The woman sought with her delicate hands the wound on the young man's head, whence flowed the blood which stained his temples. The men talked in low voices about the accident, and with a forced smile the stranger muttered feebly:--
"It is nothing! Pardon and thanks! But the heat--fatigue--" "Or rather hunger," added the spectators, looking at the poor fellow whose sunken cheeks showed that they were right.
Gradually calm was again established. Some one advised the invalid to take a little wine, and the woman brought him her own glass after having filled it. He raised it to his lips, thanking her timidly.
"Will you come and sit with us, monsieur?" said she drawing near him; "after a little rest this weakness will pass away." Then she added:--
"These accidents are sometimes succeeded by another, and it will be prudent to be near us. We can watch over you. And if the question is not indiscreet, will you tell us whence you came and where you are going?"
"I go to Genoa, madame," replied the unknown.
"And you come from a distance?"
"Quite a distance, from France. I have travelled on foot, and am very weary."
There was a short silence. But the woman was curious and continued the rôle of interrogator.
"Then you are not a Frenchman?"