In halting Breton he thanked the good mother, and vainly tried to follow an avalanche of chatter.
All he could gather was that this was the hut of Nanette Leroc, and that the little one, who found him, was her niece, Marie, who had been returning from a fête.
Of course the good saints had directed her feet that way, and had shown her where he lay.
Marie, busy shelling chestnuts in the background, must have blushed at this last, seeing that the saints had apparently less to do with the direction of her steps than a certain Meloir Duvaine, who had promised to meet her on her return from Cervenais, but who had failed to keep tryst.
But Morice cared little whether saint or lover, or both, had had finger in the pie. It was sufficient that Marie had found him, and that he lay here with the warm life-blood flowing freely in his veins.
He would have risen from his humble couch had not Nanette and common sense withheld him.
Loss of blood had weakened him, even though the wound was not serious in itself.
The brass button on his coat was twisted and bent beyond recognition.
When he saw it, Morice Conyers thanked God again.
The sight sobered him.