“Dying,” whispered Rodenard in answer. “He has lost too much blood, and he is probably bleeding inwardly as well. There is no hope of his life, but he may linger thus some little while, sinking gradually, and we can at least mitigate the suffering of his last moments.”
When presently the men returned with the things that Ganymede had asked for, he mixed some pungent liquid with water, and, whilst a servant held the bowl, he carefully sponged the rebel's wound. This and a cordial that he had given him to drink seemed to revive him and to afford him ease. His breathing was no longer marked by any rasping sound, and his eyes seemed to burn more intelligently.
“I am dying—is it not so?” he asked, and Ganymede bowed his head in silence. The poor fellow sighed. “Raise me,” he begged, and when this service had been done him, his eyes wandered round until they found me. Then “Monsieur,” he said, “will you do me a last favour?”
“Assuredly, my poor friend,” I answered, going down on my knees beside him.
“You—you were not for the Duke?” he inquired, eyeing me more keenly.
“No, monsieur. But do not let that disturb you; I have no interest in this rising and I have taken no side. I am from Paris, on a journey of—of pleasure. My name is Bardelys—Marcel de Bardelys.”
“Bardelys the Magnificent?” he questioned, and I could not repress a smile.
“I am that overrated man.”
“But then you are for the King!” And a note of disappointment crept into his voice. Before I could make him any answer, he had resumed. “No matter; Marcel de Bardelys is a gentleman, and party signifies little when a man is dying. I am Rene de Lesperon, of Lesperon in Gascony,” he pursued. “Will you send word to my sister afterwards?”
I bowed my head without speaking.