But the end of the fight had no concern for Louis, though the treatment to which he was subjected was not long in rousing him. Indeed, as he put up an instinctive hand to ward off the fresh avalanche which was impending, he muttered something about death by drowning. After a little he was able to get with assistance to his feet, and dizzily to survey the scene of slaughter at the farther end of the bridge. Then his eyes fell on his own dead horse, and the satisfaction died out of his face.
“My poor Saladin!” he said brokenly, and kneeling down kissed the star on his forehead.
Soon afterwards, not knowing in the least how he had got there, he found himself lying by the river, almost underneath the bridge, and here he went to sleep for another indeterminate period. After this he had a hazy sensation of being carried a long way, in the midst of a great many people, on something rather uncomfortable. Oddly enough, when he found himself laid upon the bed in his and Gilbert’s little room at L’Oie, his brain became instantaneously and miraculously clear, so that he immediately announced his intention of following Gilbert and the other chiefs to the Four Roads. He was only induced to abandon this idea by the threats of the surgeon whom the Marquis had sent to him, and by the fact that during the altercation his head began to ache consumedly.
He therefore yielded the point, submitted to having wet cloths wound about his head, and even to being consigned to solitude and darkness. But shortly after the surgeon had taken his departure he rose from his couch, struck a light, and throwing open the casement established himself on the window-seat in the cool night air.
He had sat there some time, the incidents of the fight running madly through his throbbing head, when he heard a light and springing step that he did not know coming up the stairs. With a little knock the door opened, and into the light of the single candle came some one tall and slim and very young, at whom Louis stared for a moment in amazement.
“Good Heavens! what are you doing here?” he exclaimed, getting slowly to his feet.
It was the youth whom he had pointed out to his cousin in the Tuileries as Henri de la Rochejaquelein.
“Mon Dieu, that I had been earlier!” cried the newcomer, on fire, as he grasped the Vicomte’s hand. “Ah, my dear Saint-Ermay, how I envy you that!” He pointed to the wet bandage, and there was no doubt of his sincerity.
“Indeed you need not!” retorted Louis, laughing. “It covers the most confounded headache that you can imagine, gained by nothing more heroic than falling off a horse on to a very stony bridge.”
“Oh, I know all about you,” said La Rochejaquelein. “At least sit down again.”