Bardelys the Magnificent. Rafael Sabatini

friends. Do you understand?”

      The faint smile that played for a second on his lips and lighted his countenance would have told me that he understood, even had I not caught his words, faint as a sigh “Merci, monsieur.” He nestled his head into the crook of my arm. “Water—for the love of God!” he gasped, to add in a groan, “Je me meurs, monsieur.”

      Assisted by a couple of knaves, Ganymede went about attending to the rebel at once. Handling him as carefully as might be, to avoid giving him unnecessary pain they removed his back-and-breast, which was flung with a clatter into one of the corners of the barn. Then, whilst one of them gently drew off his boots, Rodenard, with the lanthorn close beside him, cut away the fellow's doublet, and laid bare the oozing sword-wound that gaped in his mangled side. He whispered an order to Gilles, who went swiftly off to the coach in quest of something that he had asked for; then he sat on his heels and waited, his hand upon the man's pulse, his eyes on his face.

      I stooped until my lips were on a level with my intendant's ear.

      “How is it with him?” I inquired.

      “Dying,” whispered Rodenard in answer. “He has lost too much blood, and he is probably bleeding inwardly as well. There is no hope of his life, but he may linger thus some little while, sinking gradually, and we can at least mitigate the suffering of his last moments.”

      When presently the men returned with the things that Ganymede had asked for, he mixed some pungent liquid with water, and, whilst a servant held the bowl, he carefully sponged the rebel's wound. This and a cordial that he had given him to drink seemed to revive him and to afford him ease. His breathing was no longer marked by any rasping sound, and his eyes seemed to burn more intelligently.

      “I am dying—is it not so?” he asked, and Ganymede bowed his head in silence. The poor fellow sighed. “Raise me,” he begged, and when this service had been done him, his eyes wandered round until they found me. Then “Monsieur,” he said, “will you do me a last favour?”

      “Assuredly, my poor friend,” I answered, going down on my knees beside him.

      “You—you were not for the Duke?” he inquired, eyeing me more keenly.

      “No, monsieur. But do not let that disturb you; I have no interest in this rising and I have taken no side. I am from Paris, on a journey of—of pleasure. My name is Bardelys—Marcel de Bardelys.”

      “Bardelys the Magnificent?” he questioned, and I could not repress a smile.

      “I am that overrated man.”

      “But then you are for the King!” And a note of disappointment crept into his voice. Before I could make him any answer, he had resumed. “No matter; Marcel de Bardelys is a gentleman, and party signifies little when a man is dying. I am Rene de Lesperon, of Lesperon in Gascony,” he pursued. “Will you send word to my sister afterwards?”

      I bowed my head without speaking.

      “She is the only relative I have, monsieur. But”—and his tone grew wistful—“there is one other to whom I would have you bear a message.” He raised his hand by a painful effort to the level of his breast. Strength failed him, and he sank back. “I cannot, monsieur,” he said in a tone of pathetic apology. “See; there is a chain about my neck with a locket. Take it from me. Take it now, monsieur. There are some papers also, monsieur. Take all. I want to see them safely in your keeping.”

      I did his bidding, and from the breast of his doublet I drew some loose letters and a locket which held the miniature of a woman's face.

      “I want you to deliver all to her, monsieur.”

      “It shall be done,” I answered, deeply moved.

      “Hold it—hold it up,” he begged, his voice weakening. “Let me behold the face.”

      Long his eyes rested on the likeness I held before him. At last, as one in a dream—

      “Well-beloved,” he sighed. “Bien aimee!” And down his grey, haggard cheeks the tears came slowly. “Forgive this weakness, monsieur,” he whispered brokenly. “We were to have been wed in a month, had I lived.” He ended with a sob, and when next he spoke it was more labouredly, as though that sob had robbed him of the half of what vitality remained. “Tell her, monsieur, that my dying thoughts were of her. Tell—tell her—I—”

      “Her name?” I cried, fearing he would sink before I learned it. “Tell me her name.”

      He looked at me with eyes that were growing glassy and vacant. Then he seemed to brace himself and to rally for a second.

      “Her name?” he mused, in a far-off manner. “She is—Ma-de-moiselle de———”

      His head rolled on the suddenly relaxed neck. He collapsed into Rodenard's arms.

      “Is he dead?” I asked.

      Rodenard nodded in silence.