“It is nothing,” I protested weakly. “A mere flesh-wound. Do not trouble about it, I beg of you, Mademoiselle. I shall be better in a moment.” But the man interrupted me. “Nonsense!” he said curtly, and he too looked at the wound. “Claire,” he added, “bring a basin of water and clean linen. We will soon repair this damage.” I followed her with my eyes as she ran to do his bidding. So her name was Claire, and I repeated it over and over to myself, as a man rolls wine in his mouth to get the full flavor. She was soon back, and the wound washed clean and deftly bandaged. “There,” he said at last, “I think that will do. I do not believe the hurt a dangerous one, Monsieur, but you would best consult without delay a more skilful surgeon than either Claire or I. One thing more I can do for you,” and he opened a cupboard in the wall and brought out a flask of wine. “Drink this,” he said, and handed me a glass brimming over. I drained it at a draught--how good it tasted! “A thousand thanks,” I said. “I am quite myself again. I trust Mademoiselle will pardon my momentary weakness.” She smiled happily as she looked at me. “Oh, yes, Monsieur,” she answered softly; “I think I could find it in my heart to pardon a much more serious offence,” and her face grew rosy with sudden blushes, in fear, doubtless, that she had said too much. I could guess that she had seen little of the world, and that its strangeness frightened her. Her companion forestalled me before I could find words for a reply. “May I ask the name of our rescuer? We shall wish always to remember it with gratitude.” “Paul de Marsan,” I answered simply. He started, and I saw the girl’s face turn white. “Liege to the Comte de Cadillac?” he asked quickly. I bowed. “I came to Montauban to see him,” I said, wondering at his emotion. “But must you see him?” he persisted. “At the earliest moment.” He waved his hand with a gesture of despair and stood for a little time, his head bent in thought. “M. de Marsan,” he began at last, “I fear we have done you ill service by calling you here to-day----” But I stopped him before he could say more. “Ill service!” I cried. “Ill service to give my sword a chance at three consummate scoundrels, and me an opportunity of meeting Mademoiselle! Do me a thousand such ill services, Monsieur!” His was a merry spirit when no danger threatened, and I saw a jest spring to life in his eyes. “A chance to meet a thousand pretty girls?” he asked. But he was not to catch me so. “On the contrary, a thousand chances to meet Mademoiselle,” I answered boldly, though the boldness was no deeper than the lips, and from the corner of my eye I saw the girl blush hotly. He glanced from me to her and back again. The mirth died out of his face, as heat from a bed of ashes, and left it cold and gray.