ded, one life must pay for the trouble they have taken
and the heart beats they have lost. I ask you, on your word of honor,
Sir John, to promise that, wounded or dying, M. de Barjols' surgeon
shall not be allowed to touch me."

"But suppose, M. Roland--"

"Take it or leave it. Your word of honor, my lord, or devil take me if I
fight at all."

The Englishman again looked curiously at the young man. His face was
livid, and his limbs quivered as though in extreme terror. Sir John,
without understanding this strange dread, passed his word.

"Good!" exclaimed Roland. "This, you see, is one of the effects of my
charming malady. The mere thought of surgical instruments, a bistoury or
a lance, makes me dizzy. Didn't I grow very pale?"

"I did think for an instant you were going to faint."

"What a stunning climax!" exclaimed Roland with a laugh. "Our
adversaries arrive and you are dosing me with smelling salts like a
hysterical woman. Do you know what they, and you, first of all, would
have said? That I was afraid."

Meantime, the three new-comers having approached within earshot, Sir
John was unable to answer Roland. They bowed, and Roland, with a smile
that revealed his beautiful teeth, returned their greeting. Sir John
whispered in his ear:

"You are still a trifle pale. Go on toward the fountain; I will fetch
you when we are ready."

"Ah! that's the idea," said Roland. "I have always wanted to see that
famous fountain of Vaucluse, the Hippocrene of Petrarch. You know his
sonnet?

"'Chiari, fresche e dolci acque
Ove le belle membra
Pose colei, che sola a me perdona.'

This opportunity lost, I may never have another. Where is your
fountain?"

"Not a hundred feet off. Follow the path; you'll find it at the turn of
the road, at the foot of that enormous bowlder you see."

"My lord," said Roland, "you are the best guide I know; thanks!"

And, with a friendly wave of the hand, he went off in the direction
of the fountain, humming the charming pastoral of Philippe Desportes
beneath his breath:

"'Rosette, a little absence
Has turned thine heart from me;
I, knowing that inconstance,
Have turned my heart from thee.
No wayward beauty o'er me
Such power shall obtain;
We'll see, my fickle lassie,
Who first will turn again.'"

Sir John turned as he heard the modulations of that fresh sweet voice,
whose higher notes had something at a feminine quality. His cold
methodica