A trooper clattered up, leading an officer’s horse, and dismounted, saluting. The young surgeon glanced at his watch.
“Picard,” he said, “stop a closed cab and send it here.”
The trooper wheeled his horse and galloped away across the square, and the officer turned to the others.
“Madame, I trust, will soon recover,” he said courteously. “Madame, messieurs, I have the honor to salute you.” And with many a clink and jingle, he sprang into the saddle and clattered away in the wake of the slowly moving ambulance.
At the corner of the Rue Royale, Gethryn saw the trooper stop a cab and point to the Obelisk. He went over and asked the canary-colored stranger, “Will you take her home, or shall I?”
“Why, you, of course; you brought her here.”
“No, I didn’t. I never saw her until I noticed her being pushed about by the crowd.” He caught the girl’s eye and colored furiously, hoping she did not suspect the nature of their discussion. Before her helplessness it seemed so brutal.
The cab drew up before the Obelisk and a gruff voice cried, “V’la! M’ssieurs!—’dames!”
“Put your arm on my shoulder—so,” said Gethryn, and the two men raised her gently. Once in the cab, she sank back, looking limp and white. Gethryn turned sharply to the other man.
“Shall I go?”