“He must have attention,” said M. le Comte, and, raising the curtain, he despatched a sentry for his surgeon. The surgeon was soon there, and bent over Roquefort with grave face. He wiped the blood from his lips, raised his head, and examined with deft fingers the wound Fronsac’s musket had inflicted, then, tearing away his clothing, put his ear against his chest. He listened a moment so, then stood erect again. “’Tis as I feared, M. le Comte,” he said. “The wound in the head is nothing--a glance blow that tore the scalp and produced a slight palsy; but his chest is crushed; he bleeds within. I have seen men so who have fallen beneath their horses, but I have never yet seen one get well again.” “And how long will he live?” The surgeon shook his head. “An hour--a day--perhaps two days. One cannot tell. Let us try to bring him back to consciousness.” He bathed face and temples with cold water and forced a glass of wine between his teeth. The dying man groaned--coughed feebly--opened his eyes and saw us. For a moment he lay without moving, his eyes travelling from face to face. Then they rested on M. le Comte, and a bitter smile curved his lips. “So--you have won!” he whispered. “Yes--I have won!” but there was more of pity than triumph in M. le Comte’s voice. Roquefort’s eyes rested on him an instant in puzzled inquiry. He did not understand this change of tone. Then his eyes travelled to the surgeon’s face. “Am I done?” he asked. “Is this the end?” The surgeon bent his head. “Shall I summon a priest, M. le Duc?” he asked. Roquefort’s eyes grew bright with sudden resolution. “A priest? Yes! At once!” But there was no fear of death in his face--he seemed elate, almost joyful. I could not understand it. His countenance had taken on a certain dignity it had before been stranger to--the lines of cruelty and harshness were wiped away--he was almost handsome, and his eyes were bright with purpose. He coughed again, and a spatter of blood came to his lips. The surgeon wiped it away and gave him again of the wine to drink. We could see how it brought warm life back to him. “M. le Comte,” he said, when he could speak again, “I have a favor to ask of you. I am sure you can be a generous enemy--even to me, since I am dying.” “Ask on, M. le Duc,” said the other, in a softened voice. “What is it?” “One of your men will take this ring,” and he pulled a signet from his finger, “mount to the castle, and show it to the sentry at the outer gate. He will open without question. Your messenger will ask for Mlle. Claire de Brissac. He will tell her that I lie dying here and wish to see her. She will come, I know. Will you do so much for me, M. le Comte?” “Aye, and more,” came the answer readily, and M. le Comte stooped and took the ring. “It shall be done. I give my word for it.”