Barnes, buoyed by a sharp feeling of relief, followed the actor downstairs and into the tap-room. A dozen men were there, gathered around two tables that had been drawn together. Transient lodgers, in various stages of dishabille, popped out of all sorts of passageways and joined the throng. The men about the table, on which was stretched the figure of the wounded man, were undoubtedly natives: farmers, woodsmen or employees of the tavern. At a word from Putnam Jones, they opened up and allowed Barnes to advance to the side of the man. "See if you c'n understand him, Mr. Barnes," said the landlord. Perspiration was dripping from his long, raw-boned face. "And you, Bacon,--you and Dillingford hustle upstairs and get a mattress off'n one of the beds. Stand at the door there, Pike, and don't let any women in here. Go away, Miss Thackeray! This is no place for you." Miss Thackeray pushed her way past the man who tried to stop her and joined Barnes. Her long black hair hung in braids down her back; above her forehead clustered a mass of ringlets, vastly disordered but not untidy. A glance would have revealed the gaudy rose-coloured skirt hanging below the bottom of the long rain-coat she had snatched from a peg in the hall-way. "It is the place for me," she said sharply. "Haven't you men got sense enough to put something under his head? Where is he hurt? Get that cushion, you. Stick, it under here when I lift his head. Oh, you poor thing! We'll be as quick as possible. There!" "You'd better go away," said Barnes, himself ghastly pale. "He's been shot. There is a lot of blood--don't you know. It's splendid of you--" "Dangerously?" she cried, shrinking back, her eyes fixed in dread upon the white face. The man's eyes were closed, but at the sound of a woman's voice he opened them. The hand with which he clutched at his breast slid off and seemed to be groping for hers. His breathing was terrible. There was blood at the corners of his mouth, and more oozed forth when his lips parted in an effort to speak. With a courage that surprised even herself, the girl took his hand in hers. It was wet and warm. She did not dare look at it. "Merci, madame," struggled from the man's lips, and he smiled. Barnes had heard of the French soldiers who, as they died, said "thank you" to those who ministered to them, and smiled as they said it. He had always marvelled at the fortitude that could put gratefulness above physical suffering, and his blood never failed to respond to an exquisite thrill of exaltation under such recitals. He at once deduced that the injured man, while probably not a Frenchman, at least was familiar with the language. He was young, dark-haired and swarthy. His riding-clothes were well-made and modish.