And, after all, his adversary never even paused to ask himself whether he were sorry he had not succeeded. . . . In a moment he was at his side.
“Where are you hit, Monsieur le Marquis?”
“In my right arm,” said his opponent briefly. “You have disabled me. I cannot return your fire.”
“I am sorry for that,” said the Comte rather stiffly. “Are you sure you cannot—with your left hand?”
“I am sorry too,” said the Marquis de Kersaint, lifting his head. “Believe me, I should not have done you the poor compliment of firing in the air! But it would be a farce—my left hand. I am extremely right-handed; so of what use to risk the noise of another shot. I fancy my arm is broken. Let us get back.” He did not seem to know that, even as he spoke, the blood, very dark in the moonlight, was running through the fingers of the hand which held his wounded arm pressed up to his body.
“But first,” interposed the Comte quickly, “we must stop this bleeding, however roughly. It is not from the artery, I trust?—no, I think not. Can you take your coat off . . . I’d better slit up the sleeve, in any case. Sit down on this stone, de Kersaint; that will be easier for both of us.”
And, supporting him under his left arm, he guided his wounded enemy to the fallen block of the dolmen.
The Marquis sat down obediently, and lent his head for a moment on his left hand. It was evident, though not a sound passed his lips, that he was in a good deal of pain.
“No, don’t do that, Comte!” he said suddenly, as de Brencourt, kneeling by him in the fern, began to take out a knife. “One doesn’t want to make more . . . parade . . . about this business than one can avoid. Help me out of the coat instead.” And he began to unbutton it.
“Much better let me slit the sleeve,” objected de Brencourt with reason. However, seeing that the Marquis was determined, he unfastened his swordbelt, and as carefully as he could, stripped off the long uniform coat.