“How is it with you, Guillaume?” I inquired, bending over him.
“I have a cut,” he said quietly, “but it is not serious; with your help, I will go back to our quarters.”
I was straining my eyes in the dark to see the face of his companion; when he spoke, I recognized his voice.
“If he will lean on my arm, he can rise,” he said.
It was the Swedish spy. With his help, M. de Lambert rose and stood leaning his hand on the other’s shoulder. After a moment he recovered sufficiently to take my arm and walk slowly in the direction of our lodgings. The Swede followed us a few steps; then, seeing that the wounded man could walk alone, turned to leave us, but I checked him.
“Not so fast, friend,” I said; “my man tells me that you saved M. de Lambert’s life. You cannot escape our gratitude.”
M. de Lambert held out his hand. “You must return with us,” he said.
“Nay, your Excellencies,” the Swede replied with evident embarrassment, “I should be an unwelcome visitor.”
“Not so,” I responded quietly, “and you alone can fully explain this matter.”
After some hesitation he yielded, and we moved on slowly on account of M. de Lambert, while Pierrot went for a surgeon. We had not a great distance to walk; and when we reached our quarters, Touchet opened the door and we helped the wounded man to his room. My wife, hearing us enter, came to our aid, and we had M. de Lambert comfortably lying on his couch when the surgeon arrived,—a German whom I knew, for I would not trust him in Russian hands. An examination showed a stab in the side, which had caused some loss of blood, but had not touched any vital spot. Reassured as to his safety, I was at leisure to return to the outer room, where I found Pierrot and the Swede talking together. Sitting down by the table, I signed to them to advance.