"Eleven o'clock, sir."
"Indeed, I believe I am dreaming,—all this has passed, then?"
"This night."
"And where are my wounds?"
"A wound on the head, and a blow from a poignard on the left shoulder. Ah, sir, an inch lower, and this last would have been mortal. But how do you feel this morning?"
"Oh, I feel a little smarting in my left shoulder; that is all; but Falmouth, Falmouth?"
"My lord will not be able to walk for several days. In spite of his wound, he has desired to help me in caring for you and in watching this night, but since one o'clock his strength has left him, and I have ordered him to his room. He is sleeping now. As soon as he awakens he will wish to be near you again, for he is in great haste to express his thanks to you, sir."
"Do not speak of that, doctor."
"Why not speak of that, sir?" exclaimed the doctor. "Have you not, in the midst of this mad combat, forgotten your own safety, to drag my lord from great peril? Have you not been wounded in accomplishing this act of friendship? Ah, sir, will my lord ever forget that it is to you that he owes his life? And we, ourselves, shall we ever forget that it is to you that we owe his preservation?"
"The attack, then, was very vigorous, doctor?"