"If monsieur would be so good."
Duchemin knelt beside the man, who welcomed him with open eyes and a wry smile that was almost as faint as his voice.
"It is nothing, monsieur--a clean cut in the arm, with some loss of blood."
"But let me see."
The young girl in whose lap rested the head of Monsieur d'Aubrac sat back and watched Duchemin with curious, grave eyes in which traces of moisture glimmered.
"Had the animal at my mercy, I thought," d'Aubrac apologised, "when suddenly he drew that knife, stuck me and broke away."
"I understand," Duchemin replied. "But don't talk. You'll want all your strength, my friend."
With his pocket-knife he laid open the sodden sleeves of coat and shirt, exposing an upper arm stained dark with blood that welled in ugly jets from a cut both wide and deep.
"Artery severed," he announced, and straightened up and looked about, at a loss. "My pack--?"
One's actions in moments of excitement are apt to be largely directed by the subconscious, he knew; still he found it hard to believe that he could unwittingly have unshipped and dropped his rucksack while making ready to pursue the American uniform. Nevertheless, it seemed, that was just what he had done.