"By my faith! I meant to," came the answer. Gervais was bending over the
man. With an abrupt laugh he called out: "Killed him, pardieu! He has
come off cheap."

He raised the fellow's limp head, and we saw that the sword had passed
just over his shoulder, piercing the linen, not the flesh. He had
swooned from sheer terror, being in truth not so much as scratched.

Gervais turned to his cousin.

"I never meant that foul trick. It was no thought of mine. I would have
turned the blade if I could. I will kill Pontou now, if you say the
word."

"Nay," answered the other, faintly; "help me."

The blood was pouring from his arm; he was half swooning. Gervais and I
ran to him and, between us, bathed the cut, bandaged it with strips torn
from a shirt, and made a sling of a scarf. The wound was long, but not
deep, and when we had poured some wine down his throat he was himself
again.

"You will not bear me malice for that poltroon's work, Étienne?" Gervais
asked, more humbly than I ever thought to hear him speak. "That was a
foul cut, but it was no fault of mine. I am no blackguard; I fight fair.
I will kill the knave, if you like."

"You are ungrateful, Gervais; he saved you when you needed saving,"
Yeux-gris laughed. "Faith! let him live. I forgive him. You will pay me
for my hurt by yielding me Félix."