A young officer of chasseurs, better mounted than the rest, appeared at the top of a rise about three hundred paces from the fugitives. Jean put his musket to his shoulder and fired. The young man threw up his arms and fell from his saddle. Jean Oullier reloaded his gun.
"Can't you walk at all?" asked Courte-Joie.
"I might limp a dozen steps; but what's the good of that?"
"Then here we'll stay, Trigaud."
"You won't do such a foolish thing, I hope?" cried Jean Oullier.
"Yes, by my faith, I will. Where you die we die, old friend; but, as you say, we'll bring down a few of them first."
"No, no, Courte-Joie; that sha'n't be so. You must live to look after those young ones we left over there--What are you about, Trigaud?" he suddenly asked, looking at the giant, who had gone down into a ravine and was lifting a block of granite.
"Don't scold him!" said Courte-Joie; "he isn't wasting time."
"Here, here!" cried Trigaud, showing a hollow made by the flow of water under the stone.
"Faith, he's right. I declare if he hasn't the mind of a monkey this day, my gars Trigaud! Here, Jean Oullier, here, get under! get under!"