by my wits. Brie, the one who took you by the
throat--there has been bad blood between him and your lord this
twelvemonth; only last May M. le Comte ran him through the wrist. Had I
interfered for you," she said, colouring a little, "M. de Brie would
have inferred interest in the master from that in the man, and he had
seen to your beating himself."

It suddenly dawned on me that this M. de Brie was the "little cheese" of
guard-room gossip. And I thought that the gentleman would hardly display
so much venom against M. Etienne unless he were a serious obstacle to
his hopes. Nor would mademoiselle be here at midnight, weeping over a
serving-lad, if she cared nothing for the master. If she had not worn
her heart on her sleeve before the laughing salon, mayhap she would show
it to me.

"Mademoiselle," I cried, "when the billet was brought him M. Etienne
rose from his bed at once to come. But he was faint from fatigue and
loss of blood; he could not walk across the room. But he bade me try to
make mademoiselle believe his absence was no fault of his. He wrote her
a month ago; he found to-day the letter was never delivered."

"Is he hurt dangerously?"

"No," I admitted reluctantly; "no, I think not. He was wounded in the
right forearm, and again pinked in the shoulder; but he will recover."

"You said," she went on, the tears standing in her eyes, "that he was
penniless. I have not much, but what I have is freely his."

She advanced upon me holding out her silken purse which she had taken
from her bosom; but I retreated.

"No, no, mademoiselle," I cried, ashamed of my hot words; "we are not
penniless--or if we are, we get on very well sans le sou. They do
everything for monsieur at the Trois Lanternes, and he has only to
return to the Hotel St. Quentin to get all the gold pieces he can spend.
Oh, no; we are in no want, mademoiselle. I was angry when I said it; I
did not mean it. I cry mademoiselle's pardon."

She looked at me a little hesitatingly.

"You are telling me true?"

"Why, yes, mademoiselle; if my monsieur needed money, indeed, indeed, I
would not refuse it."

"Then if you cannot take it for him, you can take it for yourself. It
will be strange if in all Paris you cannot find something you like as a
token from me." With her own white fingers she slipped some tinkling
coins into my pouch, and cut short my thanks with the little wailing
cry:

"Oh, your poor, bound hands! I have my poniard in my dress. I