched from her shoulders.
"Quick, Jean Marie! the leech!" he ordered, "and have the rooms prepared . . ."
Then, as Jean Marie obeyed with unusual alacrity and anon his stentorian voice calling to ostler and maids echoed through the silence of the house, Lydie's eyes met those of the young man.
"Madame! Madame! I beseech you," he said appalled at the terrible look of agony expressed on the beautiful, marble-like face, "let me attend you . . . I vow that you are hurt."
"No! no!" she rejoined quickly, "only my hand . . . I tried to clutch the weapon . . . but 'twas too late . . ."