On the last day of July we heard heavy firing towards Montmorenci, beginning about mid-day, and towards five o'clock it increased to a continuous dull roar. It was dark before the first messenger reached us, and our hearts were lifted by the tidings he bore. It was victory, perhaps complete and final; the English had left hundreds of dead behind them, and our loss was nothing.
Scarce an hour after this the wounded began to arrive, and being but a novice to such sights, I was glad when the Superior, noticing my pale face, called Angélique to bid us go out into the court-yard and get a breath of fresh air. It was a welcome relief to us both, and we were walking up and down, eagerly discussing the news, when an officer rode in at the gate, supporting a wounded man before him.
“It is M. de Maxwell!” cried Angélique, joyfully, and my impulse was to turn and fly, but he had already recognised Angélique, and called to her without ceremony:
“Mademoiselle de Sarennes, will you and your companion support this lad into the Hospital? He is not seriously wounded, only weak from the loss of blood,” and as though counting on our help without question, he let the boy slip tenderly to the ground, and I was forced to step forward with Angélique to his support.
Bending down from his horse, he held the boy as he directed us how to aid him, and then whispered encouragingly: “Keep up, my lad; you are among friends! Make your best effort before these ladies!”
He certainly had no suspicion of who I was, for when he was satisfied that we were equal to our task he turned his horse, and crying, “A thousand thanks, mesdames. Good-night!” he rode slowly back through the gates.
The lad was in Highland uniform, and I spake to him in Gaelic, thinking to enhearten him, but he made no reply as he staggered forward between us towards the door.
Once within, we summoned aid, and, as the lad sank into a chair, the light fell full on his upturned face, and I saw it was that of Christopher Routh. Hugh had gone far to redeem himself in my eyes.