"Rosalie!"
Yes, m'sieu!"—for we had both dropped into French again.
"There's a road just below here that leads off to the right into the forest," said I. "Run in there, please. I am wounded, and must look after myself a little before we go into Paris."
"Very well," said Rosalie, and accelerated her speed. A few minutes later she slowed, then turned sharply to the right and began to creep up a little wood road. When presently it forked she took the less used of the two, which was no more than an alley cut for shooting, and presently came to a stop in a tangle of dwarf oaks and briers. Rosalie jumped down and opened the door.
"Are you badly hurt?" she asked anxiously, and in English.
"I got a bullet through my shoulder and a knife through my forearm," I answered. "The bullet wound doesn't bother, but the knife cut an artery, and I've tied it up so tight that it's giving me the devil. It will need a surgeon, I'm afraid, and I can't go to one in this soutane over a golf suit."
Rosalie knit her pretty brows and looked at me thoughtfully.
"Let's see it," says she. "I know something about wounds. I've often helped Sister Anne Marie. Let me see your arm."
The sleeve of the soutane was soaked; and, as Rosalie began to pull it off, she looked at her hands and gave a little scream. The tweed coat-sleeve was a mess; and while I was working out of it things began to grow dark again. As I began to get sensi-
