“Asseyez-vous, Monsieu’—­pliz to give you’sev de pens to seet down, ‘Sieu’ Frowenfel’.”

She spoke with a nervous tenderness in contrast with her alarmed and entreating expression of face, and gently pushed him into a chair.

The child ran behind the bed and burst into frightened sobs, but ceased when Clotilde turned for an instant and glared at her.

“Mague yo’ ’ead back,” said Clotilde, and with tremulous tenderness she softly pressed back his brow and began wiping off the blood.  “W’ere you is ’urted?”

But while she was asking her question she had found the gash and was growing alarmed at its ugliness, when Raoul, having made everything fast, came in with: 

“Wat’s de mattah, ‘Sieur Frowenfel’? w’at’s de mattah wid you?  Oo done dat, ’Sieur Frowen fel’?”

Joseph lifted his head and drew away from it the small hand and wet handkerchief, and without letting go the hand, looked again into Clotilde’s eyes, and said: 

“Go home; oh, go home!”

“Oh! no,” protested Raoul, whereupon Clotilde turned upon him with a perfectly amiable, nurse’s grimace for silence.

“I goin’ rad now,” she said.

Raoul’s silence was only momentary.

“Were you lef you’ hat, ’Sieur Frowenfel’?” he asked, and stole an artist’s glance at Clotilde, while Joseph straightened up, and nerving himself to a tolerable calmness of speech, said: 

“I have been struck with a stick of wood by a half-witted person under a misunderstanding of my intentions; but the circumstances are such as to blacken my character hopelessly; but I am innocent!” he cried, stretching forward both arms and quite losing his momentary self-control.

“‘Sieu’ Frowenfel’!” cried Clotilde, tears leaping to her eyes, “I am shoe of it!”

“I believe you!  I believe you, ’Sieur Frowenfel’!” exclaimed Raoul with sincerity.

“You will not believe me,” said Joseph.  “You will not; it will be impossible.”

“Mais” cried Clotilde, “id shall nod be impossib’!”

But the apothecary shook his head.

“All I can be suspected of will seem probable; the truth only is incredible.”

His head began to sink and a pallor to overspread his face.

“Allez, Monsieur, allez,” cried Clotilde to Raoul, a picture of beautiful terror which he tried afterward to paint from memory, “appelez Doctah Kin!”

Raoul made a dash for his hat, and the next moment she heard, with unpleasant distinctness, his impetuous hand slam the shop door and lock her in.

“Baille ma do l’eau” she called to the little mulattress, who responded by searching wildly for a cup and presently bringing a measuring-glass full of water.

Clotilde gave it to the wounded man, and he rose at once and stood on his feet.

“Raoul.”

“’E gone at Doctah Kin.”

“I do not need Doctor Keene; I am not badly hurt.  Raoul should not have left you here in this manner.  You must not stay.”