"Seigneurs! There is a squad of armed constables coming this way! There, on the bridge! Look out! Run who run can!"
Upon shouting this lie the pages ran off as fast as their legs could carry them and left their masters and their assailants in utter darkness. The three seigneurs did not feel much concern on the score of the constables, who never dared to suppress the disorders of the nobility; but realizing that they had to do with eight or ten determined men, the assailants of the defenseless woman profited by the darkness in which they found themselves to slip away upon the heels of their pages, while Christian's neighbors called for lanthorns in order to raise the wounded man. The artisan ran back into his house, lighted, and came out with a taper. By the light the monk was discovered stretched out at the foot of the cross, with his head bathed in the blood that ran profusely from his scalp wound. On her knees beside him, and weeping tears of thankfulness, Mary La Catelle sought to staunch the wound of her defender. Brother St. Ernest-Martyr was carried into Christian's house with the help of the Franc-Taupin and some neighbors. The artisan offered asylum also to the widow, who was almost fainting with fright. Commissioned by her husband to conduct the stranger to the garret, the only window of which opened upon the river, Bridget remained ignorant of what was occurring upon the street. When, however, she returned downstairs, great was her surprise and alarm at the sight of Mary La Catelle, pale, her dress thrown into disorder, and leaning against a table compassionately contemplating the wounded young monk. The latter was slowly regaining consciousness, thanks to the attention that he was receiving from the artisan and the Franc-Taupin.
"Good God!" cried Bridget, hastening to approach the young widow. "Look at the poor monk covered with blood. What has happened, Mary?"
"I was delayed at a friend's longer than I had expected; her maid servant accompanied me home; we were crossing the bridge when several swaggering seigneurs approached and made insulting remarks to us. The poor servant was frightened and ran away, leaving me alone. The men sought to drag me away with them. Brother St. Ernest-Martyr happening by, came to my rescue; he received on the forehead a blow with the hilt of a sword and fell bleeding at my feet. Happily your husband and several neighbors rushed to our help; thanks to them we escaped further maltreatment from our assailants; but the poor monk is wounded."
"Dear sister, let me have some fresh water and some lint," said the Franc-Taupin to Bridget. Having often been wounded in war the soldier of adventure had some knowledge of the dressing of wounds.
"I shall go upstairs for the lint, and bring my daughter down to help you," answered Bridget as she proceeded to the storey above.
Slightly recovered from her own fright, Mary La Catelle drew nearer to the monk with deepening interest. The Franc-Taupin looked around and said to Christian:
"What has become of your guest? Did he show the white feather? I would have preferred he were a braver man."
"No, no, Josephin. Our guest left the house shortly before the disturbance on the street; he feared it was growing too late for him."
"Why did he not wait for me? I would have escorted him home safely after emptying our pot of Argenteuil. But, coming to think of it," the Franc-Taupin broke off, while he left Christian to hold up the head of the friar, "I shall pour a few drops of wine down the wounded man's throat; the devil! wine has the miraculous power of being as helpful to the sick as to the well;" and taking up the pot he approached it to his own lips. "Before administering the potion to others let me try it myself—it is the duty of all prudent pharmacists to assure themselves of the quality of their own medicine."