The man said,—
"My name is Danse-a-l'Ombre."
"You are a brave fellow," said Gauvain.
And he held out his hand to him.
The man replied: "Long live the king!" and collecting all the strength he had left, raising both arms at once, he fired his pistol at Gauvain's heart, and aimed a blow at his head with his sword.
He did this with the swiftness of a tiger; but some one else was quicker still. It was a man on horseback who had just arrived, and had been there for some moments without attracting any one's attention. When this man saw the Vendéan raise his sword and pistol, he threw himself between him and Gauvain. But for this man, Gauvain would have been killed. The horse received the shot, the man received the blow from the sabre, and both fell. All this was done before there was time to cry out.
The Vendéan had dropped on the pavement.
The sabre had struck the man full in the face; he was on the ground, unconscious. The horse was killed.
Gauvain went to him.
"Who is this man?" he said.
He looked at him. The blood was pouring from the gash and formed a red mask over the wounded man's face. It was impossible to make out his features. One could see that he had gray hair.
"This man has saved my life," continued Gauvain.
"Does any one here know who he is?"
"My commandant," said a soldier, "this man has just entered the town. I saw him when he came. He came by the road Pontorson."
The surgeon of the column came running with his case. The wounded man was still unconscious. The surgeon examined him and said,—
"A mere cut. It is nothing. It will heal. In a week he will be on his feet. It is a fine sword cut."
The wounded man had a cloak, a tricolored belt, pistols, a sword. They laid him on a litter. They took off his clothes. They brought a pail of fresh water, the surgeon washed the wound, his face began to appear. Gauvain watched him with deep attention.
"Has he any papers about him?" asked Gauvain.
