His wound had been pronounced to be inevitably mortal, and he had
been told that he might possibly live for two or three days, but that
in all probability his sufferings would not be protracted so long. The
fatal bullet had passed through his arm into his breast, had perforated
his lungs, and there, within the vitals of his body, the deadly missile
was still hidden. At some moments, his agony was extreme, but at others,
he was nearly free from pain; and as his life grew nearer to its close,
his intervals of ease became longer, and the periods of his suffering
were shortened. He had confessed, and received absolution and the
sacrament of his church at Remouille; and when he reached St. Laurent,
nothing was left for him but to die.
He tried to thank her, as Agatha assisted him to the little chamber
which she had prepared for him; but his own feelings, and his exertions
in moving were at first too much for him. The power of speech, however,
soon returned to him, and he said:
"How can I thank you, Mademoiselle, what am I to say to thank you for
such care as this?"
"You are not to thank us at all," said Agatha, (there was one of the
sisters of mercy with her in the room).
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