"Ah, diable! and the young doctor, was he here?"

The bystanders looked at each other.

"It is the remains of delirium," said the monk. Then, turning to
Bussy, "I think you would do well to confess," said he, "there
was no doctor, poor young man; you were here alone, and as cold
as death."

Bussy then remembered having received a sword stroke, glided his
hand under his doublet, and felt his handkerchief in the same
place, fixed over his wound by his sword-belt.

"It is singular," said he.

Already profiting by his permission, the lookers-on were dividing
his purse.

"Now, my friends," said he, "will you take me to my hotel?"

"Ah, certainly," said the old woman, "poor dear young man, the
butcher is strong, and then he has his horse, on which you can
ride."

"Yes, my gentleman, my horse and I are at your service."

"Nevertheless, my son," said the monk, "I think you would do well
to confess."