They came running now from all sides.  Between them they carried Josephine back to her room and placed her once more upon her couch.

“Saddle up, Eleazar,” commanded Dunwody.  “Get a doctor—­Jamieson—­from St. Genevieve as fast as you can.  The lady’s arm is broken.”

“Pardon, Monsieur,” he began, “but it is far for St. Genevieve.  Me, I have set h’arm before now.  Suppose I set heem now, then go for the doc’?”

“Could you do that?” demanded Dunwody.

“Somehow, yes, me,” answered Eleazar.  Dunwody nodded.  Without further speech the old man rolled up his sleeves and addressed himself to his task.  Not without skill, he approached the broken ends of the ulna, which was fractured above the wrist.  Having done this without much difficulty he called out for splints, and when some pieces of thin wood were brought him he had them shaped to his needs, adjusted about them his bandage and made all fast.  His patient made no sound of suffering.  She only panted, like a frightened bird held in the hand, although the sobbing of Jeanne filled the room.  The forehead of Dunwody was beaded.  He said nothing, not even when they had finished all they now could do to make her comfortable.

“Au revoir, Mademoiselle,” said Eleazar, at length.  “I go now for those doc’.”

A moment later the room was cleared, none but Dunwody remaining.  At last, then, they were alone together.

“Go away!  Bring me Jeanne!” she cried at him.  His lips only tightened.

“May I not have Jeanne?” she wailed again.

“Yes, you shall have Jeanne—­you shall have anything you want,” he answered at length, quietly.  “Only get well.  Forgive me all this if you can.”

Josephine’s lips trembled.  “May I go?” she demanded of him.

There was a strange gentleness in his voice.  “You’re hurt.  It would be impossible for you to go now.  Don’t be afraid.  Don’t!  Don’t!”

She looked at him keenly, in spite of her suffering.  There seemed some change about him.  At length, heavily, his head sunk, he left the room.

Jeanne herself, sobbing, tearful, withal overjoyed, rejoined her mistress.  The two embraced as was best possible.  As her senses cleared, a sort of relief came over Josephine.  Now, she began to reason, for the time she was shielded by this infirmity; comforted also by the presence of one as weak and helpless as herself.

“It’s an ill wind, Jeanne, which blows no one good,” she smiled bravely.  “See, now we are together again.”

“Madame!” gulped Jeanne.  “Madame!”

“Fie, fie, Jeanne!  In time we shall be away from here.”

“Madame, I like it not—­this house.  Something here is wrong.  We must fly!”

“But, Jeanne, I am helpless.  We must wait, now.”

All that night and till morning of the next day they waited, alone, Dunwody not appearing, though continually old Sally brought up proofs of his solicitousness.  At last there came the sound of hoofs on the gravel road, and there alighted at the door, dust-covered and weary, old Eleazar and Jamieson, the doctor of St. Genevieve.  These were met by the master of Tallwoods himself.