"Monsieur, let me help you to your feet," said La Pommeraye, and, as he spoke, placed his strong arm under the reclining nobleman, and raised him as if he had been a babe.
De Roberval was as one in a dream. He seemed hardly to realise what had happened until he saw Cartier and Pontbriand standing by.
"What brings you here?" he almost shouted.
"We heard a woman's scream," replied Cartier, "and fearing that some unfortunate fair one had met with a mishap, we rushed to the rescue."
"A woman's scream! What woman?" and De Roberval looked hastily round; but the three women had discreetly disappeared.
Before he could say aught further he was interrupted by La Pommeraye, who gallantly came up, and, holding out an unsheathed sword, said: "Let me, Monsieur, present you with your weapon, which you lost when you so unfortunately slipped on your cloak."
It was a lie, and De Roberval's look showed that he was aware of it. Possibly he was dimly conscious of having already committed himself by his silence to his generous opponent's explanation, or his wounded vanity may have been too strong to allow him to confess his humiliation before the other two men; at all events he replied, with an attempt at dignity: "I thank you, Monsieur, but you must sheathe it for me, as my right hand is helpless."
Without a word La Pommeraye raised the sheath, and drove the blade home.
"You are generous," said De Roberval, "and I hope you may learn to be as honourable as you are generous. I am wounded, and will soon recover; but the kiss that burns on my niece's cheek is a wound from which she will never recover."