"Madonna!" he murmured feebly. Then he closed his eyes again, for he was weak from loss of blood and from days and nights of fever and delirium, and he was so afraid that the vision might vanish if he gazed at it too long.
The leech—a kindly man—visited him frequently. Apparently the wound was destined to heal. Life was to begin anew, with its sorrows, its disappointments, its humiliations, mayhap.
Yet a memory haunted him persistently—a vision, oh! 'twas a mere flash—of his madonna standing with her dear, white hand outstretched, betwixt him and death.
It was a vision, of course; such as are vouchsafed to the dying: and the other picture?—nay! that was a fevered dream; there had been no tender, grave eyes that watched him, no woman's smile to promise happiness.
One day M. le Duc d'Aumont came to visit him. He had posted straight from Paris, and was singularly urbane and anxious when he pressed the sick man's hand.
"You must make a quick recovery, milor," he said cordially; "par Dieu! you are the hero of the hour. Mortémar hath talked his fill."
"I trust not," rejoined Eglinton gravely.
M. le Duc looked conscious and perturbed.
"Nay! he is a gallant youth," he said reassuringly, "and knows exactly how to hold his tongue, but Belle-Isle and de Lugeac had to be taught a lesson . . . and 'twas well learned I'll warrant you. . . . As for Gaston. . . ."
"Yes! M. le Duc? what of M. le Comte de Stainville?"