"I have been ill—very ill, and must have lost much blood," said I, as the room seemed to whirl round me; "who has been my doctor?"
"Angelique, with my assistance. There are no doctors nearer than Rennes, the nuns of St. Gildas excepted, and they could not be taken into our confidence, though good Père Celestine was. So what was to be done, but to seclude you here at the top of the house and trust to Heaven and your youth for recovery."
"Dear Mademoiselle de Broglie, all this was more than I had any reason to expect of you—more than human kindness! Had I died here, what would you have done?"
"Prayed for you," was the reply; "but ah, don't speak of such a thing!"
"How the child talks!" said Angelique; "Monsieur de Boisguiller's Hussars are playful lambs when compared to our Breton peasants—our woodcutters and charcoal-burners. They would have torn you limb from limb had they caught you. Ma foi! yes—and they would storm the chateau, perhaps, if they knew you were in it, as one would crack a nutshell to get at the kernel."
"How far are we from the hills of Paramé?"
"About fifteen leagues," replied Mademoiselle de Broglie; "but why do you ask?"
"Because our camp was there, mademoiselle."
"My poor friend, you are not aware of what has taken place since fortune cast you almost dying at our door."
"A battle has been fought!"