"Need I say what I feel? But you are hurt!"
"Nothing much. I was stunned for a time." Then, glancing at his leader's outstretched hand, the second-in-command looked him in the face. "I can take your hand, La Rocheterie; can you take mine?"
The red ran over Aymar's features from chin to brow, and, ebbing, left him very pale. He dropped his hand. "What have you heard?"
Still looking at him very hard de Fresne put a hand inside his coat. "I have seen something—something I would almost give my eyes not to have seen—my own letter in the hands of the enemy! But since, in spite of it, I find you here with the men, cannot I hope that there is some mistake about it—that it was stolen . . . lost . . . mislaid, perhaps . . . and that you did not deliberately send it to Colonel Richard as he says you did?"
There was entreaty and pain in the harsh voice, and a loophole in what it said. No!
"I would rather not lie to you, de Fresne," answered L'Oiseleur. "I . . . did send your letter to Colonel Richard. I will tell you why."
"If you please," said the other stiffly. "You will pardon me if I sit down." And he walked past him to the table.
"I am sorry I have no wine to offer you," said Aymar. "When did you last have food?"
"I need nothing, thank you." He had spread out the letter on the table and sat back, rather haggard under his bandage. Aymar came and sat down opposite him.
"How did you get the letter back?" he asked quietly.