The Wounded Name

by D. K. Broster

But before the first thrush began he had hunted through every foot of the coppice. L'Oiseleur was not there—not a trace of him. All these hours, then, had been wasted; while Aymar—in what plight was he by now? The night had not been warm.

Horribly disappointed and anxious, Laurent stood on the side of the thicket farthest from Arbelles and surveyed the prospect. The tiny wood gave on to rolling country, fields of large extent. He could not free himself from the conviction that Aymar had been in the wood at some time, if only to rest. By which way would he have left it in that case—by the fields or by the road? It seemed to Laurent that he must search both exits. He resolved that he would first cover a section of the road—the more hazardous proceeding for himself—and then search the field back again to the copse. After that it would become a choice between the next section of the road and the open country.

Looking to see that the coast was clear, he ran cautiously up the road, glancing to either side as he went. It was perfectly empty save for a meditative rabbit in the middle, who whisked off at his step; it gave, in fact, in the morning stillness, between its holly hedges, the impression of not being meant for human foot at all.

He clambered over a gate into the field, and was just setting his face once more for the thicket, when something about a haystack not far off caught his eye. Part of it had been sliced away, but not completely, so that there still remained, about two feet from the ground, a ledge rather wider than a man's body. And on this ledge a man was lying. . . .

Laurent stood stock still, his heart thumping suffocatingly. The next moment he was at the refuge so nearly missed. Aymar was lying slightly curled up, his face towards the wall of hay, his head pillowed on his bent arm—as a tired boy might lie. Laurent stooped over him. Yes, thank God, he was breathing naturally—in fact, he seemed to be sound asleep.

But he looked deadly weary. Laurent touched his left hand, lying loosely on his breast; it was very cold. So he took off his own coat and spread it over him, and, reluctant to wake him yet, squatted down beside him on the grass just out of his line of vision, and said to himself contentedly, "I knew I should find him!"

He had not been there, however, for more than five minutes or so when the sleeper stirred, sighed, and woke; then, realizing that there was a covering over him where covering had been none, raised himself on an elbow and gazed round in bewilderment.

"Good morning," observed Laurent, getting up and coming into view. "I have kept my word, you see. And I have brought you your breakfast." Voluntarily or involuntarily, he had adopted a thoroughly British method of cloaking his feelings. Aymar gave an exclamation and, falling back against the hay, stared as if he hardly knew him. At last, rather weakly, he began to laugh.

"I told you I should do it," said Laurent cheerfully, very much pleased with the success of his little coup de théâtre. But on that he suddenly found himself deprived of further speech. He went down on his knees by the ledge of hay and mutely embraced him, French fashion; after which he began to fumble in his pocket for the provisions he had brought—the major part of his own supper.

". . . How did you do it, Laurent—how did you do it?" Aymar was asking incredulously.