He bowed, offering his hand to conduct her to the coach, where Molyneux and his companions, having drawn Sir Hugh from under his horse, were engaged in reviving and reassuring Lady Rellerton, who had fainted. But Lady Mary stayed Beaucaire with a gesture, and the two stood where they were.
“Monseigneur!” she said, with a note of raillery in her voice, but raillery so tender that he started with happiness. His movement brought him a hot spasm of pain, and he clapped his hand to a red stain on his waistcoat.
“You are hurt!”
“It is nothing,” smiled M. Beaucaire. Then, that she might not see the stain spreading, he held his handkerchief over the spot. “I am a little—but jus' a trifling—bruise'; 'tis all.”
“You shall ride in the coach,” she whispered. “Will you be pleased, M. de Chateaurien?”
“Ah, my beautiful!” She seemed to wave before him like a shining mist. “I wish that ride might las' for always! Can you say that, mademoiselle?”
“Monseigneur,” she cried in a passion of admiration, “I would what you would have be, should be. What do you not deserve? You are the bravest man in the world!”
“Ha, ha! I am jus' a poor Frenchman.”
“Would that a few Englishmen had shown themselves as 'poor' tonight. The vile cowards, not to help you!” With that, suddenly possessed by her anger, she swept away from him to the coach.
Sir Hugh, groaning loudly, was being assisted into the vehicle.