"A friend," I said. "My master and I saw two men fighting four—we came to help the weaker side. Your friend was hurt, but he got away safe to fetch aid."
The unknown made a rapid step toward me, crying, "What—"
But at the word M. Étienne emerged from the shadows.
"Who lives?" he called out. "You, Félix?"
"Not hurt, monsieur. And you?"
"Not a scratch. Nor did I scratch my man. Permit me to congratulate you, monsieur l'inconnu, on our coming up when we did."
The unknown said one word:
"Étienne!"
I sprang forward with the impulse to throw my arms about him, in the pure rapture of recognizing his voice. This struggler, whom we had rushed in, blindfold, to save, was Monsieur! If we had been content to mind our own business, had sheered away like the deputy—it turned me faint to think how long we had delayed with old Marceau, we were so nearly too late. I wanted to seize Monsieur, to convince myself that he was all safe, to feel him quick and warm.
I made one pace and stopped; for I remembered what ghastly shape stood between me and Monsieur—that horrible lying story.