“Monsieur Doane, it gives me ze great plaisir to know zat you do not die. To you here I offair ze vel-come viz all my 'eart. But zis I mus' say. It is here la guerre. It is I who am here ze commandair. An' I now' comman' you, Alonsieur Doane, zer mus' be here no more of ze mattair personel. We here fight togezzer, as one, not viz each ozzer. You have made ze attack on a gentleman zat mus' be spare' to us, a gentleman ver' strong, ver' brave, who fear nozzing at all. It is not pairmit' zat you make 'arm at Monsieur Brashayee. Zis man is one I need. It is on 'im zat I lean.”
Here Boatwright found himself breaking in, all eagerness, all nerves:
“If you had only known how it was! Mr. Brachey insisted on coming straight to you.”
“Monsieur Boatright, if you please! I mus' have here ze quiet! Monsieur Doane, you vill go at once to bed. It is so I order you. Go at once to bed!” Doane slowly lifted his head and looked at M. Pour-munt. “Very well,” he said quietly. “You are right, of course.” On these last few words his voice broke, but he at once recovered control of it. He rose, with an effort, moved a few slow steps, hesitated, then got painfully down on one knee beside the limp groaning figure on the walk. He looked directly at Dr. Cassin, as he said:
“Is he badly hurt?”
“I don't think so,” replied the physician simply, wholly herself. “The skull doesn't seem to be fractured. We may find some concussion, of course.” Doane's breath whistled convulsively inward. He knelt there, silent, watching the deft fingers work. Then he said—under his breath, but audibly enough: “What an awful thing to do! What a terrible thing to do!” And got up.
Boatwright hurried to help him.
“I'll go with you, Elmer,” said Doane.