Cathelineau had heard that Agatha had taken under her own kind care the hospital at St. Laurent, but he had not expected that she would be on the step to meet him as he was lifted out of his litter; but hers was the first face he saw on learning that his painful journey was at an end.  His wound had been pronounced to be inevitably mortal, and he had been told that he might possibly live for two or three days, but that in all probability his sufferings would not be protracted so long.  The fatal bullet had passed through his arm into his breast, had perforated his lungs, and there, within the vitals of his body, the deadly missile was still hidden.  At some moments, his agony was extreme, but at others, he was nearly free from pain; and as his life grew nearer to its close, his intervals of ease became longer, and the periods of his suffering were shortened.  He had confessed, and received absolution and the sacrament of his church at Remouille; and when he reached St. Laurent, nothing was left for him but to die.

He tried to thank her, as Agatha assisted him to the little chamber which she had prepared for him; but his own feelings, and his exertions in moving were at first too much for him.  The power of speech, however, soon returned to him, and he said: 

“How can I thank you, Mademoiselle, what am I to say to thank you for such care as this?”

“You are not to thank us at all,” said Agatha, (there was one of the sisters of mercy with her in the room).  “We are only doing what little women can do for the cause, for which you have done so much.”

Again he essayed to speak, but the sister stopped him with a kind yet authoritative motion of her hand, and bade him rest tranquil a while, and so he did.  Sometimes Agatha sat by the window, and watched his bed, and at others, she stole quietly out of the room to see her other patients, and then she would return again, and take her place by the window; and as long as she remained in the room, so that he could look upon her face, Cathelineau felt that he was happy.

He had been at St. Laurent some few hours, and was aware that his precious moments were fast ebbing.  He hardly knew what it was that he longed to say, but yet he felt that he could not die in peace without expressing to the fair creature who sat beside him the gratitude he felt for her tender care.  Poor Cathelineau! he did not dream how difficult he would find it to limit gratitude to its proper terms, when the heart from which he spoke felt so much more than gratitude!

“Ah, Mademoiselle!” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Hush, hush, Cathelineau!” she said.  “Did you not hear sister Anna say that you should not speak.”

“What avails it now for me to be silent?” said he.  “I know, Mademoiselle, that I am dying, and, believe me, I do not fear to die.  Your kind care can make my last few hours tranquil and easy, but it cannot much prolong them.  Let me have the pleasure of telling you that I appreciate your kindness, and that I give you in return all that a dying man can give—­my prayers.”