"Peace be with you," said a youthful voice from underneath the veil. "I am sent here by the worthy prioress of the cloister of 'Our Lady' to bind your wounds, and heal them, if it is the will of the saints."
"Upon my honour, charming friend, I am much obliged; let us become better acquainted," said the captain, as he stretched out his hand to lift the nun's veil. In a flash the latter retreated, and two soldiers appeared at the door.
"The devil!" exclaimed Larsson, startled, "What proud nuns they have here! When I was at Würzburg, I used to get a dozen kisses a day from the young sisters at the convent; such sins always obtain absolution. Well," he continued, seeing the nun still hesitating at the door, "your venerableness must not take offence at a soldier's freedom of speech; an honest soldier is a born gallant. Although an unbelieving heretic, I can talk Latin like a monk. When we stayed at Munich I was very intimate with a plump Bavarian nun, twenty-seven years old, with brown eyes and a Roman nose."
"Hold your tongue!" impatiently whispered Bertel, "you will drive the nun away."
"I haven't said a word. Walk in; don't be frightened. I will bet it is a long time since you saw twenty-seven. Posito, says the Frenchman, that your venerableness is an old woman."
The nun returned in silence, with two others, and examined Bertel's wounded head. A delicate white hand drew out some scissors and cut his hair off on each side of the wound. In a short time Bertel's wound was dressed by an experienced hand. Bertel, touched by this compassion, kissed the nun's hand.
"Upon my honour, charming matron," cried the voluble captain, "I am jealous of my friend, who is fifteen years younger than I. Deign to stretch out your gentle hand and plaster this brave arm, which has conquered so many pious sisters' pity..."
The silent nun began to undo the bandages which covered Larsson's wounds. Her hand touched his.
"Potz donnerwetter!" burst out the captain in surprise. "What a fine and soft little hand! I beg your pardon, amiable Fru doctoress; ex ungua leonem, says one of the fathers of the church ... that is to say in good Swedish: by the paw one knows the lion. I will wager ten bottles of old Rhine against a cast-off stirrup, that this little white hand would much rather caress a knight's cheek than finger rosaries night and day."
The nun drew her hand away. The gallant captain feared the consequences of his gallantry.