On Parole in Lisbon

Raoul's mouth quirked. "I was going to say too kind, but if you are about to start sticking that needle in my arm, I shall postpone saying that..."

Stephen gave a short, choked laugh, out of relief rather than from any sense of humour. "It is nothing - hold still, now - not like..." His voice trailed off as he squinted down at des Sablières' arm, stitching quickly and neatly with his right hand while his left shuddered violently.

Raoul supported his left arm in his right hand, his lips pursed as the needle stabbed at the tender flesh round the cut. His eyes focused on Dr Maturin's left hand, which trembled so badly while the right worked steadily. When the last stitch was in and fastened he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

Stephen nodded, exhausted by the effort and concentration the task had required, and patted des Sablières' hand. "A bandage, so that the stitches are protected," he said softly.

Raoul looked at the bandage Dr Maturin had taken from his arm, with its stiff brown marks swamped by the newer redder stain. The sleeve of his shirt, and of his coat, hanging on the back of the chair, had their own share of fresh blood. He raised his right hand in acknowledgement. "I should have asked... I cannot go to Mr Dawson like this. And you must rest, or I will become angry..." His voice was very soft, though, with no trace of anger.

Stephen looked around the room for something suitable. "Ah," he said, and unwound the black sash from around his waist. "This will do until the morning - it will be bulky, I am afraid..."

Raoul held out his arm, looking curiously at the black cloth. "Is that your officer's sash?" he asked.

"No," Stephen said quietly as he gently wound the cloth around the Frenchman's arm. "It was a gift." The guerilleros he had worked with in Spain had given it to him, in thanks and remembrance - the sash for the Second of May, and the black for the Third.

Raoul watch Dr Maturin wind the sash round his arm, like a mourning band, and then lifted his eyes again. "I shall return to you, then." It would protect it against casual knocks, as well, but he would not be able to put his coat back on. "Now - Dr Maturin, if you are quite finished with tending to my minor cuts, give some thought to yourself."

Stephen began to unwind his neckcloth - the constriction he was beginning to feel suggested there was bruising and swelling where he had been choked. "I have - he hit my head, and my shoulder was wrenched. There is nothing to be done for either of them."

"Your head will never get better at this rate," Raoul said, and then asked, worrriedly: "He did not use a knife on you, though, did he? Because if so... As for your head, and shoulder - I am no physician, but I prescribe rest, at least for tonight."

"He did not," Stephen said, shaking his head and then wincing. "Ah..." He pressed his fingers to his forehead, swaying a little in the chair. "First... just... you have no other injuries...?"

"None - or none to mention." Raoul leaned forward and said earnestly: "Stop worrying about me, Doctor. And leave me to worry about you."

"You have already done enough for me tonight, Capitaine," said Stephen, staring into his lap.

Raoul leaned back. His arm still ached, but the nature of the pain seemed to have changed. He hoped that was good. "You make it very difficult for me," he complained. "So - unless you agree to rest, until morning, I shall be obliged to go and fetch another doctor to reinforce my prescription. With all the risk that that would entail. And if you insist on leaving, I must, of course, accompany you."

"I- I will rest," Stephen said, careful not to move his head. "But Padstowe is expecting me, and I need to examine the alleyway, and there... are things that I must do..." He held up a finger. "But you will stay here, for as long as you can persuade Mister Dawson. And no other doctor."

Raoul set his jaw, and shook his head. "It is too dangerous. You could not defend yourself against a common footpad. If I have done anything for you, doctor, must you throw it away?"

Stephen's pride riled against such a description, but his common sense told him that des Sablières was right. "No," he whispered, closing his eyes. God help him, but he was ready to let Coelho murder again for the sake of some sleep. He gripped the material of his shirt. "But I cannot just..."

"Listen to me," Raoul said urgently. "I speak now not as a Frenchman, but as someone who - who wishes you well. You are not yet recovered from your old injuries, and now you are hurt again. You cannot do everything."

"Someone who..." Stephen looked up at Raoul, and the concern he saw on his face nearly broke him. "People are dying, and I cannot stop it. But there is no one else."

Raoul blinked, and shook his head. "That is... You cannot save anyone if you work yourself to death without respite. That is so for a physician too, is it not?"

"It is not so simple as that," Stephen whispered, then, feeling that he was straying too far into self-pity, he straightened in the chair. "But you are right. I am identifying several symptoms of... of... I will rest."

"Good." Raoul smiled in relief. "Shall I ask Mr Dawson if there is a bed you can use?"

"I have already caused enough trouble; I do not think I can face any more hostility today, even from Mister Dawson," Stephen said, going pink. "I can sleep in a chair."

Raoul straightened up and looked around the room. "They are not comfortable chairs," he commented. "And sleeping in one would not be good for your head." He hesitated, realising how much the doctor resisted any attempt to help him, even attempts accompanied by threats... "It would be better if you used my bed - the sleep there would be better for you."