'It is Louis--Louis--O God, no!' exclaimed Madame de Beaufort, swinging round, the glad note in her voice breaking as she saw I was not her brother, de C[oe]uvres; but Madame had already dismounted and was holding my head up, and gently passing a handkerchief over my face. They had all surrounded me now, and I heard quick orders given. 'He is past mending,' said d'Ayen, bending over me from his saddle, 'a gentleman, too, it seems. Let him lie there--he will die very soon, poor devil!' '_Mon Dieu!_ No!' broke in the duchess, and Madame looked at the speaker with a cold contempt. 'He is the only man living here,' and the strong accent of the Bearnais came as from a distance; '_Ventre-saint-Gris!_ But they fought like paladins, and Frenchman or foreigner, he shall be saved if it can be done.' 'Sire,' said a soft voice, 'you are the true King of the brave.' Then two men-at-arms raised me with a rough gentleness on their crossed spears, and inflicted on me in their kindness the most infinite torture. The King himself pressed a flask of wine to my lips, and, as I drank greedily, two cool hands held up my head. Then we moved on slowly, Madame refusing to ride, but walking by my side, and supporting my burning head. CHAPTER IV THE CHATEAU DE LA BIDACHE Months had passed since I shook hands with death in the cornfield by the banks of the Oise, and the grass was tall and green on the mounds around La Fere which marked the graves of those who had fought and died there, in reality for the hand of Spain, in spirit for the League that was dead. It was autumn now, and as I, well and strong again, walked down the long avenue of beeches that led to the park gates of Bidache, I let my memory run back to the days in the hospital of Ste. Genevieve, whither I was borne from the field; to the soft-voiced, gentle-handed sisters of mercy; to the physician Marescot, the King's own leech, with his acid face and kind heart, who doctored me; and above all to the tall, slight, black-robed figure that came to see me daily, and for whose coming I used to long, in the dreary hours of my pain, with an infinite desire. I argued with myself on the absurdity of the thing--here was I, hardened by ten years of campaigning which ought to have taught me the world, conquered out of hand by the glance of a pair of bright eyes, and the tones of a sweet voice. As the days wore on, I cursed myself for the unworthy suspicions that had come to me and tied my tongue when I lay wounded, and was rescued by chance, and her charity. Who or what she was I cared not, and recklessly abandoned myself to the feelings that were aroused in my heart.