CHAPTER XXXIIAngelica stood in joy that was careless of the man who bled to death at her feet, or of the menace of farther things.
“Francis, are you hurt? How did you come here? Are you alone?”
“I came to give you aid if I could, you being snared by my fault.”
“That I was not. I should have stood back, or taken a better heed. . . . But you are not fit to be here! You were sore hurt, as I heard. . . . Were you single to attack those who pursued?”
“There were but three, on whom I ran at the back. Two are down, and one fled.”
“Then we should not stand here.”
That was plain, but where were they to go?
Angelica looked down on a man who had become still. She did not regard that his blood had soaked one of her own feet. She said: “There is a pistol we ought to have.” In this place to which
