to throw myself at her feet in eagerness to do whatever she bade me.
"You will think me an ingrate, or a miser of my thanks, sir," she said in a tone rich and soft; "and yet, believe me, my heart is full of gratitude."
"Please say no more," I replied, with a wave of the hand; "but tell me, can I be of any further service? Your wound—can I not get you assistance?"
She paid no heed to the question, but remained gazing steadfastly into my eyes. Then her face broke into a smile that transfigured it until it seemed to glow with a quite radiant beauty.
"Yes, indeed, you can serve me—if you will; but not only in the manner you think. The servants have deserted the house. I am alone to-night—alone and quite in your power." She lingered on the words, paused, and then added: "But in the power of a man of honour."
"How can I serve you? You have but to ask."
"I wish I could think that," was the quick answer, with a flash from her eyes. "But first for this," and she rapidly bared the wound, revealing an arm and shoulder of surpassing beauty of form. "Can you bind this up?" For the moment I was amazed at this complete abandonment of all usual womanly reserve. The action was deliberate, however, and I read it as at once a sign of her trust and confidence in me, and a test of my honour. The hurt was not serious. The man's blade had pierced the soft white flesh of the shoulder, but had not penetrated deep; and I had no difficulty in staunching the blood and binding it up.
"It is not a serious wound," I said reassuringly. "I am glad."
