"And I am not; but not much, der Teufel! The ball has torn his arm, and is in the shoulder. If he does live, he is for life a maimed man. This is vengeance worse than death." As he spoke, he ripped open Carteaux' sleeve. "Saprement! how the beast bleeds! He will fence no more." The man lay silent and senseless as the German drew from Carteaux' pocket a handkerchief and tied it around his arm. "There is no big vessel hurt. Ach, der Teufel! What errand was he about?" A packet of paper had fallen out with the removal of the handkerchief. "It is addressed to him. We must know. I shall open it."
"Oh, surely not!" said René.
Schmidt laughed. "You would murder a man, but respect his letters."
"Yes, I should."
"My conscience is at ease. This is war." As he spoke, he tore open the envelop. Then he whistled low. "Here is a devil of a business, René!"
"What is it, sir?"
"A despatch from Fauchet to the minister of Foreign Affairs in Paris. Here is trouble, indeed. You waylay and half-kill the secretary of an envoy—you, a clerk of the State Department—"
"Mon Dieu! Must he always bring me disaster?" cried René. He saw with utter dismay the far-reaching consequences of his rash act.
"It is to the care of the captain of the Jean Bart, New York Harbor. The Jacobin party will have a fine cry. The State Department will have sent a man to rob a bearer of despatches. Who will know or believe it was a private quarrel?"