Within, it was all as he had guessed it would be, of a neglect so ancient that every growing thing had set itself to repair and clothe it. But all that he saw clearly was the great, nail-studded door above the flight of shallow steps, for it stood wide open, and through the archway, framed in a tangle of still rust-coloured creeper, was cool darkness. It drew him more than the rioting garden, and he got himself somehow up the steps. And, once in the place, that was half-hall, half-kitchen, and that was lofty, with many great beams, he knew himself to be vanquished, for there was mist before his eyes and the sea in his ears. Yet he staggered as far as the huge old table, thick in dust, that stood before the great empty hearth, before he felt himself falling. He made a grab at the oak, missed it, stood swaying, and then sank heavily to the cold hearthstone. Consciousness had left him before he reached it. (3) When the familiar pain in his foot laid hold of him once more, and pulled him up, reluctant, from this happy blankness he was aware, as he came, of other sensations. Something wet and cold, smelling strongly of brandy, was passing slowly over his forehead; something hard was rubbing one of his hands. A voice said, "He is coming to," and this being now his own opinion, La Vireville opened his eyes. He was lying where he had fallen, but his head was resting in the crook of someone's arm. On the other side knelt Grain d'Orge, chafing one of his hands between his own horny palms; he looked ridiculously lugubrious. La Vireville stirred. "You are safe, Monsieur, you are safe!" said a woman's voice above him--a voice with a break in it. "Oh, your poor foot!" The émigré removed his gaze from Grain d'Orge, who kissed the hand he was holding, and, looking up, beheld the face of Mme. de Guéfontaine, stamped with a new character of pity and tenderness. He concluded that she was no longer desirous of his blood. But how was it that she and Grain d'Orge were here? He tried to ask her, but the words were unaccountably difficult to say. "You shall know in good time, Monsieur le Chevalier," she said gently. "Meanwhile, lie still. Grain d'Orge, roll up that cloak and put it under his head. That is better." She slipped her arm from under La Vireville's head, and his eyes closed again in spite of himself. A little time passed; he heard the Chouan murmuring prayers. Then light fingers were unwrapping the rags from about his lacerated foot, and he felt on it the sting of water, deliciously cold. He reopened his eyes. "I am afraid that I am giving you a great deal of trouble," he said slowly and politely to the kneeling figure.