“And how long will he live?”
The surgeon shook his head.
“An hour—a day—perhaps two days. One cannot tell. Let us try to bring him back to consciousness.”
He bathed face and temples with cold water and forced a glass of wine between his teeth. The dying man groaned—coughed feebly—opened his eyes and saw us.
For a moment he lay without moving, his eyes travelling from face to face. Then they rested on M. le Comte, and a bitter smile curved his lips.
“So—you have won!” he whispered.
“Yes—I have won!” but there was more of pity than triumph in M. le Comte’s voice.
Roquefort’s eyes rested on him an instant in puzzled inquiry. He did not understand this change of tone. Then his eyes travelled to the surgeon’s face.
“Am I done?” he asked. “Is this the end?”
The surgeon bent his head.