To the reeling brain of Gervase all was wild tumult and disorder; the lights blazed round him; the flash of gleaming steel and the shadow of dark passionate faces came and went; the strident clamour of angry voices sounded as from immeasurable distances. And then his senses failed him and he remembered no more. When consciousness returned he was lying on the bed with the Vicomte bending over him, while a little dark man in a shabby cloak and wig very much the worse for wear, was stanching the blood that flowed from a wound in his shoulder. The room had been cleared, but some fellows whose faces showed that they had been robbed of their spoil, were gathered round the door, and looked on with countenances that betokened little goodwill toward the wounded man. The little surgeon went on busily with his work and when he had finished, rubbed his hands with an air of satisfaction. “A neat bit of work, Vicomte; as pretty a piece of accidental skilfulness as ever I saw in my life. The one hundred and twelfth part of an inch would have relieved this tenement of clay of its immortal soul, and being a heretic----” and he shook his head vigorously. “However, ´tis but a trifle to one who hath youth and vigour. This excessive bleeding will relieve him of sundry humours and affections that lurk in the veins of youth, and in a day or two at the furthest his natural strength will assert itself. He must avoid the use of intoxicating fluids. But I´m thinking,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “there will be little for him after my lord and myself.” Gervase opened his eyes and attempted to rise, but De Laprade, sitting beside him on the bed, gently restrained him. “Be not in too great haste, my friend,” he said. “My Lord Galmoy will want to see you presently and you will need all your strength for the interview.” “A very deadly disease for which there is no remedy known to the faculty,” added the surgeon; “especially when he is in his cups.” “Monsieur le Medicin,” continued De Laprade, “tells me your wound is not serious, and if you can listen I should like to give you a word of advice, though little accustomed to give it.” “I begin to feel better,” Gervase answered. “The wound is a trifle painful and my head is somewhat dull withal, but I have strength enough left to thank you, Vicomte, for your help. I doubt not but for your kindly assistance I had now been past this gentleman´s skill.” “I assure you, my friend, ´twas nothing. These wolves have a taste for blood, but they like their game better dead than alive and are easily shaken off. But the wolf--I mean the gentleman--who will presently be inquiring for you is altogether different. Him you cannot so easily satisfy. I should advise you, in all friendship, to answer his questions as fully as becomes a man of honour, and not needlessly to offend him. For myself, if I can be of assistance, you may rely upon me.” “I shall strive to do as you say. But for the others--what became of Macpherson?”