“Oh, my God, Messieurs, what pain I have!” he cried.
The Colonel’s strong arm was about him in a moment.
“Mon pauvre,” he exclaimed, “you shall rest here—a glass of wine quick, Captain; he will tell us his story afterwards.”
Beatrix had stood mute in her distress while the man spoke; but now, when she heard his cry of pain, a woman’s instinct released her will, and she was first in the room for the wine they sought. When she had filled a glass of it and returned to the hall, the huzzar lay full length upon the carpet, his hands still clasping his head as though to crush the pain of the mortal wound he carried.
“Here—here is the wine, Colonel.”
Tripard thrust her back gently.
“Not now,” he said. “His story is told, my child.”
CHAPTER X
WAITING
They carried the body of the dead hussar to the coach-house and laid it there upon a mattress, with candles set on either side of it. Death for France was new to them then. This man, whom night had sent to their doors, might have been one of their own servants stricken by some accident of farm or field. The day was to come when the dead would be no more to them than the blades of grass their horses trod. But that day was not yet.