“This is M. le Duc de Roquefort,” answered Fronsac.
“Roquefort!” and M. le Comte was on his feet, the picture of bewilderment. He put his daughter gently from him, came to us, and bent over the unconscious man. “He is wounded?” he asked. “Bring him hither, then,” and he held back the curtain of the tent. “Lay him there,” he said, and we placed our burden on the couch.
M. le Comte looked at us again—at his daughter—at Fronsac—at me—at Roquefort, lying there with bloody lips.
“It is a dream,” he said. “It is not to be believed—that two men should break their way out of that castle yonder and bring Roquefort with them. It is a dream!”
But Mademoiselle had her arms again about his neck.
“Is that a dream?” she cried, and kissed him full upon the lips. Then she fell back with a little, frightened cry. “What is it?” she asked. “What has happened? Your face!”
He looked at her with terrible eyes, and then at me.
“A wound,” he answered hoarsely. “But ’tis healing now.”
Yes, it was healing. I could see the drawn, puckered, white edges. A bandage hid the rest—but I could guess what it was like—what it would be always like! And I had been the cause of it!
I think he read my thought, for he held out his hand to me.