The farmer was irritated, as perhaps he might well be; and, but little inclined to bear from another reproaches which he had endured quietly from his wife, he was about to reply in angry terms, when Helen interposed; and, with gentle firmness, which might perhaps not have been expected from the tender and yielding disposition which she had hitherto displayed, she led him from the room, and insisted upon his making no reply. She then turned all her efforts to calm and soothe the old Commander; and so tenderly, so kindly, did she busy herself about him, that the heart of the rough old soldier was moved, and he exclaimed, "Bless thee, my child, thou art a sweet good girl; and I wish I could but live to do thee some service. But it is in vain, Helen, it is all in vain; not that I mind this burning pain; for that more or less follows every wound, but 'tis the sudden failing of my strength. All power seems gone; and, in an instant, I have become as if I were a child again. I was lame and well nigh crippled with old wounds before; for I never was in battle or combat but I was sure to receive some injury--such was my ill-luck; but still in my hands and arms I was as strong as ever, could bend a double crown between my thumbs, or break the staff of a lance over my knee. Now it is a labour to me to lift my hand to my head; and that has come all in a moment. This means death; Helen, this means death!" "Nay, perhaps not," replied Helen de la Tremblade. "The body is strangely composed; and the ball may rest upon some sinew or some nerve that gives strength; yet all may be well again." The old man shook his head, but still he remained cheerful, often talking of death, yet never seeming to look upon it with dread or horror. In about an hour a surgeon arrived, examined and probed the wound, and descanted learnedly upon its nature. But with him, the good old Commander showed himself irritable and impatient, writhed under his hand, declared he tortured him, and seemed to shrink more from pain, than from death itself. The man of healing soon saw that he could do but little. To Helen's anxious inquiries, however, he did not give the most sincere answers, leaving her to hope, that the wound might be cured, and saying, that he would come again at night. He calculated indeed, that his patient would live over the next day, and that there would be time enough for a priest to be summoned. That was all that his conscience required; and he judged--perhaps kindly--that it was useless to torment a sick man with the thoughts of death, for many hours before the event took place.