"Perrot! dear Nick Perrot!" he cried. "Oh, good—good," he added softly. Then with sudden anxiety:
"Where is she? Where is she?"
"I am safe, monsieur," Jessica said gently; "but you—you are wounded."
She came over and dropped on her knees beside him.
"A little," he said; "only a little. You cared for her first?" he asked of Perrot.
Perrot chuckled. "These Le Moynes!" he said: under his breath. Then aloud: "The lady first, monsieur."
"So," answered Iberville. "And Bucklaw—the devil, Bucklaw?"
"If you mean the rogue who gave you these," said Perrot, touching the wounds, which he had already begun to bind, "I think he got away—the light was bad."
Jessica would have torn her frock for a bandage, but Perrot said in his broken English: "No, pardon. Not so. The cloak la-bas."
She ran and brought it to him. As she did so Perrot glanced down at her feet, and then, with a touch of humour, said: "Pardon, but you have lost your slipper, ma'm'selle?"
He foresaw the little comedy, which he could enjoy even in such painful circumstances.