`"I am a doctor, my poor fellow," said I. "Let me examine it."
`"I do not want it examined," he answered; "let it be."
`It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away. The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all as if he were a fellow-creature.
`"How has this been done, monsieur?" said I.
`"A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him, and has fallen by my brother's Sword--like a gentleman."
`There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would' have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about the boy, or about his fate.
`The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now slowly moved to me.
`"Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?"