“Andoche, you will show us where the crime was committed. Come, let us see.”
Whereat the young magistrate exclaimed: “Who is conducting these proceedings?”
“Monsieur, I command no one. Andoche is a friend. I ask him to show me the place.”
“Well.”
“Oh, you are not obliged to come with us. But there is no law to prevent me from going.”
The young magistrate could see that he was losing ground. The case was slipping out of his hands. Besides, L’Ours exerted an influence over the peasants around him. Upon first seeing him they became confident that he would save his protégé. And matters had so developed that he had nearly gained his point. Nearly everybody regarded Jean Manant with a mingled feeling of fear and admiration. He was the soul of justice, and he played a noble part in probing the crime to the depths. Taking Andoche’s arm he begged him to come. The blacksmith led him down the path to the left of the fork in the road, and then about four hundred yards into the forest. There he pointed out the broken and hanging branches which he had discovered in the morning.
“Certainly it is now easy to perceive how the deed was done,” said L’Ours. “The gamekeeper approached from the right, and the assassin stood here——”
Jean in his enthusiasm leaped upon a little snow-bank, as he supposed, but his foot struck against something hard and he slipped. At the same instant a groan as it were from the bowels of the earth was heard. This created a terrible commotion, and some of the spectators in their fear made the sign of the cross. While the others were betraying their alarm, Andoche leaned over the place where the sound was heard. He and Jean together pushed away the snow, and a terrible sight met their gaze. There lay extended upon the ground a man, cold and rigid; while lying on his chest was a huge dog that held him by the throat, his teeth fastened on each side of the windpipe. The strangled man evidently had struggled to free himself, but failing in this he had concentrated his forces in a terrible embrace to throttle his enemy. But the dog was not a coward, and he had preferred to die rather than leave his master unavenged. For the dog was Savin’s brave Patachaud.
The man whom he had killed had not relaxed his hold, and the courageous beast was nearly choked when L’Ours providentially stepped upon the snow-bank.
“Who is it?” cried Sidonie. “Tell us.”