Get outside," said the doctor testily.
"I will go and speak to the Colonel," said Hornblower.
He brushed past the sergeant who tried too late to intercept him, into the main corridor of the inn, and out into the courtyard where stood the coach.
The horses were being harnessed up, and a group of gendarmes were saddling their mounts on the farther side.
Chance dictated that Colonel Caillard should be crossing the courtyard, too, in his blue and red uniform and his gleaming high boots, the star of the Legion of Honour dancing on his breast.
"Sir," said Hornblower.
"What is it now?" demanded Caillard.
"Lieutenant Bush must not be moved.
He is very badly wounded and a crisis approaches."
The broken French came tumbling disjointedly from Hornblower's lips.
"I can do nothing in contravention of my orders," said Caillard.
His eyes were cold and his mouth hard.
"You were not ordered to kill him," protested Hornblower.
"I was ordered to bring you and him to Paris with the utmost dispatch.
We shall start in five minutes."
"But, sir — Cannot you wait even to-day?"
"Even as a pirate you must be aware of the impossibility of disobeying orders," said Caillard.
"I protest against those orders in the name of humanity."
That was a melodramatic speech, but it was a melodramatic moment, and in his ignorance of French Hornblower could not pick and choose his words.
A sympathetic murmur in his ear attracted his notice, and, looking round, he saw the two aproned maids and a fat woman and the innkeeper all listening to the conversation with obvious disapproval of Caillard's point of view.
They shut themselves away behind the kitchen door as Caillard turned a terrible eye upon them, but they had granted Hornblower a first momentary insight into the personal unpopularity which Imperial harshness was causing to develop in France.
"Sergeant," said Caillard abruptly. "Put the prisoners into the coach."
There was no hope of resistance.
The gendarmes carried Bush's stretcher into the courtyard and perched it up on the seats, with Brown and Hornblower running round it to protect it from unnecessary jerks.
The surgeon was scribbling notes hurriedly at the foot of the sheaf of notes regarding Bush's case which Hornblower had brought from Rosas.
One of the maids came clattering across the courtyard with a steaming tray which she passed in to Hornblower through the open window.
There was a platter of bread and three bowls of a black liquid which Hornblower was later to come to recognize as coffee — what blockaded France had come to call coffee.
It was no pleasanter than the infusion of burnt crusts which Hornblower had sometimes drunk on shipboard during a long cruise without the opportunity of renewing cabin stores, but it was warm and stimulating at that time in the morning.
"We have no sugar, sir," said the maid apologetically.
"It doesn't matter," answered Hornblower, sipping thirstily.
"It is a pity the poor wounded officer has to travel," she went on.
"These wars are terrible."
She had a snub nose and a wide mouth and big black eyes — no one could call her attractive, but the sympathy in her voice was grateful to a man who was a prisoner.
Brown was propping up Bush's shoulders and holding a bowl to his lips.
He took two or three sips and turned his head away.
The coach rocked as two men scrambled up on to the box.
"Stand away, there!" roared the sergeant.
The coach lurched and rolled and wheeled round out of the gates, the horses' hoofs clattering loud on the cobbles, and the last Hornblower saw of the maid was the slight look of consternation on her face as she realized that she had lost the breakfast tray for good.
The road was bad, judging by the way the coach lurched; Hornblower heard a sharp intake of breath from Bush at one jerk.
He remembered what the swollen and inflamed stump of Bush's leg looked like; every jar must be causing him agony.
He moved up the seat to the stretcher and caught Bush's hand.
"Don't you worry yourself, sir," said Bush. "I'm all right."
Even while he spoke Hornblower felt him grip tighter as another jolt caught him unexpectedly.
"I'm sorry, Bush," was all he could say; it was hard for the captain to speak at length to the lieutenant on such personal matters as his regret and unhappiness.
"We can't help it, sir," said Bush, forcing his peaked features into a smile.
That was the main trouble, their complete helplessness.
Hornblower realized that there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do.
The leather-scented stuffiness of the coach was already oppressing him, and he realized with horror that they would have to endure this jolting prison of theirs for another twenty days, perhaps, before they should reach Paris.
He was restless and fidgety at the thought of it, and perhaps his restlessness communicated itself by contact to Bush, who gently withdrew his hand and turned his head to one side, leaving his captain free to fidget within the narrow confines of the coach.
Still there were glimpses of the sea to be caught on one side, and of the Pyrenees on the other.