“You are not much hurt, I trust, Admiral?” said Bayard.
“Sufficiently to place me hors de combat,” replied Bonnivet, faintly. “Would to Heaven I had listened to your counsel, and crossed the river last night! But the army must not be lost through my imprudence. You perceive that I am not in a condition either to fight or lead. I confide the command to you. Save the army if possible.”
“'Tis late—very late,” rejoined Bayard. “But no matter. I will save the army, but it will cost me my life to do so.”
“I trust not,” said Bonnivet. “I hope we shall meet again, when I may thank you for the service.”
“We never shall meet again in this world,” said Bayard.
“Then let us part in friendship,” said Bonnivet. “You have not forgiven me for the affair of Robecco.”
“I forgive you now, my lord,” rejoined Bayard. “Farewell! You may rely on me.”
Bonnivet would have spoken, but he became suddenly faint, and if the chirurgeon, who had come up to dress his wound, had not caught him, he would have fallen.
“Tarry not to dress the Lord Admiral's wound,” said Bayard. “Let him be conveyed across the bridge with all possible despatch. He must not fall into Bourbon's hands.”
“It shall be done,” replied the chirurgeon. And placing Bonnivet upon a litter, which was brought up at the moment, and throwing a cloak over him, he caused him to be borne quickly away.