As the marquis ceased to speak, François heard a singular noise in the tent back of him. He withdrew his head to see the cause, and a moment later, reappearing, said he must be excused, because his friend was ill. The crowd broke up. Within the tent lay Pierre on the ground, in a fit. François, greatly alarmed and utterly at a loss, threw water in his face, and waited. In a few moments it was over, and the man, flushed and breathing deeply, lay with red froth on his lips, as if in a deep sleep. He was no longer convulsed; but what further to do the partner knew not, and sat beside him, not more competent to deal with this novel situation than was Toto, who walked about, and scratched his nose, and gave it up. An hour went by with Pierre's head resting on François's lap.
At last Despard opened his eyes. "Take him away," he said. The man was delirious.
"Who?"
"Take him away. Will he kill me? He killed her." A half-hour he wandered in mind, while François bathed his flushed face. Then he drew a deep breath, and said: "What is this? Where am I?"
François replied: "Thou hast had a fit."
"A fit? Yes; I have them—not often. I remember now. Has he gone, that devil?—that marquis?"
"Who? Ste. Luce? Was it he that troubled thee?"
"Yes; he."
"But what then?"
By and by Pierre sat up. Seeing him to be quite himself, but staring about as if in fear, François said: