Martin Grille seized up his master's casque, and impulsively ran away toward the brook, which took its rise about two thirds of the way down the hill. When he came in sight of the battle-field, however, he stopped suddenly short, with all his old terrors rushing upon him; but the next instant love for his young lord overcame all other sensations, and he plunged desperately down the slope, and filled the bassinet at the fountain.
"Help me, Martin! help me!" said a voice near; and looking up, he saw the young page, who had followed his lord down the hill.
"Here, boy, come along," cried Martin Grille. "What, are you hurt, you young fool?"
"Yes, sorely," replied the boy. "While trying to cover the baron, the first time he was thrown from his horse, they hacked me with their swords. But I shall never see him again; he is dead now."
"Give me your hand--give me your hand," cried Martin Grille. "He is not dead; so take good heart. But I must hurry back with this water; so put forth what strength you have left."
Dragging the page along with one hand, and holding the bassinet in the other, Martin contrived to climb the hill again, and reach the spot where De Brecy lay. The younger monk immediately took a handful of the water, and dashed it in the wounded man's face. A shudder passed over him, and then he opened his eyes and looked faintly round.
"Now some drops of this sovereign balsam," said the younger monk, taking a vial from his pocket. "Open your lips, my son, and let me drop it in."
He had to repeat his words before the wounded man comprehended them; but when the drops had been administered, a great change took place very rapidly. The light came back into Jean Charost's eyes, and he said, though faintly, "Where am I? Who has won?"
"How goes it, my son--how goes it?" asked the elder monk, bending over him, with his cowl thrown back.
"But feebly, father," answered Jean Charost. "Hah! is that you?"