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 bathing done, they bound me big with
bandages and left the room until the butler had helped me into bed.
They came soon with spirits and bathed my face and hands. One
leaned over me, whispering, and asking what I would like to eat.
Directly a team of horses came prancing to the door.

"The colonel!" one of them whispered, listening.

"The colonel, upon my soul!" said the other, that sprightly
Louison, as she tiptoed to the window. They used to call her
"Tiptoes" at the Hermitage.