“I–I––” His lips barely moved.
236The cuirassier sprang to his feet. He looked to his fellows, spoke to them. Puzzled, mystified, they rushed to the door and barred the way.
“We don’t know why we came,” stammered one, “and he can’t speak. But his signs are enough for us. It’s, it’s––”
“It’s something to do with the American,” declared a second cuirassier.
Dupin pounded back his half unsheathed blade. Brusquely he wheeled and faced the colonel of Dragoons. “Lopez,” he roared, “what was that message?”
“N-nothing, mi coronel, absolutely.”
“If it was from Maximilian, I’d know it to be a pardon, and not blame you. But I recognized the marshal’s seal, and that’s different.”
Lopez blanched, yet insisted again that the message was nothing. “Besides, señor,” he added, “I do not take orders from His Excellency, the marshal.”
“But I do,” thundered Dupin. “And I see them obeyed too. Oh, you can protest to your Emperor afterwards, my royal guardsman, if you want to, but a marshal of France is the law when I am near.”
Grunting contemptuously, Dupin turned to the bedside. The cuirassiers had gathered cobwebs from the rafters, and were dressing the wound. Michel tossed and groaned in the beginning of delirium. Dupin muttered with vexation, but he took hold of the lad’s wrist, and firmly closed his hand over it.