“No.” The Earl picked up the bottle, and poured some brandy into one of the glasses.
“Thank God for it! You do me no good by this, my lord.”
“I don’t think you’ll suffer,” replied the Earl, calmly, and returned to Lethbridge and knelt again.
“Lethbridge, drink this!” he said, slightly raising him.
Lethbridge opened his eyes; they were blank with exhaustion, but grew keener as he swallowed the cognac. He raised them to Rule’s face a moment, made an odd little grimace, and looked beyond Rule at Cattermole, bending over him. “What the devil do you want?” he said unpleasantly.
The landlord drew down the corners of his mouth. “No, he’s not dead,” he remarked under his breath. “I’ll be within call, my lord.”
He went out and shut the door behind him.
The blood had soaked through the pad; the Earl tightened the bandage and stood up again. Picking up the sword he wiped it carefully, and put it back into the scabbard.
Lethbridge lay watching him with a look of cynical amusement on his face. “Why mar what you have made?” he inquired. “I was under the impression that you wished to kill me.”
The Earl glanced down at him. “If I let you die, the consequences to myself might prove a trifle difficult to avoid,” he replied.