The fat butler went puffing upstairs, and they followed, on each side of me.
"Go for a doctor, quick," said one of them to the gardener, who was coming behind—a Frenchman who prayed to a saint as he saw my blood.
They led me across a great green rug in a large hall above-stairs to a chamber of which I saw little then save its size and the wealth of its appointments. The young ladies set me down, bidding one to take off my boots, and sending another for hot water. They asked me where I was hurt. Then they took off my blouse and waistcoat.
"Mon Dieu!" said one to the other. "What can we do? Shall we cut the shirt?"
"Certainly. Cut the shirt," said the other. "We must help him. We cannot let him die."
"God forbid!" was the answer. "See the blood. Poor fellow! It is terrible!"
They spoke very tenderly as they cut my shirt with scissors, and bared my back, and washed my wound with warm water. I never felt a touch so caressing as that of their light fingers, but, gods of war! it did hurt me. The
