Olivier was by her side in an instant, eyeing the wound with the
professional interest of the surgeon-barber and looking from it to
the girl's pale face. Villon's gaze questioned him. Olivier shrugged
his shoulders and shook his head. Villon knew that the wound was
mortal, and his own blood seemed like water within him. He carried
the girl across the grass to the marble seat and rested her on it,
the red stain on the green coat growing wider and wider as they
moved.
"Courage, Abbess, courage, lass," he whispered, fighting with his
horror and his sorrow as he moaned to himself: "That any one should
die for me!"
The girl's arms clung closer about his neck and her lips moved
faintly. He stooped close to her to catch her words.
"This is a strange end, Fran?ois. I always thought I should die in a
bed. Here is another kind of battlefield. Give me drink."
"Some water," Villon cried to Olivier, who stood a little apart from
the pair with the resigned look of the physician who knows that his
art is of no avail.
Huguette protested faintly.
"Not water. Wine. I have ever loved the taste of it, and 'tis too
late to change now.
Pages:
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201