He could say no more, his breath failed him.
"Doesn't prevent what?" asked the widow.
Oullier made an effort.
"Doesn't prevent--that I owe you my life," he said.
"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Marianne.
"It is as I say. Without you, I should have died."
"Without my dog, Jean. You see it isn't me, but the good God you have to thank." Then noticing with horror that he was covered with blood, "Why, you are wounded!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, no, nothing but scratches. My worst trouble is that I have dislocated my ankle; and besides, I haven't eaten anything for nearly three days. It is chiefly weakness that is killing me."
"Good gracious! but see here, I was just carrying dinner to some men who are getting litter for me on the moor. You shall have their soup."
So saying, the widow put down the basket she was carrying, untied the four corners of a cloth in which were several porringers full of soup and bouilli smoking hot. She gave several spoonfuls to Jean Oullier, who felt his strength returning as every mouthful of the warm and succulent broth got down into his stomach.