“Ah!” ejaculated Saint Simon, with a cry of joy. “Then the horses were worth winning back, after all.”
“Horses? Winning?” faltered Denis wonderingly; and then as his companion snatched a hand from his breast, he cried again impatiently, “Here, what are you doing to my face?”
Saint Simon dashed his hand hastily across his own, his already ruddy countenance glowing of a deeper red, as he stammered out confusedly:
“Drops—perspiration—I have been having such a run.”
“Drops? Run? My head’s all of a buzz. Who ran? What have you been doing to my neck?” continued the lad, passing his left hand across his throat. “Something seemed to jerk across me just here. Ah, how it hurts!”
He made an effort then to raise his sword-arm, but it fell back upon the grass.
“Here, my shoulder’s bad too,” he cried. “Just as if my arm was wrenched out of the socket.” Then as his wandering eyes fell upon his horse, “Oh!” he cried, “I understand now. I have been thrown.”
“Never mind now,” cried Saint Simon, in a choking voice, as he mastered the hysterical emotion that had seized upon him. “You’re alive, boy, and we have saved the horses, and our credit with the—with the—”
“Comte,” said Denis faintly. “I am beginning to recollect now. Here, where’s that ruffian who was galloping away?”
“You’ve killed him, I suppose,” cried Saint Simon, “for there’s blood upon your sword. How was it, boy?”