The blood was running in a tiny little stream down his cheek.
She caught her handkerchief from her girdle impulsively, and gently wiped it away.
"Let me bandage the wound," she said eagerly.

Her eyes were alight with compassion, certainly not because it was the dissipated French invader, M.Savary dit Detricand,--no one knew that he was the young Comte de Tournay of the House of Vaufontaine, but because he was a wounded fellow-creature.

She would have done the same for the poor beganne, Dormy Jamais, who still prowled the purlieus of St.Heliers.
It was clear, however, that Detricand felt differently.

The moment she touched him he became suddenly still.

He permitted her to wash the blood from his temple and forehead, to stanch it first with brandied jeru-leaves, then with cobwebs, and afterwards to bind it with her own kerchief.
Detricand thrilled at the touch of the warm, tremulous fingers.