"There, there," he said; "it is all right. Now for
my poor Iberville." He took Iberville's head to his knee and thrust the
drinking-horn between his teeth, as he had done with Jessica, calling him
in much the same fashion. Iberville came to with a start. For a moment
he stared blindly at his rescuer, then a glad intelligence flashed into
his eyes.
"Perrot! dear Nick Perrot!" he cried. "Oh, good--good," he added
softly. Then with sudden anxiety:
"Where is she? Where is she?"
"I am safe, monsieur," Jessica said gently; "but you--you are wounded."
She came over and dropped on her knees beside him.
"A little," he said; "only a little. You cared for her first?" he asked
of Perrot.
Perrot chuckled. "These Le Moynes!" he said: under his breath. Then
aloud: "The lady first, monsieur."
"So," answered Iberville. "And Bucklaw--the devil, Bucklaw?"
"If you mean the rogue who gave you these," said Perrot, touching the
wounds, which he had already begun to bind, "I think he got away--the
light was bad."
Jessica would have torn her frock for a bandage, but Perrot said in his
broken English: "No, pardon. Not so. The cloak la-bas."
She ran and brought it to him. As she did so Perrot glanced down at her
feet, and then, with a touch of humour, said: "Pardon, but you have lost
your slipper, ma'm'selle?"
He foresaw the little comedy, which he could enjoy even in such painful
circumstances.
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