“He is safe!” thought Cigarette; of the patrol who had seen her, she was not afraid—he had never noticed with whom she was when he had put his head into the scullion's tent; and she made her way toward the place where she had left him, to see how it went with this man who she as so careful should never know that which he had owed to her.
It went well with him, thanks to her; care, and strengthening nourishment, and the skill of her tendance had warded off all danger from his wound. The bruise and pressure from the weight of the horse had been more ominous, and he could not raise himself or even breathe without severe pain; but his fever had left him, and he had just been lifted into a mule-drawn ambulance-wagon as Cigarette reached the spot.
“How goes the day, M. Victor? So you got sharp scratches, I hear? Ah! that was a splendid thing we had yesterday! When did you go down? We charged together!” she cried gayly to him; then her voice dropped suddenly, with an indescribable sweetness and change of tone. “So!—you suffer still?” she asked softly.
Coming close up to where he lay on the straw, she saw the exhausted languor of his regard, the heavy darkness under his eyelids, the effort with which his lips moved as the faint words came broken through them.
“Not very much, ma belle, I thank you. I shall be fit for harness in a day or two. Do not let them send me into hospital. I shall be perfectly—well—soon.”
Cigarette swayed herself upon the wheel and leaned toward him, touching and changing his bandages with clever hands.
“They have dressed your wound ill; whose doing is that?”
“It is nothing. I have been half cut to pieces before now; this is a mere bagatelle. It is only—”
“That it hurts you to breathe? I know! Have they given you anything to eat this morning?”
“No. Everything is in confusion. We——”