For a moment there was silence in that deserted place, deserted now since all the fugitive mountaineers had passed through the fosse; silent because no longer was heard the distant sound or hum of shot or cry of combatants. Then he bent over Martin, looked to his wound, touching it very gently and afterward replacing the hasty bandages she had made from some of her own linen, and said:
"He is exhausted from his loss of blood. But, though he dies, it will not be yet. The cold is to be feared, however. If that reaches the wound--I know somewhat of surgery--he can not live. Now I go to seek succour, help!"
"Succour! Help! Where can it be obtained? In Heaven's mercy, where? Nîmes is three leagues off."
"I will do my best. Pray God I am not too late."
And so he left her.
[CHAPTER XXXIII.]
TOUT SAVOIR, C'EST TOUT PARDOXNER.
Coming to himself, Martin, lying there, wondered where he was. He felt no pain in the wounded shoulder, only, instead, an awful weakness. Also he felt no cold. Knew too that around him was wrapped some soft warm garment, yet knew not that it was the great fur cloak in which the woman whom he had loved had been muffled up as she descended from the mountains, and in which she had long since enveloped him. Long since to her, watching, waiting there for succour to come, through two, three, four hours, and then another, but to him no length of time whatsoever. And he did not know--he was indeed even still in a half-unconscious state--how those hours had been spent by her, heedless of the cold which pierced through and through her, spent in sitting on the ground by his side, soothing him when he moaned painfully, holding his hand, kissing his hot brow. Attending also to his wound, and going even some distance farther along the fosse in the hope of discovering water, yet without success.
He knew nothing; had forgotten how he came there, that she had been with him, that there was such a woman, and that they loved each other madly.
Then suddenly a voice broke in upon his unconsciousness--a voice that seemed to recall him back to the world--the voice of Urbaine, yet, as she spoke, stifled now and again by sobs.