"You are mistaken.—Follow my instructions, and do not go beyond them.—Adieu, Bathilde!"
"You wish me to leave you?"
"I do. But first—come nearer—let me kiss your forehead."
"Dear Léodgard! I am so happy!"
The wounded man put his pallid lips to Bathilde's brow; then he motioned to her to go, whispering:
"Jarnonville—at daybreak—do not forget!"
Bathilde left the room most regretfully; but she dared not disobey him whose lightest wish was sacred to her.
Left to himself, Léodgard tried in vain to obtain a little rest. His wound, being unskilfully dressed, pained him terribly, and his blood was already boiling with fever. When he closed his eyes, terrifying images, horrible visions, added to his misery; and in that state, bordering on delirium, he awaited the end of that cruel night. The day appeared at last; and not half an hour had elapsed since the dawn had driven away the shadows, when the Sire de Jarnonville entered the wounded man's bedroom.
At sight of the chevalier, Léodgard seemed to revive.
"You wish to speak with me, count," said Jarnonville; "and you are wounded. Is it to the Marquis de Santoval again that you owe this new misfortune?"