I tried with some moss to stanch his still bleeding wound, but the groan he gave as I touched him caused me to desist.
Then he tried to speak something in French.
"What is it ?" said I, in English.
A look of quick relief came into his face.
"Ride forward with the letters--for God's sake--promise." Even in the feeble, broken words I could recognise a countryman.
"Yes," said I.
"Horses--at each post--my purse," he gasped.
"I promise I will do as you ask--as I am an Irishman and a Christian." That seemed to satisfy him.
"Your hand," said he, at last.
I gave it to him, and as it closed on his he groaned, and died.
It had all happened so suddenly that for a minute or two I knelt where I was, with my hand still in his, like one in a dream.

Then I roused myself, and considered what was to be done.
The dead man was a good-looking youth, scarcely twenty, dressed in the habit of a gentleman's groom, and evidently, by the smartness of his accoutrement, in the employ of some one of importance.

As to how he had come by his death I could only guess.

But I suspected the horseman I had seen galloping back towards Brest in the morning twilight had had something to do with it.

The highwayman had met the traveller, and shots had been exchanged--the one fatal, the other telling enough to send the bandit flying.