Gilbert tied up the wound as best he could with his handkerchief. It was amazing that there was no sign of pursuit. Yet they were near, too near the Gerbe d’Or; nor did he suppose that a night in the open was beneficial to a wounded man, and he resolved to try to find a roof of some sort. Lest Louis should recover consciousness in his absence, he tore a leaf from his pocket-book, scribbled on it a line or two to that effect—it was true that he could hardly read them himself in the dim light—and closed the Vicomte’s hand round it. Then he took off his coat, spread it carefully over the prostrate figure, and made cautiously for the gap. With his departing footsteps the thicket sank into silence. Now and again the leaves rustled, and a dead bramble branch, lifted by a gust, flung itself on to the Marquis’ coat and caught there. The loudest adjacent noise came from the sheep cropping the grass on the other side of the hedge; but down the road, in the direction of Sillé-le-Guillaume, faint shouts announced a tardy and mistaken pursuit. Louis lay stiller than sleep under his tree and heard nothing. * * * * * * It might have been three-quarters of an hour afterwards that the Marquis returned. It was grown a little lighter now, and he scanned Saint-Ermay’s face with renewed anxiety as he bent over him. Then he poured a little eau-de-vie down his throat, and watched the effect. In less than a minute a contraction passed over the Vicomte’s features; he sighed, and moved his head restlessly on the arm which supported it. Château-Foix repeated the treatment, and Louis stirred, gasped a little, and opened his eyes. “What execrable brandy!” he observed feebly, but with some emphasis. “But you ought to be thankful for it,” returned the Marquis. “I had some difficulty in getting any. How do you feel now, Louis?” With his cousin’s aid Saint-Ermay struggled into a sitting posture. “Much as usual, thank you,” he replied lightly. “I cannot think how I came to be so foolish as to faint. I remember——” He broke off, and as his gaze fell on the stem of a tree opposite him, he seemed to become aware for the first time that he was not where he had fallen. “How the devil did I come here?” he demanded in tones of sudden surprise. “I carried you.” “You carried me! Great Heavens!” exclaimed the Vicomte, twisting himself in Gilbert’s hold to look at him. “How many miles, may I ask?” “A matter of a hundred yards or so. It was nothing; you are not very heavy.” “But those rascals from the inn?” “There has been no pursuit—at least not in this direction.” “But I suppose there may be. How long have I been here?” “Nearly an hour,” said his cousin. “I have found a place of comparative shelter—if you think you can manage to get to it,” he added a little dubiously.