He was conducted to the patient's bed. All the veterans had risen and surrounded the surgeon, each one abandoning his game or his reckoning or whatever he was engaged in. Lactance alone continued to mumble his beads in his corner; for when doing penance for his doughty deeds he never allowed himself to be interrupted except to perform others.
Ambroise Paré removed the bandages in which Malemort's shoulder was enveloped, and examined the wound very carefully. He shook his head doubtfully, as if in dissatisfaction, but said aloud,—
"This is nothing."
"Ho, ho!" grumbled Malemort. "If it is nothing, can I go and fight again to-morrow?"
"I don't think so," said Ambroise Paré, probing the wound.
"Ah! you hurt me a bit, did you know it?" said Malemort.
"Yes, I suppose I do," was the surgeon's reply; "but courage, my friend!"
"Oh, I am brave enough," said Malemort. "After all, this has been tolerable so far. Will it be much worse when you have to extract that infernal piece of iron?"
"No, for here it is," said Ambroise Paré, triumphant, holding up, so that Malemort could see, the lance-head he had succeeded in removing.
"I am very much obliged, Monsieur le Chirurgien," said Malemort, courteously.