"Ah, ha!"
"And to-morrow, yes, I say to-morrow, I'll show them who's an invalid, that I will!"
"Alas!" said Petit-Pierre in a melancholy tone, "tomorrow may not belong to us, my poor marquis; you are wrong to count upon it."
"Why so?"
"You know very well the uprising is not as general as we hoped it might be. Who knows whether the shots we now hear may not be the last fired in defence of the white flag?"
"Hum!" growled the marquis, with the fury of a bulldog tugging at his chain.
Just then a call for help from the farther end of the orchard put an end to their talk. They both ran to the spot, and there saw Bertha, whom the marquis had stationed as an outside lookout, bringing in a wounded peasant, whom she had scarcely strength enough to support. Mary and Rosine had also rushed out at the cry. The peasant was a young gars from twenty to twenty-two years of age, with his shoulder shattered by a ball. Petit-Pierre ran up to him and placed him on a chair, where he fainted.
"For heaven's sake, retire," said the marquis to Petit-Pierre; "my daughters and I will dress the poor devil's wound."
"Pray, why should I retire?" said Petit-Pierre.
"Because the sight of that wound is not one that everybody can stand; I am afraid it is more than you have strength to bear."