He watched him ride away into the wood. "It is a sorry business," he said as he knelt down to give the fallen man brandy from the flask he found in his saddle-bag.
Within an hour Carteaux, still insensible, was at Bisanet's Inn, a neighboring doctor found, and that good Samaritan Schmidt, after a fine tale of highwaymen, was in the saddle and away to town, leaving Carteaux delirious.
He went at once to the house of Chovet and found him at home. It was essential to have some one who could talk French.
"At your service," said the doctor.
"Why the devil did you send De Courval after Carteaux this morning?"
"I never meant to."
"But you did. You have made no end of mischief. Now listen. I need you because you speak French. Can you hold your tongue, if to hold it means money? Oh, a good deal. If you breathe a word of what you hear or see, I will half-kill you."
"Oh, Monsieur, I am the soul of honor."
"Indeed. Why, then, does it trouble you? Owing to your damned mischief-making, De Courval has shot Carteaux. You are to go to the inn, Bisanet's, near Bristol, to-night, and as often afterward as is needed. I shall pay, and generously, if he does not—but, remember, no one is to know. A highwayman shot him. Do you understand? I found him on the road, wounded."
"Yes; but it is late."