John was clearly wounded, if not dead; he didn’t stir. Greta made to go to him, but her father held her back with his good hand.
“What are you doing?” he said between clenched teeth. “Have you still not had enough of him?”
“He saved us,” said Karl.
“It’s just another trap,” hissed Johann. “Who’s to say that this wasn’t another plot by the king?”
“He . . . he is hurt or even . . . dead.” Greta was torn by her emotions. She would have liked to wish John to hell, or at least to the moon, and yet she longed to hold him, to take care of his wounds and wash the blood off his face.
“If he’s dead, he doesn’t need your help anymore,” said Johann. “And if he’s just injured—hey!”
Greta pulled her arm free and rushed over to John. She pushed aside Little Satan, who had begun to lick the blood off John’s face; evidently the animal viewed him as his new playmate, or as his dinner. John’s coat was ripped and covered in dark bloodstains, but he was breathing. Greta spotted a deep gash on his right thigh that bled profusely.
“He’s going to bleed to death!” she called to Karl and her father, who were still standing among the vines.
“Let him,” grumbled Johann. “He is a traitor. You could say he’s getting away lightly. Usually, traitors are boiled in seething oil.”
Karl looked at his master with a mix of bewilderment and quiet rebellion. “A long time ago I studied medicine,” he said. “And there I learned that every life is precious, even that of a traitor.”
“We don’t have time. It’s highly likely that Hagen or someone else is at our heels. If we don’t get away from here as fast as we can, we’re done for!”
“He’s bleeding to death, damn it,” shouted Greta. Frightened, she gazed into John’s pale face. His eyes were closed but it seemed he could hear her.
“Greta,” he whispered. “Is this paradise?”
“Paradise for a fraud like you?” she hissed, gripped by an overwhelming sense of relief at finding him conscious. “Forget it! For every kiss you stole from me you shall burn a hundred years in hell.” In spite of her harsh words, she started to tear strips off her dress for a bandage.
“Let me,” Karl said, kneeling beside her. “It’s been a while since my days at the university, but I think I remember a few things.” He leaned over John and felt for his heartbeat. Confidently he started to bandage John’s leg and brace it with a stick. “His heart is beating weakly,” he said. “We must stanch the bleeding as fast as we can.”
Johann still stood among the vines, a little crooked, like a tough old oak tree in the wind. The paralyzed side seemed to push him down.
“Damned love,” he cursed.
Then he limped over to the others.
13
A FEW HOURS LATER, THE FOUR ESCAPEES COWERED BENEATH a rocky overhang inside a wet hollow filled with rotting foliage. It had started to drizzle, and Greta shivered despite the mild temperatures. They had waded through several streams to shake off the dogs that were bound to be at their heels. Greta’s clothes were dripping wet, and twigs and leaves stuck in her hair. Karl and her father didn’t look much better.
But worst of all was John. He had stopped bleeding, but he was barely conscious. The wound on his thigh wasn’t the only injury he had carried away. Karl and Greta had braced him between them during their escape, and Karl had carried him through the streams. One time Karl broke down under the heavy burden, and they’d had to drag the injured man out of the bog.
Greta leaned over John and wiped the mud from his pale face. He opened his eyes for an instant and smiled at her.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed.
“Liar!” snapped Greta. “I look like a scarecrow. Spare me your compliments.”
For the hundredth time she wondered how long it would take the king’s soldiers to find them. They couldn’t have covered more than two or three miles in the last few hours. Little Satan was standing guard outside their hiding place, and Greta hoped that the dog would bark if anyone approached. But then what? They didn’t stand a chance with one man seriously injured and the other one sick.
“At least I gave it to that hulk,” moaned John in one of his lucid moments. “What . . . what did he want from you? He was a Swiss guard, so probably one of the men the pope sent after you. But the others were Habsburgs.”
“You ask a lot of questions for a wounded man,” said Johann, leaning back against the rock. “No one asked you to help us.”
“You don’t have to like him, Father. I no longer trust him, either,” said Greta. “But without John we’d still be in the dungeon. That’s a fact.”
“It’s also a fact that we’ll soon be back inside the dungeon along with him.” Johann gave a desperate laugh. “The king of France isn’t going to stand by and watch as we simply walk away. I’m guessing half an army is searching for us right now. And we are stuck in this filthy hole. I say we leave the traitor behind and—”
“No way,” said Greta. “On his own, John is as good as dead. And you aren’t particularly suited for an escape yourself. Look at you! A bitter old man who limps and stumbles more than he walks.”
Karl cleared his throat. He had just renewed John’s bandage and inspected the wound. Now he looked at Faust sternly through his eye glasses, which, miraculously, had survived their escape. “We would be no faster even if we left John behind. And our chances are next to nil either way. We have no horses, no provisions, no money—nothing! Not to mention your physical condition. How do you propose to travel to Tiffauges in your state?”
“We
