“Go on,” said Louis, with a grimace. “Yes, it hurts damnably, but I am sure that your intentions are good.” With that he shut his eyes again, and Château-Foix went on with his ministrations. The stab, just below the left collar-bone, was sufficiently deep, though in itself, thought Gilbert, scarcely dangerous. He was not anatomist enough to realise how near it had come to being mortal. The palpable loss of blood impressed him most. As he was bathing the wound Louis suddenly opened his eyes again. “Gilbert,” he said in an odd voice, “you should not do this. I wish you had left me on the road.” The words woke in Gilbert’s mind an echo of Louis’ protestation in the bedroom at the Etats-Généraux on the night of his release, and of his own reception of it. Well, it was different now, thank God! “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said cheerfully—and even as he said it something whispered at the back of his mind, “Supposing you had not been mistaken. . . .” He paused in his work and looked down at his cousin. Louis’ eyes, a little sunk in his white face, met his full. “You think I don’t mean it,” he said unsteadily, and without a trace of his usual light manner. “I do, on my honour!” He put up his right hand and caught weakly at Gilbert’s wrist. “Promise me, promise me,” he repeated imploringly, “that if they come here after us you will do the best for yourself!” “I shall do that in any case, my dear boy,” replied his cousin. “Now, if you will let go my hand and lie still I will bandage this shoulder.” The young man sighed, and released the hand. Nor did he say another word while the Marquis bound up his shoulder, using his cravat in default of anything better, except to remark, at the end of the operation, that he was very sleepy. He seemed, indeed, to be slipping back into unconsciousness of some kind. Gilbert arranged the surrounding hay as comfortably as he could, found on a nail an old and not very dirty horse-cloth, spread it over the Vicomte, and gave him some more brandy. As he withdrew the arm which he had put beneath his cousin’s head to raise it, Louis rallied himself for a last effort. “If ever you loved me, Gilbert,” he pleaded, “promise me that you will do what I ask—that you will leave me if there is an alarm. If you are taken what will become of everybody at Chantemerle? What use is there in sacrificing yourself . . . and for me too. . . . For God’s sake, promise me!” For the sake of quieting him Gilbert gave the promise he had no intention of keeping. The light of real feeling in the anxious, tired grey eyes had given him a little shock of emotion. He took his hand. “I promise you that I will consider myself first. Now, will that satisfy you? . . . My dear Louis, you absolutely must get to sleep!” “I obey,” said the Vicomte, smiling. “I expect I shall be all right to-morrow. If not, I rely on your promise. Good-night.”