“Trust her with me; I am a medical man,” said Dr. John. “If you have no lady with you, be it so,” was the answer. “Hold her, and I will force a passage: we must get her to the air.” “I have a lady,” said Graham; “but she will be neither hindrance nor incumbrance.” He summoned me with his eye: we were separated. Resolute, however, to rejoin him, I penetrated the living barrier, creeping under where I could not get between or over. “Fasten on me, and don’t leave go,” he said; and I obeyed him. Our pioneer proved strong and adroit; he opened the dense mass like a wedge; with patience and toil he at last bored through the flesh-and-blood rock—so solid, hot, and suffocating—and brought us to the fresh, freezing night. “You are an Englishman!” said he, turning shortly on Dr. Bretton, when we got into the street. “An Englishman. And I speak to a countryman?” was the reply. “Right. Be good enough to stand here two minutes, whilst I find my carriage.” “Papa, I am not hurt,” said a girlish voice; “am I with papa?” “You are with a friend, and your father is close at hand.” “Tell him I am not hurt, except just in my shoulder. Oh, my shoulder! They trod just here.” “Dislocation, perhaps!” muttered the Doctor: “let us hope there is no worse injury done. Lucy, lend a hand one instant.” And I assisted while he made some arrangement of drapery and position for the ease of his suffering burden. She suppressed a moan, and lay in his arms quietly and patiently. “She is very light,” said Graham, “like a child!” and he asked in my ear, “Is she a child, Lucy? Did you notice her age?” “I am not a child—I am a person of seventeen,” responded the patient, demurely and with dignity. Then, directly after: “Tell papa to come; I get anxious.” The carriage drove up; her father relieved Graham; but in the exchange from one bearer to another she was hurt, and moaned again. “My darling!” said the father, tenderly; then turning to Graham, “You said, sir, you are a medical man?” “I am: Dr. Bretton, of La Terrasse.” “Good. Will you step into my carriage?” “My own carriage is here: I will seek it, and accompany you.” “Be pleased, then, to follow us.” And he named his address: “The Hôtel Crécy, in the Rue Crécy.” We followed; the carriage drove fast; myself and Graham were silent. This seemed like an adventure. Some little time being lost in seeking our own equipage, we reached the hotel perhaps about ten minutes after these strangers. It was an hotel in the foreign sense: a collection of dwelling-houses, not an inn—a vast, lofty pile, with a huge arch to its street-door, leading through a vaulted covered way, into a square all built round.