nce. Handling him as carefully as might be, to avoid giving
him unnecessary pain they removed his back-and-breast, which was flung
with a clatter into one of the corners of the barn. Then, whilst one of
them gently drew off his boots, Rodenard, with the lanthorn close beside
him, cut away the fellow's doublet, and laid bare the oozing sword-wound
that gaped in his mangled side. He whispered an order to Gilles, who
went swiftly off to the coach in quest of something that he had asked
for; then he sat on his heels and waited, his hand upon the man's pulse,
his eyes on his face.

I stooped until my lips were on a level with my intendant's ear.

"How is it with him?" I inquired.

"Dying," whispered Rodenard in answer. "He has lost too much blood, and
he is probably bleeding inwardly as well. There is no hope of his life,
but he may linger thus some little while, sinking gradually, and we can
at least mitigate the suffering of his last moments."

When presently the men returned with the things that Ganymede had asked
for, he mixed some pungent liquid with water, and, whilst a servant held
the bowl, he carefully sponged the rebel's wound. This and a cordial
that he had given him to drink seemed to revive him and to afford him
ease. His breathing was no longer marked by any rasping sound, and his
eyes seemed to burn more intelligently.

"I am dying--is it not so?" he asked, and Ganymede bowed his head in
silence. The poor fellow sighed. "Raise me," he begged, and when this
service had been done him, his eyes wandered round until they found me.
Then "Monsieur," he said, "will you do me a last favour?"

"Assuredly, my poor friend," I answered, going down on my knees beside
him.

"You--you were not for the Duke?" he inquired, eyeing me more keenly.

"No, monsieur. But do not let that disturb you; I have no interest in
this rising and I have taken no side. I am from Paris, on a journey
of--of pleasure. My name is Bardelys--Marcel de Bardelys."

"Bardelys the Magnificent?" he questioned, and I could not repress a
smile.

"I am that overrated man."

"But then you are for the King!" And a note of disappointment crept
into his voice. Before I could make him any answer, he had resumed. "No
matter; Marcel de Bardelys is a gentleman, and party signifies little
when a man is dying. I am Rene de Lesperon, of Lesperon in Gascony," he
pursued. "Will you send word to my sister afterwards?"

I bowed my head without speaking.

"