Then the injured man brought his right hand to the edge of the sheet, and the priest grasped it, pressed it tenderly in his own.

And the clasp was a long one, those two brotherly hands remaining locked, one in the other.
"My poor little Pierre," Guillaume faintly murmured, "you must forgive me for falling on you in this fashion.

I've invaded the house and taken your bed, and I'm preventing you from dining." "Don't talk, don't tire yourself any more," interrupted Pierre.

"Is not this the right place for you when you are in trouble ?" A warmer pressure came from Guillaume's feverish hand, and tears gathered in his eyes.

"Thanks, my little Pierre.