“Monsieur d’Aubrac has been wounded, a knife thrust.  It will be necessary to get him to a surgeon as quickly as possible.  I fancy there will be none nearer than Nant.  Do you know the way?”

“One can doubtless find it,” said Duchemin modestly.  “But I myself am not without knowledge of wounds.  Perhaps...”

“If monsieur would be so good.”

Duchemin knelt beside the man, who welcomed him with open eyes and a wry smile that was almost as faint as his voice.

“It is nothing, monsieur—­a clean cut in the arm, with some loss of blood.”

“But let me see.”

The young girl in whose lap rested the head of Monsieur d’Aubrac sat back and watched Duchemin with curious, grave eyes in which traces of moisture glimmered.

“Had the animal at my mercy, I thought,” d’Aubrac apologised, “when suddenly he drew that knife, stuck me and broke away.”

“I understand,” Duchemin replied.  “But don’t talk.  You’ll want all your strength, my friend.”

With his pocket-knife he laid open the sodden sleeves of coat and shirt, exposing an upper arm stained dark with blood that welled in ugly jets from a cut both wide and deep.

“Artery severed,” he announced, and straightened up and looked about, at a loss.  “My pack—?”

One’s actions in moments of excitement are apt to be largely directed by the subconscious, he knew; still he found it hard to believe that he could unwittingly have unshipped and dropped his rucksack while making ready to pursue the American uniform.  Nevertheless, it seemed, that was just what he had done.

The woman who had spoken to him found and fetched it from no great distance; and its contents enabled Duchemin to improvise a tourniquet, and when the flow of blood was checked, a bandage.  During the operation d’Aubrac unostentatiously fainted.

The young girl caught her breath, a fluttering hiss.

“Don’t be alarmed, mademoiselle,” Duchemin soothed her.  “He will come round presently, he will do splendidly now till we get him to bed; and then his convalescence will be merely the matter of a while of rest.”

He slipped his arms beneath the unconscious man, gathered him up bodily and bore him to the carriage—­and, thanks to man’s amusing amour propre, made far less of the effort than it cost him.  Then, with d’Aubrac disposed as comfortably as might be on the back seat, once again pillowed in a fashion to make any man envious, Duchemin turned to find the other women at his elbow.  To the eldest he offered a bow suited to her condition and a hand to help her into the barouche.

“Madame ...”

Her agitation had measurably subsided.  The gentle inclination of the aged head which acknowledged his courtesy was as eloquent of her quality as he found the name which she gave him in quavering accents.

“Madame de Sevenie, monsieur.”

“With madame’s permission:  I am Andre Duchemin.”